Is Pink Floyd best listened to while alone in your room, stoned off your face?

[ItsQuickerAntiClockwise]

There's nothing more mainstream than Pink Floyd.

Ouch!! Talk about a slight on Dave Gilmour.

Ok sunshine, lets hear your record collection.

[Troll]

Ouch!! Talk about a slight on Dave Gilmour.

Tis true - even the kids are into Pink Floyd

[MaryPoppins]

There's nothing more mainstream than Pink Floyd.

WHS. Middle class durge.

[norrahe]

WHS. Middle class durge.

Hmmm, thought that way till 5 years ago have started to enjoy a bit of Floyd now and again.

[administrator]

Atom Heart Mother, Dark Side of the Moon and Wish You Were Here. Quality.

No need to be stoned or alone in your room to appreciate IMO.

[NickFitz]

Late in the evening of June 19th 1988, some guy I'd hitched a lift from dropped me off at the junction of the A34 and the A303. I put on my rucksack and made my way around the sliproads on to the A303, put Dark Side of the Moon on my (not-actually-a-)Walkman, and started walking west with my thumb out.

I ended up listening to the whole album, for I didn't get a lift in the time it took to trudge to the services a couple of miles down the road. I was dog-tired by then (I'd been hitching since early afternoon, and Eighties tents and rucksacks were much heavier than modern ones) and went into the Little Chef for coffee. Upon leaving I saw some New Age Travellers filling up a blue ex-ambulance at the petrol station and, going over, I was able to blag a lift to the site where the Wiltshire Constabulary had everybody bottled up.

It was a strange ride: they insisted on driving the wrong way up the A303, despite my attempts to correct them, until we were halfway to Basingstoke, whereupon they simply did a u-turn over the central reservation (no barrier in those days); and there was a young black man from London who was clearly psychotic (whether by nature, nurture, or a combination of drink and drugs) and occasionally stared at me before loudly demanding "Who is this man? Who's responsible for him?" to which I would respond by smiling and saying "I'm just trying to get where we're all going" in what I hoped was a reassuring yet confident tone. As we approached the Hampshire-Wiltshire border we could see the police roadblock - well, more of a checkpoint at the roundabout. The driver boldly declared "**** 'em, if we drive straight through they'll never catch us before we get on site," which showed a certain zeal; personally I always found being polite to the Police worked better in the long run, but there wasn't anything I could do, so I hung on for the ride.

As it turned out, the Police were happy for us to just drive through, and the proper roadblock at the entrance to the site - a backwater of the old A303 left behind when the road people dualled it through the beanfield of infamy - just waved us through.

By that time, it must have been a little after midnight on June 20th. I found a spec somewhere down the road to pitch my tent (the verges were wider then - you can see that the hedge is comparatively young) and, over the next forty-eight hours or so, had quite an interesting time involving a bunch of police officers, a banana from the Jesus Army, Stonehenge, a beautiful Summer Solstice sunrise, a riot, flight from Wiltshire with a group of people including a driver who had shortened arms because of Thalidomide (epic win at roadblocks - it totally did their heads in when he rested a quarter of an arm with two and a half digits on the car's window frame and said "Can I help you, officer?"), a visit to Tufnell Park, and finally being one of about twenty people hitching at the start of the M1 who got picked up as a job lot by a coach driver heading up to Leeds with an empty vessel.

Now, whenever I listen to Dark Side of the Moon, I remember trudging up the A303's verge in the dark, carrying a heavy pack with my thumb out. It was the early stages of a long, strange journey; but that album is about the long, strange journey that is life, and it seems to me fitting that I can tie it so closely to an experience analogous in its unpredictability to my longer, stranger journey of which that experience was just a part.

So, to answer the original question: No. However, the circumstances under which Pink Floyd is better listened to are not something that can be told to you. They are something that will happen to you, and you will recognise them later.

[MarillionFan]

Nick. Are you on drugs?

[administrator]

Late in the evening of June 19th 1988, some guy I'd hitched a lift from dropped me off at the junction of the A34 and the A303. I put on my rucksack and made my way around the sliproads on to the A303, put Dark Side of the Moon on my (not-actually-a-)Walkman, and started walking west with my thumb out.

Too long to quote it all...

Wicked

My stories of the DSotM are nothing compared to that but totally understand what NF is saying. The album is about the journey. Listening to it brings back memories of me being 15 or so when I first listened to it and the following 2 or 3. Strange times. But just a snippit of the music brings all of the feelings and memories of that time coming back. Thanks for the tale Nick

[MarillionFan]

Wicked

My stories of the DSotM are nothing compared to that but totally understand what NF is saying. The album is about the journey. Listening to it brings back memories of me being 15 or so when I first listened to it and the following 2 or 3. Strange times. But just a snippit of the music brings all of the feelings and memories of that time coming back. Thanks for the tale Nick

I think we may have found the dealer.

[Troll]

Late in the evening of June 19th 1988, some guy I'd hitched a lift from dropped me off at the junction of the A34 and the A303. I put on my rucksack and made my way around the sliproads on to the A303, put Dark Side of the Moon on my (not-actually-a-)Walkman, and started walking west with my thumb out.

I ended up listening to the whole album, for I didn't get a lift in the time it took to trudge to the services a couple of miles down the road. I was dog-tired by then (I'd been hitching since early afternoon, and Eighties tents and rucksacks were much heavier than modern ones) and went into the Little Chef for coffee. Upon leaving I saw some New Age Travellers filling up a blue ex-ambulance at the petrol station and, going over, I was able to blag a lift to the site where the Wiltshire Constabulary had everybody bottled up.

It was a strange ride: they insisted on driving the wrong way up the A303, despite my attempts to correct them, until we were halfway to Basingstoke, whereupon they simply did a u-turn over the central reservation (no barrier in those days); and there was a young black man from London who was clearly psychotic (whether by nature, nurture, or a combination of drink and drugs) and occasionally stared at me before loudly demanding "Who is this man? Who's responsible for him?" to which I would respond by smiling and saying "I'm just trying to get where we're all going" in what I hoped was a reassuring yet confident tone. As we approached the Hampshire-Wiltshire border we could see the police roadblock - well, more of a checkpoint at the roundabout. The driver boldly declared "**** 'em, if we drive straight through they'll never catch us before we get on site," which showed a certain zeal; personally I always found being polite to the Police worked better in the long run, but there wasn't anything I could do, so I hung on for the ride.

As it turned out, the Police were happy for us to just drive through, and the proper roadblock at the entrance to the site - a backwater of the old A303 left behind when the road people dualled it through the beanfield of infamy - just waved us through.

By that time, it must have been a little after midnight on June 20th. I found a spec somewhere down the road to pitch my tent (the verges were wider then - you can see that the hedge is comparatively young) and, over the next forty-eight hours or so, had quite an interesting time involving a bunch of police officers, a banana from the Jesus Army, Stonehenge, a beautiful Summer Solstice sunrise, a riot, flight from Wiltshire with a group of people including a driver who had shortened arms because of Thalidomide (epic win at roadblocks - it totally did their heads in when he rested a quarter of an arm with two and a half digits on the car's window frame and said "Can I help you, officer?"), a visit to Tufnell Park, and finally being one of about twenty people hitching at the start of the M1 who got picked up as a job lot by a coach driver heading up to Leeds with an empty vessel.

Now, whenever I listen to Dark Side of the Moon, I remember trudging up the A303's verge in the dark, carrying a heavy pack with my thumb out. It was the early stages of a long, strange journey; but that album is about the long, strange journey that is life, and it seems to me fitting that I can tie it so closely to an experience analogous in its unpredictability to my longer, stranger journey of which that experience was just a part.

So, to answer the original question: No. However, the circumstances under which Pink Floyd is better listened to are not something that can be told to you. They are something that will happen to you, and you will recognise them later.

Bloody hippies!