I still believe. When I was a kid, classic rock was a fantasyland populated by the impossibly cool and occasionally wise, where revelatory feats of daring and moxie were perpetuated in smoky concert halls and expensive recording studios by damaged geniuses and noble fools. Inside every album lay mystery, danger, sex, laughs, and maybe a good tip or two on how to live. It was a seductive place that I never wanted to leave, even after I grew up. And, I guess, I never did.
