Stephen Mejias

The casual interest soon transformed into an addiction and an obsession. Does obsession come before addiction, or after? I'm not sure. Either way, the salsa didn't seem to mind. It started in early August with two albums: Siembra by Ruben Blades and La">http://blog.stereophile.com/stephenmejias/la_gran_fuga/">La Gran Fuga by Willie Colon. These two led me to several others which led me to more still. I read one pretty crappy Hector Lavoe biography, sent dozens of fiery e-mails to my family in Puerto Rico, devoured tons of liner notes, and watched a gazillion YouTube videos. I've now collected over 20 albums (all on CD), have lured one uncle into sending me rare and classic songs from his library of MP3s, coerced another into donating to my cause his entire LP collection (we'll see about that), and uncovered an entire world of really deep, incredibly hot tracks. The addiction is not fading.

It started as a joke. I told my uncle, also a huge Mets fan, that if the Mets didn't make it to the playoffs, I'd get rid of my television. What would I need a television for anyway? All I ever watch are Mets games, and I can get my news from the internet or the radio. The idea became more attractive as I thought of how much easier it would be to swap audio components without an enormous, old 27" Sharp television set getting in the way. I might even be able to hock the television for a sweet pair of bongos, or something similarly musical and pretty. They've got some nice rhythm sticks over there at Jemma Loan on Newark Avenue. A trumpet? A few harmonicas? Who knows? Plus, without the easy distraction of television, I'd inevitably read and write more, listen to more music, maybe even exercise a bit. All good things.

It's a good thing I did my listening before the Mets' tragic loss because, afterwards, everything sounded horrible. I started with the brilliant Arsenio Rodriguez composition, "A Bailar Mi Bomba," off of Roberto Roena's outstanding Lucky 7. When I listen to this song, my head bobs about like mad and my shoulders shake like maracas, I come up with desperate ideas about trading in my guitar amplifier for a conga set and a cowbell, I consider saying goodbye to everything and moving away to Puerto Rico. It's that kind of song.