Introduction

The German philosopher, Arthur Schopenhauer said: "…a genius is a person in whom intellect predominates over will much more than for the average person, making them relatively aloof from earthly cares and concerns; they are so fixed on their art, that they neglect the business of life".

How can anyone ever ascertain such a narrow divide as that which falls between normality, abnormality and genius? This is the question raised by the life and works of Michael Gerzon.

Usually, it is a perplexing, bewildering and, often as not totally incomprehensible mystery to those of us not gifted in such ways. How is it that an individual can apparently alter our very perception of life? Indeed, what little we do know of the process of genius is usually manifest in the power – for power it is – to change the very fabric of the world around us; it is the very rarest of gifts. Though I suspect that while he himself might not have seen it that way, none the less, Michael Gerzon was one of those lucky few who were able to change the world. Our concept of normality was anathema to Michael; his genius was a burden that he never quite learned to control, much less take for granted. The relative lack of competence of the artist and the thinker, for practical pursuits, was no mere stereotype: it is cause and effect: 'normality' is a state of mind, and, moreover, body, which he was never privileged to attain. Pained throughout his life with a series of debilitating medical illnesses, an inevitable yet stifled self-criticism – borne out of a tortured childhood – often manifested itself in emotional shyness and withdrawal. Like so many geniuses that had gone before him, his brilliance was granted for just a short while; and inevitably he paid for it with a very high price. Dead at the age of just fifty, Michael Gerzons' light burned half as long, but twice as bright.

Though I didn't get to know him personally – I only met Michael once, briefly, at a trade show in 1993 – he was eager as ever to introduce his ideas, and freely gave of his talent. I observed him from a distance as he engaged avidly in conversation with a small crowd. This was his stage – safe ground, a window on his busy mind – and he used it vociferously to absorb anybody who would care to listen. When my time came, I casually introduced myself as senior lecturer in audio engineering, passing my business card, explaining that I was interested in what he'd said, and perhaps he would consider talking to my students? We discussed the algorithm he'd devised for a piece of software that could replicate signal paths, and I readily admitted that I didn't understand much of the mathematical detail of what he was saying. However, it sounded fascinating and I thought he might make an interesting guest speaker. Typically, Michael seemed happy enough to do so, agreeing that we should contact one another. He didn't have a business card of his own so he wrote his details on the back of another of mine, and we parted company. It was a fleeting moment for him; but one that would later change my life. For various reasons, sadly, and much to my regret, I never contacted and employed him for that lecture. Of course now I wish I had. Ironically, some years later in May 1996, when I had just been appointed Executive Editor of Audio Media magazine, the very first e-mail that arrived in my 'in-box' was Michael Gerzon's obituary.

Three years after that, I had my first book published – the biography of Alan Dower Blumlein. The name Michael Gerzon had kept cropping up during my research. Here was somebody, it seemed, who had followed in the footsteps of Blumlein, and then taken audio engineering to yet new heights. In August 1999, I vowed to look more closely into the Michael Gerzon story… like Blumlein, perhaps there was another book that needed to be written? That interest, which has resulted in this book, began in earnest in the summer of 2003, when I was contacted by colleagues of Michael enquiring if I would contemplate taking on the not inconsiderable task of writing a biography about him. I didn't have to think about it for long; I jumped at the opportunity. Alan Blumlein had already been a 'hero' for Michael, and Michael Gerzon and his work was already beginning to fascinate me more and more. Therefore, over the past five years, through talking to his colleagues, family and friends, I have been able to form an impression of an extraordinarily gifted man who was regarded by many as the foremost genius in both his chosen professions of audio engineering and mathematics. Indeed, he may yet prove to have been so far ahead of his time that thirty or forty years from now people will marvel at, and be questioning how we, in our time, could not have perceived or fully understood his brilliance.

Michael Gerzon was a fragile, yet complex personality with many facets to his character, some of which surprised those who knew and loved him well. He had a deep seated capacity for friendship and his generosity with his time and talent was legendary. He was a gentleman from the 'old school', quiet and courteous, yet he could be painfully shy, often withdrawn, sullen and even moody. Despite this, he had a driving passion for the improvement of our appreciation for sound, and this in turn led him to continually strive to achieve a higher fidelity in everything he did.

It seems however, there is always some form of anguish accompanying the soul of such genius. In spite of his crippling illnesses, which often rendered him bed-ridden and unable to work for months at a time, Michael never complained. Instead, he learned to express his torment, torture and inner self through his poetry. These private works of prose could vary in content from tender, subtle and loving, to plain forthright, violent and even vulgar!  He was often untidy, absent minded, dirty, unwashed and even lazy (especially where everyday minor activities were concerned), but these were just by-products of his resolve to work for days at a time, quite literally forgetting to eat or sleep. Michael thought nothing of talking for eight hours or more on the telephone if a subject interested him, yet he could barely remember an appointment the next day even if it was made for him, and rarely attended family reunions, or bother to pay every day utility bills.

Though he had been ill before – and his final illness in the spring of 1996 was particularly severe – it was nothing that Michael hadn't experienced on a dozen occasions in the past. Over time he'd grown pragmatic about his medical condition, was steadfast and often tempestuous in his resolve to overcome a condition that, for him at least, was just another hurdle over which to triumph. There seemed no need for undue alarm. Tragically in this, his last judgement, he proved so very wrong.

The end, when it came in May 1996 was sudden, unexpected, and shocked everyone – not least of all Michael himself.

I now consider my brief encounter with Michael to have been a great honour. Having been privileged to explore his life through the process of writing this book, I now understand why his memory is held in such high regard by all those who knew him so much better than I did. The world, it seems, is destined to be illuminated from the light of such men; and then, just when that light burns at its brightest,
the genius is taken away.

Michael Gerzon was one such man.

This is his story.

Robert Charles Alexander, October 2008

Foreword – Professor Keith Hannabuss

Michael Gerzon and I first met as mathematics undergraduates at Oxford. It was immediately clear to me that he had a breadth of knowledge and depth of insight far exceeding that of most of the other students I knew, but it was as graduate students working in Quantum Theory that we got to know each other better. Our tea time conversations on mathematical problems often continued long after everyone else had left. (It was not easy to finish a discussion with Michael, often only ending with him giving a sheepish grin as he realised he talked right up to the Institute door, and the admission that he '...did tend to go on a bit').

Although Michael and I had often discussed music and I was aware of his interest in high fidelity recordings, it was not until he asked a question at tea one day that I discovered how he was applying the techniques of quantum theory to the mathematical analysis of sound systems. Whilst Michael and I liked to apply abstract mathematics to physical problems (by no means a common approach at that time), we also shared a preference for very explicit solutions to those problems, and it may have been the fact that I backed up my answer to his question by writing a detailed formula on the table that led to our informal mathematical collaboration over several years. It was a fairly one-sided collaboration, because the ideas all came from Michael, stimulated by his attempt to understand the principles behind recording, and I merely supplied proofs of his conjectures, or occasionally corrected them.

Technical conversations with Michael often required a lot of patience. In lectures he often included so much detail that his audience could no longer distinguish the wood from the trees. In conversation, one had to keep pressing him with questions in order to tease out exactly what he was trying to say. Sometimes this failed, and by the end of the interrogation he was as confused as I was; but, sure enough, the next afternoon (for he rarely appeared in the morning), Michael would be waiting with the explanation of what he had been trying to say, and we could start the procedure again. It was, however, always worth the effort, for Michael could call on an intuition honed in an area of which I knew little. Special cases of several of his ideas have recently been rediscovered in the new field
of quantum computation.

Perhaps the time when we interacted most was after I returned to Oxford as a tutor. I knew that I could be pretty sure of finding Michael working over coffee in The Mathematical Institute Common Room in the evening, and I liked to join him for a relaxing conversation at the end of a tiring day's teaching. Although we usually started with some mathematical or physical topic, we often ended up talking about music, art, politics, religion, or the folly of the motor car.

Whatever the theme, Michael had interesting perspectives on it, which could frequently lead in quite unexpected directions. By nature far more adventurous than I was, he was always ready to challenge the conventional wisdom. This often happened in quite startling ways, as when he pointed out that some widely ridiculed ideas, might actually be consistent with the then young science of chaos theory. The unwillingness to challenge a consensus was a favourite theme, and he often cited examples of physical tenets so firmly held that nobody appeared to be interested in looking for experimental tests of their validity; but our conversations were not always so earnest, and were leavened by puns or the dry humour we both enjoyed.

Our meetings gradually became less frequent after I got married and Michael no longer had an office in the Mathematical Institute. We still met occasionally and exchanged news, but the last time I spoke to him on the phone, a few weeks before his death, he explained that his asthma had been so severe that for long periods he could not go out. Some friends become strangers after even the shortest absence, but with Michael it was like resuming a conversation only just left off, as he enthusiastically described his latest ideas, his excitement bubbling over as it always did.

News of his death a few weeks later came as a great shock. As a student, Michael Gerzon had impressed me as one of the most innovative mathematicians I had ever met. The obituaries confirmed that my assessment had not been wrong.

I am delighted that Robert Charles Alexander's biography will bring him to life for others who did not share the privilege of knowing him; and in so doing help those, like me, who are only dimly aware of the extent of his contributions to recording, poetry and other things – to appreciate more fully his truly remarkable achievements.

Professor Keith Hannabuss, Oxford, September 2008

Foreword – Mick Clack

Michael Gerzon was a genius. The first ever time that we met he launched into a complicated, non-stop explanation as to why the Universe could not possibly exist. This lasted some two hours! I stood there and listened open-mouthed, a tad confused, and yet somehow totally convinced as Michael talked excitedly and passionately, his joyful, mischievous child-like enthusiasm increasing by the minute.

We became friends, and I soon learned why the original mono version of Sgt. Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band far surpassed the subsequent stereo remix, and why digital reverb units failed to accurately reproduce the true sound of a room.

He would often arrive grinning and unannounced at my door bearing gifts to amuse, inspire and educate. A box set of Mario Lanza LPs, a graphic equalizer, a Gerard Hoffnung cartoon book or a cassette tape live recording of some obscure experimental music recorded by the man himself.

Despite it being glaringly obvious that Michael was not a well man, his generosity, his sense of humour and his unbridled enthusiasm for music and people in this allegedly non-existent Universe was remarkable.

Robert Charles Alexander's tireless dedication in tracking down and interviewing Michael's many friends and colleagues has resulted in an extraordinary, truthful, and at times brutally and painfully honest, yet always fascinating and enlightening account of this remarkable man's life.

Michael Gerzon was indeed a genius.

Mick Clack, Oxford, September 2008