Show attendees entered John Semrad and Dave Slagle’s room and let out an involuntary gasp. The components on display epitomized bespoke, handmade craftsmanship, of the highest quality, with purity and provenance their bywords.

At the risk of giving these social media upstarts more attention, my old friend Jason Messina (aka The Audiophile Junky) could be found in the Popori/UniQue room, which is a funny thing. The only time I’ve seen Jason even close to being immobile—i.e., not making videos, which he does, hitting the ground running (I’ve seen it)—is at a show!

Music's lunatic fringe drifts further out every hour. As it should. In this century, with computers playing an ever-larger role, music continues to fragment and become infinitely more varied. This splintering is either the essence of what keeps it relevant as an art form or something profoundly disturbing, to be hated and feared.

In the mid-1980s, few bands were as loved, despised, and misunderstood as the Butthole Surfers. The impulse to tread in unexplored borderlands of noise, studio blathery, live excess, indulgent nonsensicalness, and the urge to reconnoiter unheard sonics were all taken to heart by a nutty duo of Texans whose dulcet appellation was originally one of their song titles.