I’ve had the oddest craving—I’ve been craving a wall of sound. And that sound is guitars. None of that Kumbaya campfire singer/songwriter stuff; electric guitars, many of them, wielded by musicians who don’t give a f*&k. I want attitude. I want a guitar that’s played *at* me.

I want the Gallagher brothers, boys who would just as soon kick the stuffing out of one another as bombard me with subtle, mind-altering symphonic harmonies using electricity and strings. And make it loud. I want, just for now, to be swimming in Oasis like it was the nineties.

I want the decibel level at the Commodore Ballroom to push the hair back from my face. It could be Lush, or Curve, or Garbage, or even (in spite of Billy Corgan’s douchebaggery) The Smashing Pumpkins. If Butch Vig or Alan Moulder touched the dials, I probably want to hear it right now. Loud. There are lots of bands who can give good guitar but these… they’re the ones that are really strumming my special happy parts right now.

So don’t ask me how this all relates to the loss of David Bowie, and now Prince, but I’m pretty sure it does. Maybe this is how I need to grieve, finally, drenched in a wall of guitars. Tinnitus be damned. Life is short.