The Many Faces of Greydon Clark

Now that I’m a gentleman of a certain age, my youth is being recycled and repackaged for me on a daily basis.  Granted, it isn’t all bad.  I’ve enjoyed watching the old band get back together, shake off the cobwebs, and show the balding paunchy kids how it is done, son.  Still, it is a little depressing to watch your summer fill up with reunion tours.  Yeah, I’m excited that Sleep’s Dopesmoker is getting a proper release and the band is touring, but that record was recorded TWENTY FUCKING YEARS AGO.  Wouldn’t my time be better spent exploring the vast expanse of the contemporary psychedelic landscape?    

I remember laughing at the old farts lining up the Pine Knob Pavilion to see The J. Geils Band. I felt genuinely bad for them as they recounted The Glory Days™.  You know, when Geils played Pine Knob for a week straight in ’82.  Up next, the tale of drinking two quarts of Michelob in the parking lot and rolling down the hill—but waking up to Magic Dick’s 15 minute harmonica solo.

But am I any better than the toothless rockers recounting the golden daze of yesteryear?  Does riding a bike to see my aging heroes put me on a higher rung than the guy driving like an asshole up I-75 in his Monte Carlo?