I've probably told some version of this story before, but here's some background preceding the next chapter. Of all the music I played loud on my stereo through adolescence, Pink Floyd stuck indelibly to my mother. It permeated the walls of our small apartment until she started to ask what it was I was listening to. I thought they were the first queries of an intervention, but I noticed a genuine interest. I get why it wasn't the Sonic Youth, Ministry or Ghostface Killah, but Pink Floyd is still a Yao Ming's reach for a fairly conservative African American lady who was born in rural Georgia as the forties shut its eyes and who's drug experimentation peaked at a shared colt 45 (I more than made up for her). She's not just into Another Brick in The Wall. She owns More, Obscured by Clouds, Dark Side of the Moon, Animals, Wish You Were Here and the Wall (and apparently some live dvds). I can't really picture her listening to the abstract noise forays of Interstellar Overdrive on headphones whilst staring at a lava lamp, I don't think the Syd years fit the cravings of motherly ears, but she's into everything else. I remember going through a bad break up years back and trying to talk to her about it and it was clear that her attention was elsewhere when she rushed me off the phone and said "Pink Floyd is on pbs right now, I gotta go!" She also told me a story about some little old church ladies coming over after sunday service and my mom played Welcome to the Machine as they sat down to Gin Rummy and Peppermint candy (or whatever old ladies do after sermon) and she told me they got scared and left. That's my mom playing weird psych rock for a fleet of old black church ladies, perhaps the proudest I've ever been. Until now. My mom somehow scored one ticket to go see David Gilmour 10th row center. At 69 years old my mom is going to her first Rock N Roll concert. I wish I was there to hold her hand because when the lights go down and 10,000 people simultaneously spark up their doobies and my mom gets hotboxed and starts seeing the kaleidoscope within, she may need some explaining. I'm imagining questions like "should I taste this guitar solo? Have you ever touched magenta? Did someone just say "if you hear this voice you're dying"?" I'm half hoping my mom is wearing a tie dyed skull and roses t-shirt with some sweet blue blockers and a new carefree attitude when I see her next time. Maybe she'll stop buying me khaki pants and hoping I'll get a real job one day. That crystal ship has sailed.