Although it might seem that the era of physical media ended with the rise of streaming, the Compact Disc format continues to attract the attention and interest of music lovers. In recent years, the conversation has been dominated by network streamers, hi-res files and digital platforms that have largely defined how we think about “accessing music.” Within this landscape, CD as a medium is often marginalized—treated as a relic of the past, a technology “everyone knows, but no one really needs anymore. Such a narrative, however, is one-dimensional. The history of recorded sound suggests something quite different: formats emerge, evolve and fade in a natural cycle of technological change, yet none of them truly disappears from the collective musical memory or becomes entirely obsolete. Vinyl has returned. Reel-to-reel tapes have gained reference status. Even MiniDisc—once thought to be gone—has found its niche among dedicated collectors. The reality is that each medium occupies its own place in the history of sound, carrying a distinct set of sonic and emotional values. CD is no exception.
The Compact Disc, despite its origins in the 1980s, became for decades a synonym for digital precision and quality. It offered low distortion, silent backgrounds and a level of convenience vinyl could only aspire to. It also established a reference point from which standards for digital conversion, jitter and playback stability were developed. And although it is no longer the newest technological achievement, it remains one of the most widespread. Moreover—and this is perhaps more a personal conviction than a commonly shared view—the format reshaped the way we think about sound quality to such an extent that it forced analog to respond. Once the turntable ceased to be the default, it had to become a conscious choice. Paradoxically, this led to its technological and sonic refinement, something that, in my view, would not have happened without the CD revolution.
It is also worth pausing for a moment to consider CD not only as a technological medium but as a cultural phenomenon. Its emergence in the 1980s coincided with a significant shift in the functioning of the music industry. For the first time on such a scale, record labels realized they could resell the same music—this time in “better,” digital quality. Vast catalogs were transferred from vinyl to silver discs, and listeners—often enthusiastically—bought the same albums again. This was a turning point. Until the 1970s, the dominant paradigm was one of novelty: the market revolved around premieres, new aesthetics and successive steps in the evolution of musical language. Reissues existed, of course, but they were not central to the business model. The 1980s introduced a subtle yet significant shift: music began to function not only as a forward-looking creative process, but also as a catalog—a resource that could be reprocessed, refreshed and resold. This change affected not only the economics of the industry, but also cultural sensitivity. Instead of a constant push forward, interest began to gravitate toward established, familiar aesthetics. In a sense, the digital medium—paradoxically—helped preserve the past. In this context, the words of Mark Hollis seem particularly apt. Reflecting on the release of Spirit of Eden by Talk Talk, he noted that had the album appeared in the 1970s, no one would have been surprised. By the late 1980s, however, it sounded radically different—almost shocking. It was not the music that had changed so dramatically. It was the context. Expectations had shifted. The paradigm had changed. CD thus became not only a carrier of sound, but also one of the catalysts of this transformation. Returning to the present, not everyone accepted the decline of the CD format or agreed that its limitations outweigh its advantages. As a listener, I count myself among those who did not. I must admit I was genuinely surprised a few years ago to hear otherwise informed listeners selling entire CD collections and players, moving exclusively to files or vinyl. At that moment, CD seemed to be heading toward the abyss of history.
The brand Ancient Audio, however, demonstrates that such a conclusion was premature. This Polish manufacturer holds an established position in the world of high-end audio and has been working with digital formats for over three decades. Known for an approach that prioritizes not only technology but also a deep understanding of music and its reproduction, Ancient Audio operates at the intersection of engineering precision and musical insight—combining solid design with a highly cultivated sonic aesthetic. The Lektor Fun model, made available for this review, belongs to the company’s entry-level line, yet it has not been conceived as a compromised device. Rather, it is a fully-fledged player capable of revealing the potential of the CD format precisely where many have already considered it a closed chapter. Its limitations relative to higher models concern mainly the enclosure and the absence of balanced outputs. What we find here is a design approach characteristic of the brand: structural minimalism, a carefully considered digital-to-analog architecture and—equally important—a humanistic view of music as a form of expression rather than a mere collection of data encoded in bits. In the following sections, I will take a closer look at what this player brings to the sound, how it performs in a real system and how it compares to other sources I have considered reference points in my setup.
From a technical standpoint, Lektor Fun is built on proven and ambitious solutions. It uses the Austrian CD-Pro8 mechanism, widely regarded as one of the more robust transport platforms currently available. Operational stability is supported by a precision TentLabs clock with a declared jitter level of 3 ps, indicating careful attention to signal timing at the reading stage. At the heart of the digital-to-analog section is the ESS ES9038 PRO converter in stereo configuration, operating at 32-bit resolution—a chip known for its high dynamic range and low distortion, also used in significantly more expensive designs. In the analog stage, V-Cap ODAM capacitors are employed—components with a strong reputation in high-end audio, manufactured in the USA and valued for their transparency and stability. The device offers volume control across a 99 dB range, as well as a selectable maximum output level of 2 Vrms or 5 Vrms, allowing it to be used both with traditional preamplifiers and in more direct configurations. It also features a coaxial S/PDIF digital output (75 Ω) and digital inputs: coaxial S/PDIF (16–24 bit, 32–216 kHz, PCM) and USB 2.0 based on the Amanero module, supporting PCM signals in the same range. Lektor Fun can therefore also function as an external D/A converter.
So how does Lektor Fun sound? Does it lean toward enjoyment, or does it invite deeper immersion in the music, as one might expect from a brand of this stature? First of all, this is a refined device on every level—design, technology and construction—so one might expect the same from its sonic performance. I must admit, however, that the name “Fun” is somewhat misleading in this context. What we receive is a minimalist object made of tempered glass and aluminum, which I would place closer to the category of premium modest than anything resembling “fun.” As I have written many times, a name does not “play,” but it often reveals the designer’s line of thinking. Perhaps it refers to the exposed disc, whose slow rotation evokes a subtle, almost ritualistic aesthetic pleasure. Perhaps it alludes to the flagship Lektor Joy. In this test, however, I was not looking for entertainment—I knew from the outset that this was a serious performer—nor did I attempt to resolve the question of its name. From the very first listening session, my expectations were confirmed. What reached my ears was music presented in its full expressive potential—free of digital glare, free of artificiality, free of sonic exhibitionism. Lektor does not need to prove anything. Neither as an object nor as an interpreter of music. It simply occupies its place. It integrates effortlessly into the aesthetic space of a room and, with equal naturalness, into any music it plays. This was confirmed through subsequent listening sessions using recordings that form the reference base for Audio Idiom. Among them was an album by the Near East Quartet, led by Korean musician Sungjae Son. Saxophone (alternating with bass clarinet), guitar, voice and percussion—a seemingly simple setup, yet dense both sonically and culturally. This album serves as a revealing test for many devices, as the music unfolds primarily in the midrange and operates more on a micro than macro scale. Lektor handled it with ease—not only in terms of instrument separation, but, more importantly, in bringing out that very cultural distinctiveness. The instruments sounded credible and convincing. The music became tangible and organically natural.
It is precisely the way Lektor Fun operates within the space between sounds that appears to be its greatest strength. Separation here is not the result of analytical dissection, but a condition for freedom. There is more air, more silence, more “in-between.” It brings to mind Artur Rubinstein’s remark that a good pianist plays the notes, but a great one plays what lies between them. Ancient Audio seems to think along similar lines. It is not about being faster, louder or more spectacular. It is about relationships. About breath. Describing treble, midrange or bass in isolation would, in this case, miss the point and even undermine the authority of this “virtuoso.” What can be noted, from a reviewer’s standpoint, is the character of interpretation. Unlike Rubinstein—often associated with a more extroverted style—Lektor Fun appears more restrained in its expression and less dense in its musical gesture. Its tone is noble rather than glassy. It’s phrasing more musical than technical. It’s timbre focused and cohesive.
Lektor Fun, from the Kraków-based manufactory Ancient Audio, is not only one of the more musical and mature CD players I have encountered recently. It is a device for those who value restrained elegance over overt showmanship. For those who seek meaning in music, not merely performance metrics. It is also an object that effortlessly becomes part of a space—both aesthetic and musical. If you are looking for spectacle, this is not the direction. But if music matters more than technical bravado, you may not need to look any further.
The product receives the Audio Idiom Award – VIRTUOSO
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© Marcin Oleś