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Four months into my tour of duty in Iraq, I received a care package from my twin brother, James. He and I have a tense love/hate relationship. Enclosed were a variety of CD’s. Now, here I am, four months in the shit, sick and tired of the sand, the sight and smell of the dead and dying, the constant threat of death/explosions/gunfire, and a feeling of being strung the fuck out.
Ever since I was little, music was my greatest form of expression. I don’t mean singing or playing an instrument, I’m too tone-deaf for that. I mean I often express myself through what I listen to. I don’t just listen to music, I become part of it. It’s not just another form of entertainment to me.
Quick, name the first thing that pops into your head when I say The Grateful Dead. Let me guess, dirty hippies, stoners playing hacky sack, and old burnouts reliving the glory days of rock? Sure, when a band is that steeped in drug culture, all of that’s bound to come to mind. Do you know what you didn’t think of? The freaking music!