It was late at night, as things usually are. I was driving across Nebraska. There was a thunderstorm in the distance, directly in front of me. The land was dark and empty, but the sky was full of pink and orange flashes. I was listening to the radio, but not so much as I was listening to the violent bursts of static that accompanied the lightning. Perhaps Nebraska is used to such sights, but I come from a place where you don't have weather like this. To me, it was beautiful and frightening.

At some point, the radio suddenly fell quiet. No crackling, no late- night call-in show, nothing. The silence may have lasted for hours as I just kept driving toward the thunderclouds, watching them pulse with warm light. I only noticed it had been silent when the music began playing: soft brushed drums patting out a laid- back, but propelling groove above warm, soothing chimes. I felt the car begin to accelerate, even though I wasn't pushing any harder on the gas pedal. And then-- well, you're gonna call me crazy for this, but I swear this is what happened-- when the singing started, just as soft and smooth as the music, I felt the car slowly lift up. Off the ground.

I was surprised, sure. I was almost paralyzed, like how alien abductees always describe being "paralyzed with fear." Except I wasn't scared; it was more of a sense of calm wonderment. I tried to steer the car back onto the ground, but that didn't work, of course. The car continued its ascent, now heading directly for the thunderstorm, as the music began to grow louder. I watched in awe as the cornfields on either side of the highway fell away from me.

The music. It reminded me of Bedhead in the quiet mood and soft- spoken singing, but it was much more mellow; it was like Low, but without the moroseness and dragging tempos. It seemed almost minimalist-- a little guitar, some low- key organ, and a modest rhythm section that only made its presence known to prod the beat every once in a while. It wasn't drugged out or spaced out. It was dreamy, like how I imagined warm, lazy summer days should be.

I was driving-- flying-- into the storm now, with bolts of lightning silently crashing around me. Somehow, I felt safe, even safer than I felt on the ground. The music, it seemed, was protecting me. I soared even higher, into the clouds, with the pink and yellow and orange flashes more muted, but more frequent. I could feel the movement of the car through the clouds-- I could almost feel the clouds, illuminated softly and growing brighter, flying through a soft, cool white light, floating, hovering in a milky ether...

The next thing I remember, I was awake. The sun was just beginning to rise. I was in my car, parked in a Walgreens' parking lot in Omaha. The radio was still on, playing the final strains of the music I'd heard the night before. As the music ended, an announcer came on and intoned: "You have been listening to the new album by the American Analog Set, The Golden Band." And with that, the radio fell silent.

-Nick Mirov