[Translator’s note: The following was written, in russian, on several carefully folded napkins. It was discovered in Berlin after the wall came down.] 

“I’m stoned: At least five hours baked. Brownies are on the stove, coffee’s almost done. Oh my god the first track just broke wide open! Ambient fog shattered by guitar, vox and drums . 

Okay I just danced my way through I Am The Sea’s massive climax, brownie in hand. I just time traveled across the first side and I think I’ve landed somewhere near the end of The punk meets the Godfather, weird but good Who. Gonna have another brownie.

Okay, have no idea about what’s going on with the music. This record is all over the place— I’m SUPER-happy-good-time-placing it, I am a dolphin on waves of time.

Suddenly noticing a strange coincidence between the BBC’s television series: Doctor Who & The Who the band. It’s fleeting so I’ll trod there later.

Wow: First side over. Must stop writing, stand up and move to flip record. Stop writing, the silence is deafening. I can hear the pain in my organs.

And I’m up and crossing to the record player. It’s 05:32 and I’m playing the conga drum in the corner, to hell with the neighbor.

The Who sounds adamant and “hurried”. Are you too busy for me? Okay, this is the “style”. What the hell? Wait, its o.k. I’m stoned.

Check & Roger Out.  

These lyrics are crazy-loco. Singing about “raping” and “breaking” all aggressive-like. Now its very nineteen eighty’s synth-sweet happy. I think the drummer’s bored with a tired calf, probably not since it’s The Moon.

The Moon doesn’t get tired ‘cause he hits everything!

Am still considering potential conspiracy theory: “Dr. Who is The Who” or “Dr. Who treats The Who” (poorly, goodly, naughty, whatever you prefer).

[Translator’s note: While working on this translation I discovered the existence of another world: Amshtilcon. It exists at the beginning of the previous paragraph and, from all the intel gathered thus far, appears to be a peaceful, "dream-come-true", friendly kind of place. You should venture there soon.]

And The Who go wild! Cymbals and toms everywhere, think French-Algerian military big band does a gypsy-prostitute. 

Music. Sound. It’s incredible: It teaches without wounding. It’s a vortex; I’ll be smashed to nothing on the sides of its storm. At its center I’ll perish then be revived by majestic piano at the end.

Minutes later: The overhead neighbor is awake. The Giant Soul-Suck pounds her way from bed to refrigerator. Where else would she keep the emergency 05:51 pudding pops?

End! Triumphant end! Side two is extinguished by a silent roar.

En route to swap record.

Side three is spinning. Piano hits hard somewhere around middle ‘C’: The Who sing “Why should I care?”.

Queue guitar, drums hit, queue horns.

Sex, it is absolute sex, good job The Who.

Seriously, well done, mission accomplished, kudos.

[Translator’s note: Have in front of me now: One perfect cup of coffee.]

Neighbor strangely quiet, maybe The Giant Soul-Suck has choked on a lasagna. Day light is sifting its early morning rays through our windows. The Who is rocking and I am no less stoned. Also, suddenly contemplating Top Pot coffee/donut combo.

Okay, The Who can’t not rock.

Last epic rock song ends, next one hits right back like a cracked-out bear looking for boy-ass in Bangkok.

(Whoa, almost censored myself! Glad I didn’t.)

The Who sing, “Thank God I ain’t old. Wonder about that world over there, out there.”

Damn it: The neighbor just rolled across the ceiling. How else should I describe it? Think extra moist Jabba-da-hut on a dusty incline.

Flesh everywhere, not good.

And here come The who again with their “rock” all up in my face.

Wow, amazing boogers right now, talk about moist - It's SUPER!

SUPER-MUCUS!: He's not a superhero you want left alone with your hot girlfriend. Also, he’s probably euro-trash, so you know you don’t want to go where he’s been.

And The Who is screaming: “Crazy days!”

Its occurred to me that at this point I’ve “reused” or “recycled” a few phrases or “isms”. Um, what can I say? Probably by the time you read this I’ll have sobered up, revised, rewritten and then typed all that was not perfect or intended.

[Translator’s note: Just poured another cup of what is expected to be: One perfect cup of coffee. Sip. Sip. Sigh. Whisper: It so is.]

Apparently The Who really partied in 1963, whole damn song is about it. Wait, a little bit of Spoken Word going on there, I love it! Spoken Word is great. It’s so effective in its delivery.

Flipping the record: Back of my throat is a bit scorched from that last rip. Waters gone. More water or perhaps grapefruit juice?

Contemplating splashing vodka in that grapefruit juice. Bottle of Stolichnya in the freezer  .  .  .  I could pretend I’m Russian Comrade Man, living in authentic Soviet Era Moscow tenement and dreaming of Western decadence.

Question: Can a peoples way of life shit on you?

Answer: Good thing The Who are here to walk me through all this.

I think this flat is haunted. Been meaning to discuss this .  .  . always seems to fade from memory. Which leads me to believe something is really going on here.

I hear noises - strange things that come from the ceiling corner. These aren’t like The Giant Soul-Suck sounds, these are odd and vaguely mechanical-esque.

Wait, forgot about the juice. Lame: Experiencing heartburn in my throat.

The Who rocking about “some queer”, horns all over the place. “Is it in my head or in my heart?” What a question. How many eyes just rolled round with annoyed exasperation?

I’m a sucker for it. IT: The important questions concerning real things & real problems.

Oh, yeah! Very Cool song. Super-dirty, lots of heavy drums (of course) and something else .  .  . darkness, yes it’s very dark.

The resolution here, no matter the outcome, will be celebrated on the storm swept cliffs of a north Atlantic coastline, it’s beaches scoured by a night’s winter gale.

They mean business now: Right now The Who will kill you where you stand. Right now The Who is going to fucking kill me.

OH MY GOD THE WHO IS GOING TO KILL ME .  .  .

Breath, sip juice and pretend you’re a street fighter trained in the subtle art of ass-whoopery and deja-I-will-kill-you-dead.

[Translator’s note: I am sipping black coffee, no sugars. And it is still very tasty, however, this delicious cup of java has necessitated the administration of several Imodium tablets (psst...it gave me the shits). So on a scale of one to whatever I like: Minus ten points.]

And there it is, the end of the record, the end of the album.

Well, my chair is still squeaky, my heart still burns my throat and while I’m no longer loaded I’m certainly not driving to Top Pot, they’re a half-block-round-the-corner.

The Who. Goddamn you ROCK.

Buy the album: Quandrophenia on vinyl, MCA Records 1973. Its superfine work from some serious folks, you NEED this album in your life.

That’s it, I’m out. I’m gonna log-in or out of something and go warm the body in my bed.

Twenty to seven on a Wednesday A.M.: You’re beautiful. I love you. Goodnight.