It is autumn, more less. Trees are mostly bare, darkness falls, bruising and binding me after the joy of summer. Steve is speaking as he lowers the shades.
“Some assholes I knew said the Byrds were irrelevant after Turn Turn Turn. Just electric folkies. I knew they were wrong. They released a single that set heads on fire. There was just no way this song could be about anything other than soaring over the sun. It demands to be heard in darkness. Get ready.” Lights go out.
Of course, it is “8 Miles High”. What you are hearing is the mono vinyl single, played on a high end turntable.
From the darkness, the bass enters, a runaway locomotive. McGuinn plays low notes, riding the bass. My knees vibrate. This is one of the loudest, most vicious things I ever heard. The guitar’s high notes cue the voices, in harmony–singing above bleak deserted lands and thoughts made of mercury. The guitar solo doesn’t even start when it should–percussive bursts of fire, hinting at the comet to come. The solo itself is a viscous jumble, played unbelievably fast; it seems a siren of warning. Again, high notes shatter the earthquake, cuing voices.
There is raw anger here, pushing against the calm vocal harmonies. The ending is white noise, barely controlled chaos. Chills race up and down my spine. Someone could have sliced my chest open and I wouldn’t know. Every muscle is tight. I’m being massaged by a steam roller. Ringing ears. Oh my God, this must be what being young is about.
Steve:”You okay, youngster?”
“Oh, fuck……………Steve, does sex feel like this?”
He laughs, somewhere in the darkness. “Well, I’ll let you know when I fuck. But I’ll say this: someday, you’ll play this record with a heard full of good weed, and something in your head will jump out and fly.”
Even 50+ years later, can’t argue with that.