Ever pour liquid LSD directly into your ears? Man, that’s one helluva trip, a strictly audio freak-out, y’understand. Time I tried it, the sounds started dripping, melting, coming apart, like curtains opening, showing me what was behind the stuff we usually take for reality; huge, gauzy, billowing clouds, phasing in and out of range, pulling me side to side like a moontide waltz. There was this tambura drone underneath the ground; a golden haze rising; some tart, stinging telecaster riding impenetrable invocations. Yeah, s’right, there was voices, too. A strange sludge of voices, all speaking in rock ‘n’ roll tongues, like they was trying to dig up Elvis—you dig?—put a crown on his head and march him down the street all Herman Munster arms and stiff legged. Here’s the thing: someone said their freedom was gone but they talked about it for so long with such a wide-eye, beautiful, monomaniac, unhinged obsession, they was proving themselves wronger and wronger the longer they talked. Ever hear death talking itself to life?
// Sound Affects
"The man whose songs were recorded by Johnny Cash, Alan Jackson, Ricky Skaggs, David Allan Coe, The Highwaymen, and countless others succumbs to time’s cruel cue that the only token of permanence we have to offer are the effects of shared moments and memories.READ the article