Amongst all the hand–ringing and head–scratching and kvetching about the music business and what we're going to do with our CDs and LPs and how iPods sound like shit but are the future whether we like it or not (in my case, the jury's still out), it's a good idea, at least in my overamped case, to step back, close–a–dee mouth and occasionally remember that at the bottom of all this claptrap, there's still music. Which I (we) presumably still love.

<I>"Modern recordings, for all their glory . . . have conditioned audiences to expect an inhuman degree of performance accuracy, comparable to what a recording studio's editing team can produce by patching together the best moments from multiple takes."&mdash;James F. Penrose, </I>Wall Street Journal<I>, January 25, 2008</I>

I ran into Lauren on the way home last night. Lauren is from Leicester, England. She is twenty-five years old, friendly, bright, and beautiful. It was a little before 9pm, and we were both just coming in from work. She complained about her hours. Lauren would prefer a nine-to-five job. These eleven-to-eight hours are taking up the best bits of her day. But it's a job. She's had it for only two weeks, but she's already looking for another. She doesn't know what she wants to do. By thirty-five, she hopes to be retired.

It is spring! Without doubt, it is spring. The skinny trees on Monmouth Street have suddenly bloomed all pink and purple and white, while the birds outside my kitchen window have learned to sing new songs. They make a wonderful racket in the morning. I like it. It makes me feel somehow closer to the world, to nature, to love and god and shit. This music of spring is a nice contrast to the sirens and jack hammers that normally make up a Jersey City morning.

No matter how well you think you know the specialized world of high-end audio, there are always new companies, new technologies, and new products you just haven't gotten around to knowing yet.