New York City, baby.

Tuesday, March 23, 2004

Blubox loves that...

The first seven and a half minutes of Shine On You Crazy Diamond is instrumental.

In possession of such an undeniably great hook, we wonder if Pink Floyd had been tempted to craft its ode to ex-frontman Syd Barrett into a radio friendly hit.

It doesn't matter if they opened the song with a haunting Saturunian instrumental out of principle, bravado, or a declaration of autonomy, we're glad they gave the full moon to the potential seducement.

It's rare nowadays to enter a rock song in this way -- slowly, gently, like entering through a long dark tunnel. The words don't begin until you have passed fully into the unknown world.

Relaxing music used to play at the theater while you waited for the movie to begin. At least that's the way it was at the Jax Jr. Cinema. And a curtain would open just as the opening image flashed on the screen, another signal to the mind that it was leaving home.

What do we get before the movie now? Commercials. We go from noisy images to noisy images, and no longer does a curtain open. Lost is that time for adjustment, those first steps into the tunnel, that unmistakable sign that the moment has come to leave where you are and go somewhere else.

Living in New York, this time of adjustment -- when we leave our world and enter into another -- often feels non-existent, or if it does exist than overlooked. And yet the quiet anteroom between journeys, between thoughts, between activities -- they feel even more necessary.

But in the non-stop environment of the city, escaping the shackles of our inaccurately understood life and gliding into an existence that is normally unseen can feel impossible.

Then again, maybe we just need a seven and a half minute intro to everything we do.


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