In 1990, I fixated on how much I hated "Silent Lucidity", the hit single by sensitive prog rock band Queensrÿche. When I really hated something in pop culture, I would delve deep to get agonizingly precise about WHY and HOW. This pathology led to a two-year obsession with Danzig. I can't hear more than a few bars of Danzig without laughing. My buddy V, who got similarly obsessed, can get us going with quoting a Danzig grunt or mumble.
"Silent Lucidity" sounds like a Pink Floyd parody. I never liked Pink Floyd. Oh, those guys are fine as people, grateful to Dave Gilmour for bringing Kate Bush into the light, Roger Waters seems a decent bloke, and so sad about Syd Barrett, but in college people got so preciousssss about Pink Floyd, often while mocking my preference for Prince. Thus, Pink Floyd, the collective entity, has earned a karmic "kiss my grits". Yes, I am all about pop culture vendettas.
BEHOLD this video. Be AWED how the lead singer dude looks into the camera, peering into YOU achingly, seeking solace, wanting to guide you in turn! LISTEN how "lucidity" is turned into five syllables, possibly seven, eight, infinite syllables extending to a fourth dimension! "As I lay next to you, in silent loo-sid-uh-tee-hee."
So, my masochistic button in '90 was pushed and I HAD to buy the cassette single (what's that? Kids, they sucked, but that's all we had after the Walkman revolution. Don't worry about it.) of "Silent Lucidity". This jihad followed my having just sold my car, my dear '65 Buick Skylark Gran Sport, red, vanity plate "DANTE" (because it took me to hell and back, har-har). I persuaded my friend V to drive to the shopping mall. He agreed, but only if we went to Dairy Queen with out friend visiting from out of town, G, to eat Blizzards afterward. This was a fateful decision.
Bought the cassette single, we ingested Blizzards (gross! why were we girlfriendless?) and I got home. With ceremony, as my friend & roommate B was out, I put the cassette into my Walkman, and sat on the toilet.
I had felt a little flushed in the head eating the Blizzard. As the music played, it was clear digestion was not going well. Song went on, discomfort churned to disgust and I was at the mercy of some satanic gumbo gurgling in my intestines that couldn't decide whether to evacuate & slither down through me to sewer pipes in a path back to hell, or wreak more horror by roiling within my mortal innards.
Composed myself enough to collapse into bed. The next morning I was running a 102 degree temperature and still had the runs. After sharing how ill I was, my roommate B did not register my ailment, and instead shared how he took exception to an obnoxious message I left for him on our answering machine (what's an answering machine? Again, kids: don't worry. You have inherited a better world). At that moment, I was not capable of interpersonal subtleties/apologies/analysis. I was fending for the integrity of soul and body, because of Queensrÿche, which had infiltrated and violated me from my very center.
So now I LOATHE the song. In fact, I didn't even listen to the song or watch the video when posting it above. PTSD has etched the whole thing, and etched it deep.
And what is up with the ümlaüt in their name? If anÿone can provide an answer I'd be grateful.