I met John DeVore at last year's Consumer Electronics Show. Wes Phillips directed me: "Have you been to the <a href="http://www.devorefidelity.com/">DeVore Fidelity</a> room yet?"<br>
"Nuh-uh," I shook my head.<br>
"You should check it out. I think John'll have some stuff that'll interest you."<br>
"Alright," I nodded.<br>
This was going to be an Andy Warholish entry about how boring we can be at <i>Stereophile</i>. Elizabeth's idea, actually; not mine.
I was unusually happy, and now I’m sad.
<i>If it’s not the Avian flu, it’s the maple syrup.</i><br>
—Nina Myers, Esquire magazine<br>
***
But it’s not the cats that are killing me. It’s the commute.
Music editor, Robert Baird, comes over and asks: "How’s it going, chief?"<br>
The "chief" part I take as a compliment. This is a magazine publishing company we’re working for, after all.<br>
"Not bad," I say, while handing him the new <a href="http://www.silverjews.net/">Silver Jews</a> album I purchased last night: "Have you heard this yet? It’s pretty good."<br>
"Oh yeah," he responds, "It’s great. Did you <i>buy</i> this?"<br>
On our way home last night, at your request, we found shelter from the relentless rain near a bit of dancing fire. White candles melted into soft wings and waves and fingertips, beckoning us closer. We sat at the fun table beneath so many beaded chandeliers, and ordered the best drinks in all of Manhattan—pineapple coconut mojitos and razzle dazzles—which were far too strong, but perfect, nontheless. The older woman in the strange hat offered us one of her piggyback dates—stuffed with almonds and wrapped in bacon, sprinkled with Cabrales bleu cheese—but we, of course, declined, and decided instead to order some of our own.
Wes sends his "Hola!" from Barcelona:
So, I arrived at home (I mean, at Wes') one night, and decided to take <a href="http://blog.stereophile.com/stephenmejias/101705huckleberry/">John DeVore's advice</a> about popping a CD into the hi-fi as simple background noise. My plan was to listen to Smog's <i>A River Ain't Too Much to Love</i> while feeding the cats in the kitchen.
I was in bed for what felt like five minutes (it was actually five hours) when the little alarm clock let loose its hybrid buzz-chirp: 7am, time to wake up. I stumbled into the bathroom, my mind filled with thoughts of the previous night at Maxwell’s. The fluorescent white light above the cracked mirror blinked on and off for a couple of moments before steadying itself, reminding me of the camera bulbs that flashed while we were on stage. I heard myself think: “We’ll never play a bad show again. That’s all behind us now.”