A group of people sit along an old, grimy bar, doing things. Watching, waiting, aspiring. Every single one of them, in one way or another. Watches, waits, aspires. One of them&#151the strangest looking one of all&#151is a black dude with hair like the wind through a California Cypress. Eyes like two half moons. With more care and concern than any of the others, he watches. He watches the man on stage, a fellow named Henry Vestine. Henry is playing guitar, bass, and drums all at once, all by himself.

I love my job, I love my office, I love a whole lot of other things. But, when the sun is shining through my living room windows the way it was this morning, it is very hard to leave home.

A crime of passion? Depraved indifference to the importance of tuneage? Death by music? The simple fact is that most audiophiles got that way by having too many records. That's right&#151;very few got into this rewarding, non-contact sport because they were aroused by shiny brushed-steel boxes or supersexy speaker grilles. It's because they wanted to hear their piles of music&#151;their Mahler, Monk, or Rick James&#151;sound the best it could. (And, okay, yes: It <I>is</I> cool to show drooling friends your designer gear.)