Wow—waving my peace-sign about halfway in, until the end. For me, that’s memories of listening to “Freedom Rock” compilations with my folks and quietly imbibing a spirit of a generation I’m not of, but spiritually felt *with*.
I don’t know if it’s corny or de trop, I just like it. Sure, it’s blatantly spacy and “significant” and pop-y and innocent and if I listen objectively, it wouldn’t be my cup of Jamaican-grown French Roast java. But memories of my parents sharing their youth (my dad listening to Steppenwolf at a base in Okinawa, my mom helping brown acid freak-outs at Woodstock—no, seriously!) with me makes me understand why my baby pictures show my mom looking spaced-out as a coot and my dad and all his friends with more hair than you could shake a stick at. They got turned on and tuned in.
But none of ‘em actually tuned out.