Saturday, 10 February 2007


I love high fidelity audio reproduction. Love it. If I had money to spend on my anechoically-surfaced Krell and Wilson Audio-equipped fantasy auditorium, I'd spend it. No question. Real bass? Bring it on. I love the gut-churning thwack of a reverberating bass drum, the enveloping thunder of a full-scale cathedral organ, the mighty rumble of a sci-fi space-ship. And yes, I'm sure you do, too, gentle readers.

If I had a decent car, with some extra space in it, sure, I'd probably spend some cash on kitting it out with a decent little subwoofer, to flesh out the overall tone of my little JVC and Jensen system. That would be fine. I listen to some pretty bass-intense stuff myself.


Your damned lowered-chassis hatchback does not require twin 18" bins powered by a 1kW (RMS) amplifier. Specifically NOT to play the latest CD of remixed R&B, consisting entirely of a harmonic-free three-note synthetic bassline, some inner-ear-needling triangle and cymbals, and some witless hoop-earringed whore lamenting her umpteenth fight with her unfaithful, shiftless, abusive buck.

The world is not your theatre, nor should it be the receptacle of your territorial urine. I already noticed the sound of your cars flared exhausts, its loud custom paint job, and your clothes consisting of twenty clashing logos printed on as many carcinogenic synthetic fibres sweat-shop manufactured by companies that sponsor basketball match-fixing. You didn't NEED to remind me that you were an aspiring delinquent by playing your music so loud that the only thing we can hear after your passage is howling dogs.


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