Stephen Mejias

Dear Readers,


I admit it. When Jerry commented to last">http://blog.stereophile.com/stephenmejias/041408really/">last week's entry, saying that vinyl wears out with every single trip around the platter, it kind of shook me up. My heart raced and blood rushed to my head. I began to sweat. What had I done? What was I getting into? How would I afford this? Had I stepped into AlexO's bottomless pit?

I'm not quite sure what's going on in the art here, but I can't stop looking at it. I love the colors. If music wasn't meant to be played, I'd hang this up on my wall.

The gorgeous gatefold opens up to show watercolors of The Black Keys' Dan Auerbach and Patrick Carney. In the left sleeve, you'll find a glossy lyrics sheet and a complete promo CD!

A couple of nights ago, I got this big idea that I'd go shopping for some picture disc vinyl to go along with the component we'll be featuring on our July cover. (Hint: It's not a speaker.) You know, I was thinking it'd be no problem to find Jimi Hendrix all lit up in a purple haze or, better yet, some new indie band dressed in skinny jeans and moccasins being chased by a puma, or something. But I discovered that new picture disc vinyl isn't all that easy to come by. Surprisingly, I found that today's picture discs come from three main sources:

Truth is: I know diddly-squat about Frank Zappa. I've heard this and that, of course, and all I've heard has always been intriguing, but, for no good reason, I've just never taken the time to dive into Zappa's world. Perhaps it's because his world seems so enormous and wild and foreign. His world is full of barking pumpkins and utility muffins and Sprechstimme and other things I can neither imagine nor pronounce. I mean, even his name is strange. Like an exclamation, like a shot of electricity. Zappa! Say it three times, and something bad might happen. Zappa! Zappa! (No, don't!)

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.

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.