There are two kinds of people in this world… desert people and other people. There is a harshness about the desert that is simultaneously unforgiving and humbling. In an environment too merciless for most plant and animal life, some life forms see through the rough exterior and grow to love it. Among the scorpions and lizards, people call it home for the weather, the recreation, and the camaraderie with their fellow desert person, forged from the same fire. They learn that snow blows and sunshine rules, so why go north. That space is freedom and restrictions are for suckers. That God made sand and Satan made liberals.
The desert was something of a mentor to me. As a young boy, I would dig around in my backsand (a “yard” implies grass, a gross misrepresentation) for pottery, arrowheads, and other artifacts left behind by former Native American residents. The desert taught me that people lived here long before I showed up. Later, in Spencer’s backsand, we found a Playboy, slightly buried and sun-faded, the first time I’d seen a naked woman. The desert taught me that I liked them. Not long after, I found an artifact that would change my life forever… a gift from the desert.
I was 10, playing backsand at Adam’s house when I discovered a CD carelessly discarded by some ignorant plebe. It had flames on the front, no artist name, just tracks. With the awe and care of an archaeologist on a dig, I carefully brushed it off, rushed it home, popped it into our 100-pound home stereo, plugged in the thick curly wire of the even heavier headphones, and laid down on the family room carpet to take a look inside my new treasure chest, one track at a time. Nothing. No sound. I checked the timer. It was ticking forward, but still no sound. Rats. Must be too scratched. Just my luck. But right before ejecting, I heard a faint sound, a sign of life. I turned it up.
The obscure sounds of a synthesizer pierced through the void. Two minutes in, a slow, simple guitar riff jumped in. “What is this?” I felt like I was intruding on someone’s therapeutic jam session alone in their garage. But each segment was more mesmerizing than the last. I don’t remember breathing. Laying, staring at the open-beamed ceiling, I hung on every beat with wonder, unknown instruments lighting up my temporal lobe. I had no words. Literally, there were no words, only instrumental. Approaching nine minutes of marvel and mystery, they finally came, and they blew my mind. “Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun. Shine on you crazy diamond.”
I had no idea who Roger Waters was, and much less that he was singing about Syd Barrett, the former Pink Floyd member who lost his mind. But at that moment music changed for me. Music wasn’t just songs on the radio – short segments of attention-grabbing noise put together to induce a dance, a head-bang, a lip-sync. Music was an experience. And it didn’t end. Albums, I learned, could be like movies – meant to be heard from beginning to end. No breaks. No distractions.
As I grew through middle and high school, these albums became mentors of their own. Dark Side of the Moon gave me permission to be quiet and alone with my thoughts whenever I wanted. The Wall introduced me to mental illness and musical storytelling. But it was my gift from the desert that first opened my eyes. Wish You Were Here taught me that music could make you feel.
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