Stephen Mejias

The sun sets so beautifully through my bare kitchen windows. It does. And, as these days grow longer, I'm able to make it home in time to just catch it, just catch it, the entire space lit with soft sunset.

And so, last night, at home and in love with the light, I decided to cook up some yellow rice and black beans while the sun set so beautifully through my bare kitchen windows. To accentuate the mood, I figured I'd play one of my favorite albums: Buena Vista Social Club. One day, a few years ago, when the album had just been released and the music was still completely new to me, I brought it to play during a family gathering. I still smile at the thought of my grandfather singing along with every single song, word for word. Anyway. Today, I'd press play and walk away, allowing the Aperion Intimus 532 speakers to break in.

Funny thing, though, about the Aperion 532s: They don't need no stinkin' breaking in. This is not to say they won't sound better over time. They might. I haven't even removed the grilles, yet. So who knows? All I do mean to say is that these speakers sound damn lovely straight out of their blue velvet cloaks (a nice touch in itself). And this budget speaker stuff is beginning to overwhelm me.

I had to sit down. Good thing I did, too, because I was treated to some finely textured sound. I decided I was hearing "deeper into the recording," as they say. In "Chan Chan," for instance, I was immediately introduced to the strange and hypnotic low-frequency "gulp gulp" which helps to keep time throughout Compay Segundo's churning folk song. I had heard this sound before—a sound like a deep tub of water being slowly drained—but never like this. I could never feel it like this.

I liked it. I listened, tracking the sound through the song, wondering what instrument produced it. Some sort of percussion, certainly. But what? Not bongos, not congas. Finally, I reached for the liner notes and settled on the one instrument within the song that I'd never heard of: the udu drum.

By this time, "De Camino a La Vereda" was in full swing and I was practically in Cuba. Hungry, however, I fought it. Willing myself from the music and into the kitchen where, now, the sun was an orange cloud, I began chopping cilantro.

Nevertheless, time and time again, I would be drawn back to the music. The food would almost burn. On "Pueblo Nuevo," I was fixed by the guiro; On "Veinte Anos," I was tugged away by the alluring bass line; On "El Carretero," I was again caught by the deep, throaty udu drum.

Mincing garlic and dicing onions, falling in love with this music all over again, and falling in love with these speakers all too soon, I asked myself the silly, silly question: "Well, is it the music or is it the speakers?" The answer came easily. It's the music. It's the speakers. It's the music, it's the speakers.

It's both. Obviously, it's both. Listening to music on the hi-fi is what it is. The music is absolutely gorgeous, but the speakers help me appreciate it in a new and wonderful way.

Later, when things were fine and simmering, having turned down the heat, I sat with the music, and, curious, turned up the volume. I'm talking loud. No joke loud. The neighbors will be very upset in no time fast loud. And the Aperions, I want you to know, did not break a sweat. They remained as smooth as Ibrahim Ferrer's gentle, romantic voice. If anything at all, the music simply sounded better. Piano was crystal clear, drums were tight, bass was round and nimble, acoustic guitars were fleshy, trumpets appropriately bright and bold.

What
is
going on
here?

I wondered. I sat back, feeling that I was experiencing something very special. And, hardly hungry, I stopped taking notes.