Stephen Mejias

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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 17, 2006 8 comments
Bluelines for the March issue are in. I was flagging an error, when JA came around and:
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 13, 2006 10 comments
"It's a romantic amp," he says. "Just right for you."
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 12, 2006 6 comments
Rushing to get the last bits of the March issue out the door, with just "Letters to the Editor" left to proof, and:
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 11, 2006 4 comments
I'm pretty happy with the way yesterday's entry came out, but it didn't go the way I meant it to.
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 10, 2006 16 comments
Sometime near the close of Sunday, when vinyl was being slipped into sleeves and room treatments were coming down, I wandered my way to the end of a hall at the St. Tropez, where I heard such sweet music emanating from the LSA Group/DK Design suite.
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 10, 2006 12 comments
Written in blue ink on the white space of pages of Fast Company magazine, while waiting for the plane, yesterday morning, at McCarran Airport in Las Vegas.
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 09, 2006 7 comments
I'm sitting in the hotel lobby, at a small brown table, with Wes Phillips. Our laptops are caught in a long embrace, staring at one another, making a sort of _/ \_
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 08, 2006 0 comments
I weeble-wobbled my way upstairs, following the sounds of The White Stripes', "My Doorbell."
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 07, 2006 4 comments
Anton, of NFS Audio, was recommending a few rooms to me. "Have you heard the DeVore stuff?" he asked.
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Stephen Mejias Posted: Jan 07, 2006 2 comments
Parting the colorful wooden beads makes a sound like brushes against snare. I'm enveloped in soft green glow and the sweetest scents of liquor and jazz. I stand in the corner, trying to figure it all out. Two of the tallest speakers I've ever seen — vintage Acoustat 2+2s — climb all the way up to the ceiling. There's a glowing palm tree dancing between them. Along the walls are concert posters and all sorts of album art. To my right is a mirrored alcove, a bar area, holding many varieties of absinthe and other liquors I've never seen. The room is filled with smiles and everyone seems very comfortable, intoxicated. The space isn't set up for optimal listening. There are no rows of neatly arranged metal conference chairs. Instead there are couches and armchairs. In one, sits a man with his daughter in his lap. He taps his hand to the jazz, while the young girl nods her head in time to the snare hits. Together, they move from one seat to the next, and the girl immediately reacts to the difference in sound. The father — I learn his name is Marty — explains to his daughter, Briana, that they have just moved into a better listening position. "It sounds so different," she says.

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