Perhaps the greatest praise anyone can let loose upon any silly piece of audio gear is that it inspires the discovery of new music. Right? Alright then. The Rega P3, in all its ashen splendor, does this for me. So much so that I'm going broke. I feel as though I'm single-handedly (with one hand behind my weary back, that is) revitalizing the record industry. I've spent so much money on new (used) records that I could've purchased my own P3 by now. In fact, I've decided that that's exactly what I'm going to do. I'm going to buy my own P3. I'm in the office now, wishing I was home with the P3. I'm proofreading Michael Fremer's review of the P3-24, which will appear in our July issue, and I'm thinking,
I'm going to buy this thing.
John DeVore and Michael Lavorgna will have to come on over to Jersey City for another visit. We'll pick up a couple of six packs, maybe even some Chimay. We'll get a pizza from Frank's Famous. Or maybe we'll stop by Ox and say hi to
Heather Duby. Whatever. John DeVore and Michael Lavorgna will have to come and get this magnificent disease out of my home. Take back your P3. I'm going to buy my own. (Not yet! In a few weeks or so. I'm just saying.)
The Rega P3 is a classic. The Rega P3 is one of those components that just sits there—quietly, patiently—and invites you, dares you, tempts you to discover new, dangerous music. Music is the thing.
Of all the new music that's been flooding my living room, covering my orange couch, and keeping me up at night, it's this damn fusion stuff, more than anything, that's got me worried. It's got me worried because I just don't know when or where it's going to end. Perhaps this is the bottomless pit that AlexO was describing. Perhaps AlexO was describing a bottomless pit of music discovery.
The word "fusion" used to gross me out, gave me the heebie-jeebies, made me want to run for cover. I had always associated it with the dreadful tone of Pat Metheny's wimpy guitar and other wretched stuff I'd be mercilessly subjected to when the telephone company put me on hold. Sorry, Pat Metheny, but I hate your music. It pains me to think of it, even now. With the help of the Rega P3, I've come to realize that Pat Metheny's music isn't fusion at all. Thank you, Rega P3. Fusion is something else. Fusion is sex. It's soul. Fusion is sex and soul and funk mixed with jazz and freedom and bold experimentation. It's heavy, heavy stuff. When you hear it, you know it. I'm only just getting started with it.
I was listening to Herbie Hancock's
Crossings the other night when my room disappeared.
