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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.
Have you ever been to a truly amazing concert and afterwards had trouble telling people why it was so amazing? The specific details fall away leaving only your adrenaline and your emotions. That’s why everyone wants pictures, to remember what happened. Most of the concerts I’ve ever been to have been fun—really, I can’t complain about any of them. I just have never danced as hard as I did on May 7th.
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!