I’m amused (but not to death). We listened to a lot of Floyd in college. Mark would turn up the heartbeat at the start of Dark Side of the Moon to show off his homemade subwoofers.
Dark Side is brilliant, in the sense that music for the headset stoners can be brilliant, but it’s also overplayed and suffers from the usual lyrical deficiencies of the genre. Say, did you know that people often turn to religion and / or worldly pursuits to dull the pain of existence, with its attendant constant intimations of mortality? S’true, man.
The target of the massively wealthy rock group’s scorn, however, seems to be men who are reasonably content in their office jobs. If there was any justice the world would have best-selling authors who took time off as a middle manager to write brilliant scathing novels about bitter stick-thin tyros who parlayed three chords and fashionable scorn into a license to get his groinal area pogo’d by interchangeable doxies while he suckled on a magnum of good champagne. Nightly.
Then again, “The Wall” asked the question that bothers us all: how can you have any pudding if you don’t eat your meat? To this day I pose the question to Gnat. She, too, has no answer.
I like Pink Floyd, but I can’t argue. (Is Jethro Tull next?)
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