B.Sweet and ANIMALS

[A prequel to my DSotM essay]

We had ourselves a rousing good time between the NCO club and a grand GI blast party off base, us wing nuts. Now we were all of us recuperating in the dorms, safely back in the comforting embrace of our beloved Uncle Sam. The dorm was anything but tranquil, with several stereos playing different styles of music at different volumes and nobody seemingly interested in a lazy Sunday afternoon.

My mates, Rob and Bob had disappeared on Saturday night at the neighbouring base’s “Hog Call”: don’t sue me but that is the historic name given to the event where coach loads of single women would arrive at the gates of the base. There they would be greeted by crowds of GI’s who would gesticulate madly to get the attention of one of the ladies peering through the windows, in the hope of securing for themselves, for that evening at least, that lady’s company at the on-base disco/nightclub. Having never indulged myself at one of these events, I cannot swear that what was later reported to me to have gone on there was the truth, but I have seen the coaches arriving jammed full of women only. Where’s there’s smoke, and all.

Bob reported that Rob had had altogether more drink than was sensible and had collapsed in his dorm room where his date for the evening had taken advantage of the unconscious lad and had her wicked way with him. Her specialty, apparently, seems to have been in the realm of oral sex for which her reputation was legendary. Of course, Rob would eventually be subjected to a huge amount of ribbing and general abuse when it was broadcast who his ‘date’ had been the previous night, but luckily for him, he was still happily oblivious to any of this as he was still asleep by Sunday afternoon.

Bob had crashed in my dorm room – I’d long since driven out my previous roomy since he was a bit of a dorky Jesus-freak who for whatever reason refused to share a room with someone who owned a copy of The Satanic Bible. I only owned such a book for that very reason; to deter the visits of Jehovah’s Witnesses and other holy rollers and assorted God-botherers [Aside: apologies to said holy rollers and God-botherers]; the book itself was the biggest load of bollocks I’d ever seen, but it did the trick. Bob said that Rob and friend were still asleep in his room and he didn’t want to crash there in case she got further ideas about a second unconscious youth in the vicinity. I could well understand his misgivings.

I woke to Bob banging on my door – he’d risen and disappeared earlier without my hearing him – shouting that he had a special treat in store for me back at his room. I responded that I didn’t under any circumstances want to see Rob and friend in the same bed, awake or asleep. He calmed my fears and said that Rob was up and about and his date had departed, that the treat was one of the Pink Floyd variety. I could easily have broken a limb rushing to his room, but I made it without any injury.

I was still feeling groggy and fragile from the night before, so Bob sat me down in one of his chairs, placed stereo headphones on my head and told me to listen to his new PF album, Animals. I’d only recently discovered Pink Floyd, with DARK SIDE OF THE MOON and WISH YOU WERE HERE as my then favourite albums, so I was very excited to have the chance to hear their new album. By then, of course, Animals had been out for a year, but it was new to me.

From the first deep bass note, however, my excitement turned to intense nausea. I felt queasy every time Roger thrummed his bass and it reverberated through my head directly to my somersaulting stomach. I tried several times to get up, to dash to the latrines to spew, but Bob placed a firm hand on my shoulder and insisted I complete the hearing in one sitting. It was sweet torture indeed, wanting avidly to listen to every note, while at the same time needing desperately to lose my lunch.

I persevered and was glad that I did, since once the music had finished, tears of relief streaming down my face, I felt much better and didn’t need, after all, to woof my cookies. Bob asked if I wanted to hear the album again, but I politely declined and rushed to the latrine and parked Ralph’s Buick, called Earl, practiced the psychedelic yodel. You get the idea. I was sick as a dog. Pardon the pun.

Re-running the album over in my head as I lay on my bunk back in my room, I could remember the startling highs, the nauseating lows, the cheeky but profound poetry of Roger’s lyrics and the sublime guitar of David. Rick and Nick managed to impress as well, but I fell asleep wondering why Pink Floyd was referring to the President as a “house-proud, town mouse”, or why they were calling him “Mary.” Was this a hitherto unheard of scandal to which Pink Floyd alone was privy? Of course, I would soon discover that it was about a Mrs. Mary Whitehouse of the UK and not the US President at all. I felt like a right ninny-hammer.

Sheep was not at first my favourite track on the album, but it later took on much significance when, in London, I entered the underground at Shepherd’s Bush and saw a huge mural filling the entire wall above the escalators down into the station. The scene was a large flock of sheep grazing in a meadow. I thought what a cynical image to present to rush-hour travellers entering the Tube system there (the reality was that historically, Shepherd’s Bush had been a holding area for flocks being driven into the city for slaughter, and the mural a pictorial memorial.). Wasn’t it enough of an insult for London Transport to treat people like cattle? Did they have to add injury by reinforcing the idea in travellers’ minds with a huge sheep mural? In twenty years, I have never been back to that station. Baaa!

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Count me in on the journey, don't expect me to stay.