Likely Normal

There exists a peaceful, blissful state of ignorance in the world of audio. It’s a place where people listen to music on the earbuds that came with their phone, or on a Bluetooth speaker they won at a company golf outing. They are happy. They tap their feet. They sing along. They have no idea they are, in audiophile terms, listening to a symphony being played through a cardboard tube.

This was most of us, once.

For years, I was perfectly content. I rocked out on a Walkman with those foam-padded 80s headphones that somehow continued working for well over a decade and it was fine! More than fine; it was awesome! The music was there, the beat was there, and the constant, faint hiss was just part of the ambiance, like crickets on a summer night.

This innocent era can last for decades. But then, inevitably, comes the fall.

It usually begins at a friend’s house. A friend with a suspiciously empty living room and two massive, obelisk-like speakers standing like monoliths. A stack of amps and other equipment accompanies them. “You have to hear this,” they say, with the glint of a cult leader in their eye. They don’t just press ‘play.’ They perform a ritual involving warmed-up tubes, song queuing from a high-definition audio source, and dimming the lights.

And then it happens.

A guitar chord doesn’t just play; it blooms in the space between the speakers. You don’t just hear a singer; you hear the subtle catch in their breath before the chorus, the texture of their voice. The bass isn’t a dull thud; it’s a palpable, physical wave that you feel in your soul. You are no longer in a living room. You are in the recording studio. You are in the front row. You are, for three glorious minutes, inside the music itself.

The drive home is a silent, somber affair. You walk into your own house, a place that once held joy, and put on your favorite album. And through your formerly-adequate speakers, it now sounds… tragic. It’s as if the musicians are performing from the bottom of a well, using kazoos and a trash can lid. The magic is gone. The veil has been lifted.

You have reached the Auditory Point of No Return, and there is no going back.

Your descent is swift. You start noticing the “tinny” sound at coffee shops. You wince during movie scenes where the dialogue is “muddy.” You find yourself on online forums, nodding in agreement with people who claim that a $500 power cable “really opens up the soundstage.”

You become a different person. For me, the gateway was a pair of Paradigm speakers. I heard them, and I was changed forever. The crisp detail, the effortless power… my trusty old headphones suddenly felt like a betrayal. And so it began.

Now, my house is less of a home and more of a sonic museum. It’s a landscape of horns from Klipsch, the ethereal dispersion of Mirage, the room-shaking power of Definitive Technology, and the classic warmth of Boston Acoustics. My family hears it too.  They can’t help it.

So consider this a public service announcement. Enjoy your simple, happy, affordable audio life while you can. Tap your foot to that tinny little phone speaker. Bop your head to those compressed streaming files.

But be warned: if you ever let a friend play you a track on their “good system,” that simple life is over. You will be forever haunted by the sound of what could be, doomed to chase that sonic dragon for the rest of your days.