It's a rainy, cold, miserable day in Northern California. Pink Floyd's Dark Side of the Moon was made for days like this.
Put on your kick-ass headphones. Turn the bass up. Way up. Adjust the volume just below eardrum shatter. The kids are in school and your annoying errands are done, and you can kick back and let the wave wash over you and carry you out to sea. The music penetrates your brain, resulting in a soul-cleansing multi-orgasmic tonal fuck. Those amazing guitar riffs vibrating every cell, massaging you from the insides out.
Well, at least that's how it feels to me. I always experience music on a very deep level.
I've never listened Dark Side of the Moon while I was high, although I'm told that is the classic Floyd experience. Maybe one day I'll try it. If I ever get high again, which is doubtful. I never smoked pot when I was a teenager. I was a late bloomer. Remind me later to tell you what a boring goody-goody I used to be.
This album used to scare me; depress me. Those lyrics about being shorter of breath and one day closer to death -- when you're 14, that's heavy shit. But it doesn't really phase me anymore, because now I'm 30 years older and I've dug my share of holes. And I've seen the dark side of the moon. I decided long ago not to live there.
But every so often I enjoy a brief visit. Especially on bleek days like this, when I'm PMS and it's cold and I'm in a pissy mood. Thank you, Roger Waters and David Gilmore; thank you for sharing your softly spoken magic spell.
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