Some recordings are just plain rough.
We’ve all got a few—albums we love, but the sound? Compressed, edgy, flat. It shouldn’t be enjoyable on a good system. And yet… sometimes it is. Sometimes it shines in spite of itself.
This got me thinking about how systems reveal (or conceal) musical truth. In broad strokes, I see three levels of performance.
Level one is the polite system. It's unresolving, soft around the edges. It doesn't offend, even when you throw it something harsh. Bad recordings sound tolerable—never painful—but the flip side is, great recordings never quite take flight. Nothing irritates, but nothing inspires either.
Level two is where most of us live. It’s the sweet spot where magic happens—at least with the right material. Well-recorded music absolutely sings, with depth, life, and nuance. But the rough stuff? You wince. You reach for the volume control. The truth is there, but it can be harsh and unforgiving.
Then there’s level three—the hard one to get to. That’s the system that gets out of the way. It doesn’t sugarcoat or smooth over flaws, but it also doesn’t make them unbearable. Somehow, it lets you hear past the recording, into the performance. Into the intent. The system is honest, but not cruel. It reveals everything, yet keeps you engaged. You stop listening to the recording and start feeling the music.
That’s a special place to be. When a system reaches that level of resolution and refinement without judgment, it stops being about the gear and starts being about the artist.
And when that happens—even the rough stuff feels real.
