I am of an age and a once-partying bent that made unavoidable the ubiquity of Pink Floyd on any and all occasions more than just me was partying. Syd Barrett, who died a couple of days ago at 60, had long left the band he co-founded for the wonders of his frontal lobes before Floyd's *Dark Side of the Moon* was released, and that album (along with *Pepper* and *Ziggy* and *American Beauty*) was mandatory listening any time two heads congregated and a record player was available.
I'd literally have to leave the room when Floyd came on. Badtriptriggering, Floyd was, except for *The Piper at the Gates of Dawn,* perhaps the most Barrett-centric Floyd album. I've always found it ironic that it wasn't until after Barrett zoomed into his acidworld and left Floyd that Floyd's music grew too acidic for me to take when I was, erm, susceptible. And more ironic too that now, far removed from windowpanes of opportunity, I hear things in Floyd, Barrett and post-Barrett, that I totally missed then.
UPDATE: Surely, it cannot be a coincidence that this is in the paper the same day that Barrett's death is announced. Triptacular!
This calls for