On the way to Voodoofest:
On the way back:
After finishing Richard Meltzer's The Aesthetics of Rock in a blitz this week, I had a head full of boogie transcendentalism and Heraclitus playing hack-sack with Chuck Berry that needed to see itself through so I could be made free. Plus, I was headed to a goddamn rock festival, and arch hippie jams are the lingua franca of that experience. Yes' "Roundabout" has been on my phone and in my head for about two months now, so I replaced Fragile with its more cerebral sibling Close to the Edge born a scandalous nine months later in 1972, which cut through ninety minutes of I-10 like Exclaibur through warm butter. Moby Grape hardly registered except that it was a perfect bugaloo for circling City Park looking for the obscured entrance to press parking.
After having my circuits blown by the Butthole Surfers, I was relieved to have put the soothing balm of The Byrds on my phone, yet, almost as if BS had stretched back and forth through time, even though the influence runs the other directions, The Notorious Byrds Brothers is Byrds corrupted, jangly bliss that creeps to the edge and pulls itself over and you with it. And I was dismayed around the LaPlace exits that I had not grabbed Love's Forever Changes like I thought, but Calexico will always do in a Love pinch.
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