I live in a small rural town about a ten-minute drive to the supermarket. I never anguish over having to leave the house suddenly to run an errand, as it provides an opportunity to crank the car stereo. It seems the older you get, the chances to quietly sit for a short while listening to music become fewer. I take full advantage of these openings when they present themselves.

I made a pot of coffee, and went to the living room. I sat cross-legged in front of my CD bookcase, which holds around 500 CD's of a variety of music. Most are progressive rock, my genre of choice. Normally it doesn't take a great deal of effort to find something I want to hear. I'll take a moment to survey the inventory and before long a definitive spark tickles my musical imagination about a particular moment from one of them, and I've made my decision. Whether it's the majestic organ at the end of "Face" from Daevid Allen and Kramer's Hit Men, or the sudden emergence of drums during the pulsating grind of Faust's "Krautrock", or Patrick Moraz and Ray Gomez's wild but faintly muted solo interplay in "Indoors" on The Story of I album, something inevitably hits me.

Lately though, I've been sluggish. Recent selecting has been arduous at best. It's as if nothing I see appeals to me, when I know damn well I only need to grab anything, put it in the player, and it will sound great. But getting to that point is a comedy show. On this occasion, as I try to leave the house so my wife and I can have a meal, I'm stupefied. My eyes examine rows of plastic cases, unable to find a disc generating that "definitive spark."

I decide to let fate choose the music. Closing my eyes, I randomly select a CD, telling myself this will be final. Unless of course I pick a Dixie Chicks record or something similar, which is Susan's music. Not that there's anything wrong with the Dixie Chicks, who are very good, but not my cup of tea. I need to really get this over with. As the answer to my angst rests in my hand I thank fate for choosing wisely, but deep down I know I'm deluding myself. I can't possibly choose music this way. One of these babies has to speak to me.

I put the disc back in its slot without looking at it, open my eyes and sigh. I can feel the frustration crawling on my skin as I sit on the carpet. Carpet. Crawling? What about The Lamb? Nah, heard it last week. For some reason I have inexplicable musical urges that must be attended to this morning or there might be trouble. I'm a progprick. These desires won't be met with a haphazard selection. I have about 20 minutes to fill, and I must choose wisely. Hopefully before Susan wakes up and smells the coffee.

Let's see, twenty minutes. Ten to the store and ten back. A traditional prog epic would fit nicely. Close To The Edge, perhaps? Supper's Ready? Thick As A Brick? No, no, no. I realize the epic won't do because of the time of each drive in comparison to the length of the typical epic. If I wanted to interrupt the play of a song I would have kept my eight-track player.

Maybe I'm feeling a bit complex and some real elaborate time signature riffing and killer harmonic distortion are what I crave. I go to Zappa and Overnight Sensation. I look the CD over proudly, and frown. I'm really not feeling very humorous this morning. Back goes Frank.

I detect a cramp in my upper thigh. I get off my butt and kneel. Kneel. Kneeling At The Shrine. How about Sunday All Over The World? Nope. Not the right kind of energy, or complexity. Okay. How about 5uu's Hunger's Teeth? That's a little too complicated. I give serious thought to closing my eyes again and yanking one out of there, but I can't bring myself to end it that way.

Now I'm developing a kink in my neck from holding it sideways for so long. It's brutal pushing 50. I straighten it for a second and gently swivel it from side to side. It'll be fine. I'm ready to go back in.

You know, maybe I'm not in such a complex mood after all.

I come back to Ozric Tentacles, a band I noticed earlier but passed on because I thought they weren't "complex" enough. This time, I detect a little fire burning inside as I hold Arborescence in my hands. My mind instantly time-travels to 1994 when I saw them perform at the Whiskey on Sunset Strip. The show remains in my mind as one frenetic, unbridled scorcher. I'm not sure if it was their first time in the states but they certainly were there to make a point.

One of the strongest images from my concert-going career came from that show. John Egan, the flautist and front man of sorts, stood at the drum set staring into the crowd like a possessed snake charmer. He wasn't playing his instrument, just observing. The band moved into this incredible jam with amazing speed, precision and volume as Ed Wynne burned the strings at both ends. There was enough energy wedged in the hall to light up Manhattan. At the height of Wynne's solo, Egan trotted to the very edge of the stage, got into a squat, and with a wide devious grin looked adoringly at the mob below. He turned his head slightly and combined an enthusiastic thumbs-up with an exaggerated wink.

Rather than coming off as a nerdy act, it ended up giving even more power to the proceedings. I remember being loaded with so much energy (insert joke here) I laughed. I needed a release, and laughter was it. But that moment was by no means a laughing matter. It was sheer intensity.

Too bad the Ozrics don't use a vocalist; it would have solved my immediate predicament. I discovered that for my drive a singer had to be part of the equation. A renewed sense of hope emerged. I was getting close.

Just as quickly, almost cruelly, I found myself searching as blindly as I had before the Ozric impressions. Nothing grabbed me. I stood, helpless, ready to call off the hunt and drive in silence. At this point silence sure sounded better than anything coming out of my speakers. Then it appeared. Actually, the word 'animal' caught my eye. Lou Reed's Rock And Roll Animal to be exact. I removed it from the bookcase knowing I had found it. What I found was that I just wanted to rock. "White Light, White Heat" in particular, was what I required this rainy morning. Ah yes, Hunter and Wagner, the dynamic duo. The guitar soloing in that song are enough to shake the cobwebs from any sluggish mind. Yeah, I know, it's only rock and roll. But I like it.

About the Author:
Mik Dietlin was born and raised in Torrance, California, about 20 miles south of Los Angeles. He moved to central Virginia in 2001 with his wife to escape big city life. He earns money by drivingvtrucks, but his real work is writing. He's currently working on a novel. Please feel free to send feedback to Mik at msdietlin@adelphia.net.