RIP to Doug Ingle, singer and organist on Iron Butterfly’s epic (or insufferable — and for my money these are not mutually exclusive) “In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida,” a song that for many young adventurers, like myself, was a gateway from Pop to Pink Floyd — and further aural psychedelia. I, of course, acquired this album, either 20 years too late or just at the right time (again, not a mutually exclusive proposition for the right kind of kid in the throes of musical obsessions). Guys like us listened to songs like this, on repeat, staring simply at the album cover because there were no other options. (NYT obit here.)
You want some of this? Of course you do!
Funny story: one of the worst fights Pops and I ever almost got in was not due to alcohol, drugs, or a pregnant cheerleader, but whether or not we could (should) listen to the unedited 18 minute version of “In-A- Gadda-Da-Vida.” Yet another very long road trip to Boston and the fifteen year old me voted yes. Let me explain: this was the summer of either ’85 or ’86 and I was already long past the point where I took music a bit too seriously; as such, and not old enough to drive, I was in charge of change for tolls and music. At his request, I brought along one of my mixtapes (a long lost art I could have done graduate work in or made a career out of, had the world ever been kind enough to offer graduate degrees or paychecks for such consequential and benificent endeavors).
Anyway, that song came on and about half-way through Pops– because he was sane– grew tired of the interminable organ and drum noodling, and since (although he is a seismologist, has a profoundly anti-technology acumen) he could not figure out how to fast forward the tape (you know, that fast forward button) he told me to move things along. Indignant, I invited him to do it himself. Hilarity did not ensue, and certainly not one of my finer moments, but it was a matter of principle, damn it. And, considering I really did like that song at one time, and had not done any drugs, this proves two things: one need not be stoned, only a not fully baked (get it?) work-in-pgoress, to find pleasure in Iron Butterfly; and I was, clearly, already pretty far down the rabbit hole in terms of the whole music thing.
(btw, for the haters, this song could be seen simply as a delivery device for the intense & wonderful climax of Michael Mann’s sadly under appreciated masterpiece Manhunter — see below, with spoiler alert warning sounded.)
