When I was younger, I wanted to grow up to become a Major League baseball player. Baseball runs in my family. My grandfather played in the sugarcane fields, my father played in the street, my uncles played Little League. Each generation, it seemed, got better and closer. I had one uncle who made it all the way to a Major League farm club before injuring his knee.
There are very many high-end audio websites out there. I know this because I've spent all day working on our "Audio Manufacturers on the Web" directory, which may be published in our 2007 Buyer's Guide.
I'd have to agree with Tom Warren. My current favorite indie record label is also Drag City home of Smog, Silver Jews, Joanna Newsom, The Fucking Champs, Espers, Jim O'Rourke, The Red Krayola, I could go on.
Sorry about that. Kelli and I flew off to Maine. We spent most of our time on Mt. Desert Island. "Desert," in this case, is pronounced "dessert" (with a French accent, if you like). It was good and quiet. We drove along the coast in our pathetic PT Cruiser (Touring Edition), from Portland to Bar Harbor, listening to the new TV on the Radio. It starts off like a Sonic Youth song, but the drums change it all. And then the vocals change it more. Of the words I could make out: Hey hey, my baby / Won't you lay your hands on me / Mirror my malady / Transfer my tragedy. We decided that he really does sound like Peter Gabriel.