Mark Levinson built the No. 23.5 in 1990 and stopped pretending that affordable power amplifiers were anything but a compromise. This is a 100-watt-per-channel Class A design, which means it gets hot — genuinely, dangerously hot — and costs roughly what a used Cadillac cost that same year. It also means it sounds like nothing else in the basement, and that's the entire point.

Wife Acceptance Factor

He Says

The Mark Levinson 23.5 is basically the last power amp you'll ever buy — it's Class A, fully balanced, built in 1990 when Japanese companies still cared about doing one thing perfectly. Gary Karaka reviewed it in Stereophile and called it the best value in amplification at its price point. You own it for five years, you sell it for the same money. No brainer.

She Says

So it's a thousand-dollar amp that runs so hot we'll need to vent the basement, it weighs roughly 80 pounds, and you're telling me it sounds "just a bit better" than the Rotel that cost a third of the price. Also, you already have two power amps down there, and the electricity bill from running Class A all day is going to make me cry.

The Ruling

ABSOLUTELY NOT

Do you think we're made of money? Go listen to what you have — on Amazon Music, it's free to try.

The 23.5 sits one rung below the flagship No. 33H, which cost nearly four times as much and did essentially the same job with slightly more headroom. Levinson understood something most amplifier companies still don't: diminishing returns are real, but they're not tragic. The 23.5 gets you into the room where the music stops being "a recording" and becomes an event. That's worth the price and the heat and the fact that your wife will ask if you're running a sauna.

The circuit is Class A throughout, biased hot enough that it idles at roughly 40 watts per channel with nothing playing. There are no shortcuts: fully balanced input stages, direct-coupled driver stages, and a power supply that treats the output stage like the sacred object it actually is. The transformer is potted in epoxy — you could drop it off a building and it would survive. Build quality is German-level obsessive without the German price tag.

What you hear is immediate and non-negotiable. The highs are crystalline without being thin. Strings on Joni Mitchell records have texture and space; cymbals decay naturally instead of ringing. The midrange is composed and honest — voices don't bloat, don't disappear, just exist exactly as they were recorded. The bass is granite-solid, not exaggerated but immovable, the kind of foundation that makes every other amp in the room sound like it's built on sand.

This is where the honest caveat lands: the 23.5 needs a good preamp and decent speakers to shine. Feed it garbage, and it will play garbage cleanly. It won't fix upstream problems. Sloppy phono stages, worn turntables, and crossed fingers will stay sloppy. The amp is transparent in the worst possible way if your source material isn't ready. You can't hide behind it. That's also why people who own them tend to own them forever — there's nowhere to hide anymore.

Find a 23.5 in good condition and you've found the amp that didn't need replacing twenty years later. Not because it's perfect, but because once you've heard what Class A bias actually delivers, everything else sounds hurried and slightly thin. The tweaking stops. The investment begins.

Spin it with
The 23.5 refuses to hide Mitchell's vocal warmth or the intimacy of those acoustic arrangements — every fret noise becomes intentional and alive.
Class A transparency reveals the studio space around each instrument; modal jazz needs that kind of honesty to breathe, and the 23.5 gives it room.
The Wall — Pink Floyd
The bass synths and layered production demand an amp that won't compress or apologize — the 23.5 handles 70s studio excess with surgical clarity.

Three records worth putting on.

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