Plinius CD-101 CD Player & 9200 Integrated Amplifier

Kiwi components show real high-end zeal

Consider for a moment the concentric spiraling façade of the Guggenheim in New York, the fanciful stainless steel sails of the Walt Disney Concert Hall in Los Angeles, the sensual bodywork of a vintage Ferrari Lusso—each exemplifies the difference a simple curve can make in a world of right angles. Kudos to Plinius of New Zealand and the creativity of Ross Stevens, the firm's design director, for touching pen to paper and rethinking the standard box of electronics. From any angle the curvaceous, flowing design of the Plinius CD-101 CD player brings to mind words like fresh, simple, and inspiring. With only a single push button adorning the brushed aluminum front panel, the CD-101 becomes the ne plus ultra of minimalist-chic. But Plinius is smartly conveying another message—it's not about buttons, numerical displays and data—it's about the music, mate. And oh my, it most certainly is.

Monastic though the player's front panel appears, its sound is lavishly musical. The CD-101 is an attention grabber with drive and pace, so that, rhythmically-speaking, it bounces on the balls of its feet as if wearing a fresh pair of Nikes. The player's transient speed and resolution make for a sound that is neither warm, nor edgy. Instead, its hyper-detail and transparency suggest a slightly cool, clinical personality—an emphasis that may not entirely warm the hearts of some. At the very least, you'll know immediately you're not listening to tubes, though with this level of immediacy you won't be missing them either. This is not the sort of player that personifies a laid back, "whatever" brand of music reproduction. Its personality is direct. While my first impression was of a slightly forward perspective, that perspective forced no sacrifices in overall soundstage dimensionality. The player thrives on the complexity of symphonic music and sophisticated harmonic interactions, and it is at its best on material that is sensitive to the relationship between an instrument's natural acoustics and the surrounding ambience of the recording venue. Essentially, the more information you throw at the Plinius the more satisfying the musical returns. With its low, low noise floor and freedom from distortion, reproduction of micro-subtleties proved to be one of the CD-101's greatest strengths. Whether distinguishing delicate shifts in volume during a pianist's performance of Glinka's The Lark [Kissin; RCA] or the tuning of a bass drum or tympani in a large hall [Pictures at an Exhibition: The Met, Levine; DG] the player maintained an unbroken connection between fundamentals, overtone structures, and harmonic decay characteristics.

The CD-101 has got a hell-or-highwater responsiveness that makes dynamic and transient information sound as if someone slipped a kangaroo- juice cocktail into the recording. Stewart Copeland's complex drum patterns in "Murder By Numbers" sound so vivid that the impact of each drum stroke stands out in almost geographic relief [Synchronicity, The Police: A&M]. When Kasey Chambers sings "More Than Ordinary" [Wayward Angel: Warner Bros], the Plinius' sound conveys the sheer physical reality of the singer and backing instruments; Chambers' vocal pushes towards you so that you can sense her diaphragm and breath control and there's an instantaneous pop off the snare that creates an almost tactile pressure wave that precedes the actual tone.

The facility to focus unerringly within a maze of complex images was a defining attribute. At the beginning of the Rutter Requiem [Turtle Creek Chorale, Reference Recording RR57] a distant tympani joins with a very low organ pedal note, so that the hall is activated by a steady wave of low frequency energy as soprano Nancy Keith comes in. It is the strength and detail of the bass reinforcement and the immediacy of the vocal that moves the CD-101 toward the head of its class. When the full chorus joins in, new waves of acoustic energy move toward the listener, originating from very specific lateral and vertical points within the soundstage. The ability to reach deep within the musical panorama to differentiate sections and specific voices without congestion was a trick that the Plinius repeatedly turned during my lengthy listening sessions.

Similarly, a pop recording like the Springsteen track "Paradise" [The Rising: Columbia] mixes a pulsating synth deep in the soundstage with the warm, ripe, resonant sound of an acoustic guitar entering from the right, with the sound of a flat-pick against strings conveying just the right amount of convincing, percussive transients. When Bruce sings "/…and your kiss/the breath of eternity/ on your lips/" the sibilance of his "s" sounds had the contrasting flavors of bite and padding that, to me, connote reality. A couple ergonomic and technical points: Absent a numerical display, tracks are indicated with a row of bright micro-LED pin lights, a gently pulsating beam signifying the active track. It's a little disorienting at first, but identifying tracks quickly becomes second nature. Number freaks may quibble, but I think it's an elegant solution. And there's always the option of dimming or shutting off the light show altogether.