So, The Beach Boys lit a fire under the lads with Pet Sounds. They stopped touring and had 600 or so hours to kill. It's not Lou Reed and the Velvets. It's far too neat for Floyd, not messy enough for the Satanic Majesty of The Stones, but, stop, look, listen. June of 1967, a fake band emerges (meta-art, how cool?) and all the lyrics are all over the back and it opens and it's got this weird cover and everyone's got their favorite and it's got "A Day in the Life" and it's a total and utter and complete fuggedaboudit. (Floyd, who were recording Piper just down the hall, came in on the second take of "Getting Better." Yes, things were getting better.
Then Syd met John.
A couple of weeks later the Beatles caught Floyd's fourteen-hour gig -- they were still touring. (Maybe the torch was passed.) But getting back to the matter at hand. June 1, 1967 -- peel back the years by four -- that just takes us to 2003 kiddies -- and put on an album, any album, from top of the pops to Stockhausen -- there was never a bigger change in culture in such a short space of time.
The emergence of bop took a good seven to ten years, Shakespeare had an anno mirabulus in 1599, but he'd been woodshedding his craft for a while, and had knocked Comedy of Errors out first at bat. No, think of those four years.
Trini Lopez to Mr. Kite.
Einstein would have been impressed.
Give it another listen.
'Til next time...