![]() As for “I Come and Stand at Every Door,” its slow folky tempo and bummerific lyrics about kids dying at Hiroshima are bad trip fodder for sure.īut before we can slowly sink into the black pit of oozing death vibes along comes “Eight Miles High,” the most far freaking out tune of them all. We then sit down to listen to “What’s Happening?” which is so much groovy confusion and par for the course for the very groovy and confused David Crosby. Spaceman! Won’t you please take us along for a ride?” But all he does is give us the alien finger. ![]() ![]() I shout, “I see an alien!” We all crowd the open window shouting, “Mr. I don’t spot any UFOs, but I do espy a homeless man in a tinfoil hat digging through a trashcan. The aliens have arrived! “Look out the window for flying saucers!” you cry. We then bliss out to “Wild Mountain Thyme,” with its strings and lovely vocal harmonies before becoming totally transfixed by the utter UFO delirium of “Mr. The opening track “FD (Fifth Dimension)” instantly transports us to a higher astral plane where giant birds of phantasmagorical plumage perform dizzying acrobatics above the pulsating crystal abodes of the perfect ones. You and I both shudder and politely refuse, and then we put the LP on. He reaches into his pocket and says, “Anybody want some delicious squirrel jerky?” Do you have any idea how quick you have to be to seize and slit the throat of your typically twitchy squirrel? It’s too horrifying to contemplate. He uses it to kill squirrels, which along with the acorns he stole from the squirrels and purloined packets of McDonald’s ketchup constitute his entire diet. Not with his long staring silences, sudden bouts of insane cackling provoked by nothing going on around him, and rather scary habit of carrying a long and wicked-looking blade in a buckskin sheath. I just bought the album, you brought the pot, and that redolent example of fetid man reek over there in the filthy poncho and crud-encrusted beard is the hippie who brought the acid, which is the only reason we invited him to our little listening party in the first place. It’s not bad so far as hippie crash pads go. Speaking of pretending, let’s play a game of make believe, shall we? The year is 1966, and we’re just removing the plastic shrink-wrap from a virgin copy of Fifth Dimension. Indeed, their 1966 LP Fifth Dimension is an acid rock landmark, and I listen to it whenever I want to pretend I’m tripping. Theirs was a bright and shining sound, filled with shimmering optimism and jingle-jangle hope, and they made the transition to the psychedelic age as well as anybody. Few bands have produced such blissful music, or music that so well fit the spirit of its time as The Byrds.
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