About a dozen years ago, I found myself sitting across from a disheveled gentleman in a near-empty lounge at LAX Airport as we both waited for a delayed flight. A well-loved leather suitcase stood at his feet. To my amazement, he wore a pair of
Stax SR-L700sfull-on electrostatics he powered with an unwieldy amplifier he held on his lap, a power cord snaking to the outlet near his seat. It was absurd. And magnificent. He caught me smiling, smirked, lifted one earcup, and said, "If I'm going to spend another three hours in this godforsaken place, I might as well do it with Coltrane in my skull."
There, in his defiance of convenience, was a truth: Sound matters, enough to haul an electrostatic rig through Terminal 3, to trade portability for transcendence.
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