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Sometimes, the greatest innovations come from not knowing that a task is supposed to be impossible. While engineers might dismiss the idea of placing fragile, high-voltage vacuum tubes inside a pair of portable headphones as simply impossible, the dreamer sees only the goal: a portable sanctuary of sound.
écoute was founded exactly on this kind of bold curiosity: a team of industry veterans and manufacturing experts has created a listening experience that focuses on “fun”—the visceral joy of discovery that happens when you hear a favorite track for the first time again.
In this Brand Talks interview, Kendal Liddle, Co-founder of écoute, retraces his journey in the high-end audio industry, from his early days of “bit-perfect” obsession to the realization that his product was becoming a bridge between generations.
In our first chat, you mentioned that music is “the voice you don’t have.” What does music represent in your daily life, and when did it start to play such an important role for you?
When I talk about “the voice you don’t have”, I mean that music has a unique ability to give form to the things that somehow escape language. For me, at least personally, music is an outlet: my listening habits tend to mirror my internal state—not to change my mood, but to articulate it. Whether I’m experiencing excitement or the “darker” spectrum of emotions like anxiety, stress, or sadness, music acts as to uncork that emotion and let what’s inside come out.
This connection started early. I remember being ten or twelve years old, listening in bed late at night to a tiny 1950s clock radio my father had given me. It definitely wasn’t a high-fidelity experience—it was a mono, three-inch speaker—but the emotional resonance was still massive. Even though it was broadcast radio and I had no control over the playlist, certain songs would hit a string and I’d feel, “Yes, this song totally gets me.”
Today, technology allows us to curate our emotional tempo with incredible precision. I’ll admit, as embarrassing as it might be in some audiophile circles, I am a “playlist guy.” When I listen digitally, I love the ability to let an algorithm build upon a specific starting point, which for me is often connected to a specific emotion.
At the same time, however, I also turn to vinyl when I want a different experience. There is a nostalgic magic in the ritual of vinyl: pulling the record from the sleeve, watching it spin, setting the needle… It’s arguably a “lesser” quality in terms of raw data, but the tactile warmth makes up for what it lacks in resolution.
I believe this duality is actually the core philosophy behind écoute: in our headphones, we use vacuum tubes that marry the digital world’s bit-perfect resolution with the “vinyl-like” harmonics that people find so cozy and appealing. In the 1970s, listening was an investment; you had to prepare the ideal conditions. Today, access is so easy that we often take for granted how blessed we are. By bringing that analog soul back into the digital stream, we’re trying to restore a bit of that lost intentionality, making sure the “character” of the music is heard with the depth it deserves.
What is your earliest memory of listening to music where the quality of the sound truly stopped you in your tracks?
If I had to pinpoint the very first time I realized music could sound “different,” it was the mid-to-late 80s when I got my first CD boombox. By today’s standards, it was probably mediocre, but the jump from a hissing cassette tape on a Sony Walkman to the clarity of a CD was staggering. I remember laying on my bed with the speakers right next to my ears, experiencing a level of detail and clarity I didn’t know was possible.
To be fair, however, even after years in the high-end audio world, I am still regularly surprised when listening to songs I thought I knew by heart. It happens often: I’ll be working, perhaps writing or responding to emails, and the music is just there to provide a background flow. Then, suddenly, a detail catches me. I lose my train of thought, the flow of work vanishes, and I am pulled into an unplanned deep listening session. Before I know it, two hours have passed, and I’ve gone down a sonic rabbit hole instead of finishing my tasks.
Just a couple of weeks ago, I was listening to “Where Is My Mind?” by the Pixies. I’ve heard it a thousand times, but on a great pair of headphones, I noticed something new: the backup vocals in the distance. They aren’t mic’d directly; they are a faint echo repeating the chorus from way off in the background. At that moment, the song somehow revealed itself in full to me. This seemingly insignificant detail gave the lyrics a haunting, layered meaning I’d never perceived before.
The same thing happened with Phil Collins’ “In the Air Tonight”: only recently I realized for the first time that it wasn’t just Phil singing a solo; there is a man and a woman providing support in a completely different dimensional space, off to the side and slightly lower. I actually pulled the headphones off and put them on my wife’s head. She had never noticed the other voices either. Now, every time I listen, I’m searching for those three distinct souls in the recording.
At that moment, the song somehow revealed itself in full to me. This seemingly insignificant detail gave the lyrics a haunting, layered meaning I’d never perceived before.
Could you take us back to the beginning? When and how did the initial idea for écoute first spark, and what was the main problem you wanted to solve?
Interestingly enough, the journey of écoute didn’t start from a boardroom or a market analysis; it all began because a friend and I wanted to work together. He’s a longtime friend and a manufacturing expert, while I’m more on the design side; and at some point, we simply decided we wanted to build something together. When he first proposed earbuds, I immediately declined. I don’t use earbuds, and I’ve learned that for a project to succeed, I have to be the primary customer. There has to be a story to tell, an emotional connection to the problem being solved.
At that time, I was falling down the rabbit hole of vacuum tube audio. I was mesmerized by that “magical” analog sound, but I was frustrated by the physics of it. Traditional tube amps weigh forty pounds and radiate heat like a second sun: not exactly fit for a portable device. I had the naive thought: “Why can’t we just put the vacuum tubes inside the headphones?”
As it turns out, there was a very good reason no one had done it. Traditional tubes require high-voltage power supplies and draw significantly more power than a portable battery can sustain. Any seasoned electrical engineer would have told me it was impractical, if not impossible. But because I wasn’t an engineer, we just charged forward. In hindsight, there was certainly a fair share of “good” ignorance behind it, but that’s exactly what allowed us to keep going.
Building a hardware startup is a monumental task. How did you go about finding the “right” people who shared your specific, uncompromising vision for what a modern audio brand should be?
The journey has been less about finding “employees” and more about assembling a tribe of individuals who possess the specific alchemy of skill and obsession. At the core, we are a tight-knit management group: myself, my partner Josh Fairbairn, and his wife Kay, who is our COO. We were a functional team, but we were missing a piece of the puzzle—a bridge between our “ragtag” innovation and the established world of high-end audio.
That bridge appeared in the form of Andy Regan. His name might sound new to many, but in the headphone world, he’s essentially royalty. He started as a roadie and sound engineer during the golden era of rock and roll, touring with Lynyrd Skynyrd and David Bowie, before transitioning into the gear side. He was a key figure at Monster Cables during the launch of Beats, worked at JH Audio making custom in-ears for the likes of Trent Reznor and Mick Jagger, and held leadership roles at audiophile giants like HiFiMAN and Dan Clark Audio.
We met at the AXPONA show in Chicago. I was the new kid on the block, setting up my modest booth with my daughter, and Andy was next to us. When he asked what we were doing, I told him we had built the only headphones with a built-in vacuum tube. His response, in his wonderfully direct way, was: “No shit.”
Throughout the show, Andy became a mentor. He started bringing distributors over to hear our prototypes, shouting, “You’ve gotta hear these, they’ve even got monoblocks in them!” Watching a legend show such genuine enthusiasm for a newcomer’s product was my first taste of the camaraderie in this industry. As the show ended, my gut told me: Do not let this man walk away.
I approached him and said I had what might be considered an “indecent proposal.” He laughed and said, “Me too, but not here. Too many ears.” When he called me on Tuesday, I expected to discuss a consulting gig or some help with distribution. Instead, he said, “I want to run your company.”
I was stunned. I asked him why a man with his pedigree would join a tiny startup that wasn’t making any money yet. I will never forget his answer: “You guys are the only brand doing anything new in at least five years and it’s an idea I have wanted to do myself.”
Andy recognized the potential of écoute better than I did. He saw that the next generation of audiophiles isn’t just listening at home with a $30,000 Macintosh amp; they are listening on the London Tube, at work, and on flights. They want reference-grade sound in a portable form without the compromise of traditional headphones.
In a way, I hired my own boss. Andy is now our President and Co-founder, and he was fundamental in turning our hobby into a legitimate, global audio equipment business. He has taken over much of our sound design and handles the business strategy including the distribution, which is 90% of the battle, and we now have retailers from Australia to Dubai, and while I’m technically his partner, I’m still the guy sitting there wide-eyed listening to his stories about the 70s.
I will never forget his answer: “You’re the only one who has done anything truly new in at least five years. You’ve cracked the egg.”
During the development phase, what was the specific moment or “revelation” that made you realize the prototype was finally ready for the world?
We spent a couple of years developing our first prototype, using Russian sub-miniature tubes. It worked, but it was dangerous. The battery management was a nightmare; the unit got so hot it was a literal fire hazard. I remember our contracted engineer calling me and saying, “We can never sell these until we figure out the power management because they might kill someone.”
At that point, I wanted to cry. I thought the project was dead. But instead of giving up, I decided to look for a different triode solution: I went to Google and searched for “low power vacuum tubes.” I found something called the Nutube 6P1 by Korg. It used 2% of the power of a traditional tube and didn’t even look like one. I sent the link to our engineer, and two minutes later he texted back: “OMG. This will work. Get two shipped here immediately.”
That was the turning point where the project became a viable product. From there, the journey became a series of “engineer surprises.” I remember getting a call from the team where they sounded concerned. I braced for bad news: would it be more costs? More delays? Instead, they told me the numbers were “wrong.” When I asked what we needed to fix, they said, “Nothing. The numbers are far better than we thought was possible. But we don’t know why.” My advice to them was simple: “Don’t change a thing. Spend the next five years figuring out why it sounds this good, but for now, just build it.”
Today, écoute is the result of a mixed group of people with divergent skills but a singular, obsessive passion for music. The day-to-day work, like for any startup, is not the easiest; but at the end of the day, I can put our headphones on and feel that same joy I felt with that 1950s radio I had as a kid. It’s fun. We built something that brings us—and hopefully our listeners—genuine happiness.
You chose to launch your first product via Kickstarter, building a transparent bridge with your community. How has that direct dialogue with your earliest supporters shaped the final character of the TH1?
When we launched the TH1, we were completely bootstrapped. Josh and I had achieved building a working prototype, but we were still far away from having a market-ready product. Kickstarter was a necessity to prove viability and generate the capital for our first production run. What we didn’t fully anticipate was how that platform would transform from just a funding source into a focus group that would fundamentally reshape the TH1.
The relationship you have with a Kickstarter backer is entirely different from a standard e-commerce transaction. These aren’t simply customers; they are early adopters who feel they are sitting next to you at the design table. They are “fans turned up to eleven,” and their engagement pushed the TH1 far beyond our original specifications.
During that first campaign, the dialogue with our community led us to add features we had initially written off or not considered. We integrated noise control and added LDAC (the highest resolution Bluetooth codec available) simply because the chorus of requests became too loud to ignore. If one person asks for a specific feature, you can disregard it; but when a hundred people ask for the same technical upgrade, you’re foolish not to listen.
This collaborative evolution was a double-edged sword. On one hand, it allowed us to release a product with capabilities we hadn’t planned on introducing for another year. On the other hand, it triggered significant “feature creep” that cost us a lot of money to finalize. It was a steep learning curve in power management and cost control, but the result was an infinitely superior product. If we had been a traditional company with a massive R&D budget but no community dialogue, I’m convinced we would have released an inferior, more “sterile” product.
Our second campaign, for the TH2, launched just a week ago and the momentum has been staggering—we did more in the first 36 hours than we did in six weeks on the first project. This success is built directly on the trust and feedback loop established with our original backers.
For the TH2, the hardware is locked down; we’re ready for production next month. However, the organic relationship continues. People are making suggestions now about finishes and colors that might not change the current unit, but are already being filed away for the TH3. Crowdfunding allows for a two-way transparency that the legacy brands can’t replicate. It gives us the courage to make bold choices because we have the immediate confirmation of our listener base, and it gives us a chance to grow the brand in real-time with the people who use it.
Your President, Andy Regan, described the écoute headphones as “fun.” Can you elaborate on what “fun” means in the context of your sound signature?
When Andy first said it, I wasn’t too sure it was the right way to describe our product: I used words like sophisticated, detailed, or precise. But watching people react at trade shows changed my mind. “Fun” is the perfect word because it describes the joy of discovery. It’s the thrill of a reviewer suddenly hearing an acoustic guitar in a U2 song they’ve heard a million times, or the visceral pleasure of hearing a singer take a breath.
It’s like food: you can eat to be satisfied, or you can eat a meal that surprises you, where you enjoy the very act of becoming satisfied. High-quality audio is a primal pleasure. It gives you more than you expected, and that bonus is where the fun lives.
One of the most common reactions from your users is: “I’m hearing things I never noticed before.” In that regard, can you share one of the most memorable “first time” reactions that you have received?
We receive a lot of technical praise from recording engineers and seasoned audiophiles, but the most memorable reaction I’ve ever witnessed had nothing to do with technical specs and everything to do with the raw joy of discovery.
It happened at AXPONA in Chicago. A father and his son, who was maybe twelve or thirteen years old, were walking around. The father was a veteran hi-fi enthusiast, and this trip was a big “dad and son” outing—a chance to introduce the boy to his world. As it turned out, the father had accidentally left the son’s headphones on the plane, so he had promised to buy him a replacement at the show within a certain budget.
They had been to every booth, listening to the massive stationary rigs that define the traditional hobby. When they sat down at our booth, I spoke to the son directly. I explained that we had taken those room-sized tube amplifiers he’d seen elsewhere and shrunk them down to fit inside the headphones. I watched his eyes light up at the idea of “mobility”—the concept that he could have that high-end sound while walking around, rather than being tethered to a listening chair in a basement.
He put the headphones on, and within five seconds, his eyes nearly popped out of his head. He looked at his dad, then at me, then back at his dad, and practically shouted, “Dad, you’ve gotta listen to this!” The father sat down, and for the next twenty minutes, they had this incredible bonding moment. They were listening to different tracks on separate tablets, but they were perfectly in sync: the kid was head-bobbing, pointing at things he was hearing, and the dad was nodding along, clearly impressed.
They kept leaving and coming back to our booth, three or four times throughout the day. Eventually, the father told me, “We’ve decided. These are the best headphones we’ve heard at the show, and we just want to keep listening.” It was a bit more than he’d planned to spend, but you could see he realized he was investing in a bridge between him and his boy.
Seeing that boy light up, and seeing music become the language that brought him closer to his father, was more meaningful than any professional endorsement. Don’t get me wrong, I love it when an expert like Andy Regan gives us a “no shit” reaction to our tech. But watching a new generation realize that audio can be this moving? That’s why we do this. It reminded me that at its core, écoute is about making sure the magic of music isn’t lost in translation.
Your company’s core product is not just headphones, but a “listening experience.” Can you elaborate on that distinction?
To some, that might sound like marketing speak, but the difference is fundamental. It’s the same reason I love driving classic Minis. Objectively, they have terrible suspension and are far from utilitarian, but the experience of taking a corner at 35 miles an hour without hitting the brakes is pure joy. You don’t buy a Mini to get from point A to point B; you buy it for how it makes you feel during the journey.
I never actually set out to own a headphone company. What I wanted was a way to satisfy my own emotional and aesthetic needs as a listener. The headphones are simply the delivery device, the medium through which we transport someone. Whether it’s a fourteen-year-old at a trade show or a gentleman in his eighties calling me from Scotland to say that our tuning features make music sound as clear to his old ears as he remembers it sounding when he was young back in the 1970s, the goal is always the same: to create an all-encompassing, profound connection to the art.
A story that perfectly illustrates this involves my old college roommate. He’s the kind of guy who never spends a dime on himself, always taking the hand-me-down phone so his wife and kids can have the best. For his birthday, I sent him an open-box return unit. The next day, he sent me a text that literally had me in tears. He said, “I used to think I just had bad ears, but it turns out I just had bad headphones. I’m hearing the music I love for the first time again.”
He told me his wife tried them on for a few seconds and her only comment was, “That’s amazing. I could hear the room.” Now, she’s not a musician or an engineer, but she instinctively used a technical audio term. In sound engineering, “in the room” refers to the spatial flavor and depth of a recording. She wasn’t just hearing a playback; she was experiencing the performance as if she were physically standing in the studio, an effect of the combination of vacuum tube harmonics and dual-mono architecture.
We want you to be at 35,000 feet on an airplane or in a noisy open-plan office and still be able to hear the singer’s tongue move, the breath before a verse, or the fingerprints on a guitar string. By providing that level of resolution in a portable form, we aren’t just selling hardware. We are giving people back the ability to be overwhelmed by the music they love, wherever they happen to be.
Many people today use music as background while doing other things. Do you think we’ve lost the “ritual” of just sitting down to listen, and how does écoute encourage that intentionality?
If you look back two hundred years, hearing music was a rare event. To listen to a Mozart symphony, you had to be in a place of privilege, surrounded by thirty-four professionals playing instruments that cost more than a farmer would earn in a lifetime. Music was special because it was infrequent. As technology progressed—from portable Victrola turntables to FM radio and eventually to the iPod—music became easier to access, but we began to take it for granted.
Today, we have the “fast food” equivalent of music. I can access nearly every recorded song in history at the highest resolution from a device in my pocket. But just as people have become lazy with facts because of Google, we’ve become lazy with music. We use it to block out the person in the next cubicle or to fill the silence while we work. When water is always present, you never truly appreciate the taste of it. But on a scorching day when you are parched, that same water is the most amazing thing in the world. At écoute, we want to bring back that “thirst.” We want to elevate the audio to a level that shocks you out of the background and into a state of intentionality.
In the US, there has been a major “Slow Food” movement—a return to the roots of preparing a meal, savoring the ingredients, and appreciating the effort. I like to think we are part of a “Slow Music” movement. Vinyl forces you into this; you have to take the record out of the sleeve, wait for the system to warm up, and set the needle. It requires participation.
We’ve also tried to build that ritual into our hardware. In the TH2, I specifically moved the power button directly below the window that shows the vacuum tubes. When you hit that button, you watch the blue-green glow slowly warm up. It’s a bit like Pavlov’s dog: when I see that light, I start to crave for the music. It sets the stage and signals a cognitive shift from “hearing” to “listening.”
My old college roommate is a perfect example. He loves music but never thought it could bring him to tears until he heard it through proper equipment. Most people in the younger generations have been raised on Bluetooth earbuds; they don’t even know what they are missing because they’ve never had a reference point for a true performance.
But you shouldn’t have to choose between a $35,000 home rig and mediocre portable sound. We want to give you that “home system” depth wherever you are. We want to provide a reason to listen intentionally. When the audio is this rich, it ceases to be “background noise” and becomes a time machine, a transporter taking you to a place where the rest of the world disappears. It’s about stopping the emails, closing your eyes, and disappearing into the music. It’s a return to the ritual of intentionally listening.
