“It’s mono.”
“It’s not mon…” I stop. I think about it. “You’re right, it’s mono,” I mumble, “well that’s a gyp.”
“It sounds pretty good though,” says Steve.
“I guess. But you don’t get that left-right swirling stuff like with Hendrix.”
Her hair of floating sky is shimmering, glimmering, in the sun.
As side two finishes with the soft, heart-melting Julia, we both take in the idea of a new record in mono. Is it less than? I am uneasy. I paid ten dollars and got mono. I pull the disc off the Thorens and look for the hundredth time at the label, the crisp sliced apple, hoping it says stereo and I just missed it before. It doesn’t. It’s mono, the sound that goes right to the center of your head and stays there, but I am driven to deny it. Oh well. Ten dollars for a good record is OK, mono or not. Still it takes it down a peg for me, and I have to admit I feel a little burned
