This past Saturday night, my wife (and son, begrudgingly) and I watched Michael Phelps win his record eigth gold medal (in the 4x100 relay) in the Olympics. A few minutes before the competition began, NBC ran a brief piece about Mark Spitz's 1972 (then) record seven gold medals. In the short video, they showed footage of Spitz--and his mustasche.
Almost immediately, faded-Polaroid visions of shag carpet, plaid polyester pants, and chevy vans appeared before me, and Mark Spitz began to transform into 
James Taylor. 
Then, I saw fire, and I saw rain, and I began hearing '70s AM pop/rock music playing somewhere in the distance, my aural dreams weaving like golden hair right down the line back to days when my grandfather was still working as a carpenter, when I'd spend my bread at Conn's, when the sunshine always seemed to be on my shoulders.
"Andy? Andy?" my wife asked.
"Huh?" I asked her.
"What're you doing? What are you thinking about? Are you okay?" She leaned in, concerned.
"Why must you look at me that way?" I asked her.
"It's over," she said. I looked at her strangely; I didn't know what she was talking about.
"The relay--it's over. We won. American won. Phelps won his eighth! Didn't you see it?"
"Sure," I said. "Looks like it's over." I rose and left the room. I came down here to my office, turned on the computer, opened up iTunes, and caught myself listening to "Disaster." Sure, it was recorded only last year, but the opening 1:54 sound like they were created thirty-something years ago. The electric (but not distorted) guitar strummed, David Gates started singing lyrics Bernie Taupin wrote after Robert Plant slipped him a tab, and Chicago's horn section chimed in at the end of the verses. B.J. Thomas picked out a few simple chords on a mandolin (or was that a ukulele?), and Elton John's (and Carly Simon's and Harry Nilsson's) producer Paul Buckmaster brought out his string arrangement. A summer breeze blew in through the window above my computer, and I was completely transported back to my childhood, the music blowing through the jasmine in my mind.
Then...BUZZ! Startled out of my reverie at the 1:55 mark, a distorted guitar started chopping quarter notes, and then the string section went Psycho, as either Bernard Herrmann (or John Cale) must have taken over for Paul Buckmaster after they sliced him to pieces with a butcher knife. David Gates kept on singing, though, just like he did when Bread disbanded. Another voice sounded, though, chanting a warning of "Disaster/They've got disaster on their minds." A flute flew in, but I think it was running from the crazy mishmash of eras, as the early '90s alternative/noise pop band My Bloody Valentine crashed through the studio, creating havoc, and scaring the nostalgia out of everyone involved, as the hippies all left the studio. My Bloody Valentine started their victory chant, but, suddenly, from out of the dead body of B.J. Thomas came Duane Eddy, who quickly dispensed with My Bloody Valentine using his twangy tremeloed guitar. It was a frightening sight and sound. I can still hear the echoes, and I still feel the reverberations of last Saturday night.
...and the Besnard Lakes--whoever they are---do, too.
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