Stephen Mejias

"I don't dare open the file you left in my folder," says JA.

He's talking about the master database for the 2007 Buyer's Guide. It's swollen with model names and numbers, bloated with impedances and frequency responses, bursting — absolutely bursting, I tell you — with weights, warranties, and retail prices. I don't blame him for not wanting to open it. I don't blame him at all.

"Ah, don't worry about it," I say.

"Don't worry about it," he repeats.

"It's good advice," I say.

"Richard just finished copyediting the first of Art's opening essays. I don't dare open that either," he goes on.

"Why? I can't wait to read what Art has to say about buying gear."

"Richard attached a note that said, 'This stuff is dangerous. Well-written, but dangerous.'"

"Focus on the 'well-written' part," I say.

"That's what I'll do."

"Hmm, it's going to be exciting, huh?"

"Edgy," he nods.

***

I wonder: Will Art's essays be filled with stuff like

As I grow older, the futility of writing about soundstage depth and microdynamics and caramel colorations becomes more and more apparent. I want to carry on sharing my own enthusiasm for recorded art and for the technology that enables it, but at the same time I want to remind you that all of these things should be different for each individual listener. You can share the enjoyment, I think, without taking the specifics too seriously, without getting bogged down in all the ephemera. You can forget bass or imaging or even flow or momentum, as long as you recognize the things that trigger your own release from the mundane.

?

I hope so.