But I never told you about that time I ate mushrooms on Indian Hill. In hindsight, it probably wasn't such a bright idea, given that Indian Hill is a cemetery, and that the presence of dead people can easily turn the tide on a hallucination. But we were spirited, yet irrevocably cynical, and we had six hours to kill, as only college students do. It wasn't the first or the last time I would devour fungi for visual pleasure, but it was unquestionably the most disastrous.

I'm not going to go into too much detail because detailing a drug experience can be extremely boring for writer and reader alike. For all intents and purposes, it can be broken down into six stages. Likewise, every song from Couches and Carpets, the debut solo album from Michael Barrett, a member of the Essex Green and the Sixth Great Lake, can easily be likened to one of these stages.

Stage 1: Waiting. We've just cleared the contents of the clear plastic sandwich bag, even licking the crumbs up. Now we just sit around and listen to music and talk and act normal when people come and go. We try not to think too much about the fact that it's now irreversible-- we're in for the long haul, there's no way to stop ourselves from hallucinating, short of pulling the trigger. And are we tripping already? No, there's no way.

"Crazy" is perfect for this stage. The song isn't proceeding anywhere, nor does it purport to. The keyboards and guitar seem a little off, but it's hard to tell if it's just my head playing tricks on me. Otherwise, everything's just fine-- Jennifer Karson's vocals are extremely soothing, and the other various noises that drift by are hardly disturbing.

Stage 2: Nausea. It came at about fifteen minutes in-- at least ten minutes earlier than usual-- and was particularly strong. I thought a little water might help. It didn't. My friends were just fine. Now I was starting to get worried.

"Yesterday and Today" produces a similar feeling, specifically Barrett's awful, excessive enunciation. To make matters worse, the vocals are way too forward in the mix, so that when Barrett sings, the otherwise unobjectionable song is nearly drowned out.

Stage 3: Lightening. The nausea lifted, and things began proceeding very nicely. Now outside, various streetlights provided an indescribable warmth, their glow permanent. The earth, meanwhile, is a pillow, and I swallowed air like it was the blue gel from The Abyss.

A whole number of songs on Couches and Carpets would qualify here. The opener, "The Farm," would be one of them. The organ is high-pitched, but by no means unnerving, and Barrett's voice is particularly soothing. Plus, Stage 3 is likely to produce sentimental lines like, "What could be better than a mint green sweater and a whole house full of friends?" But only one or two of these tracks are better than your standard rainy day fare, as epitomized by the Clientele. It goes without saying, then, that this isn't up there with the Essex Green's work.

Stage 4: Tripping. Pretty self-explanatory. Time had melted away, as had any conversational tact. Things moved that were not in fact moving. The world was overgrown with bright green moss.

For comparison, one needs look no further than the psychedelic soundscapes twisting through the album's tracklist like a harmless snake. A lot of it involves whirring, tape loops and reversal, and now and then, you'll get the Piper at the Gates of Dawn-era Floyd riffs. But you must understand that Michael is by no means related to Syd. Poppier tracks such as "Marlborough Farms" also fit the bill for when excite overcomes auditory and visual hallucinations.

Stage 5: Freaking. This is when I lost it. My balance was gone, I was on the ground on all fours, heaving, and it solved nothing. I forced myself to my feet, and began walking in circles "to reassure myself of my presence in the physical world," as I later explained. I also told people it felt like my head was in a paint shaker, the way lights were vibrating before me. I wasn't lying; it hurt.

Nothing here really approaches this. There's none of the aggressive psychedelic experimentation you'd expect from, say, the Olivia Tremor Control, some of which might fit nicely with this stage. But remember, this stage isn't particularly pleasant, so it can be a good thing that nothing on Couches and Carpets matches it.

Stage 6: Coming down. The headache had worn off, time was back, and I was pretty happy to have made it out alive, as I was not so sure I would when begging for mercy on Indian Hill. We went back to the room where we started, listened to music, and came to grips with the fact that our dialogue would once again be closely monitored by ourselves and others, everyday social life being what it is.

A song like "Upstairs in My Room" is similarly awkward. Nothing is particularly off, in reality, but the context lends it a sadness and discomfort that's not easy to describe. "Listening to records as the night becomes day," whispers Barrett, in what reads like the internal monologue of a temporary insomniac. And that's what I ended up doing: listening to music and letting my mind run. But god knows, even if Couches and Carpets had existed back then, there's no way in hell I would have grabbed for it.

-Ryan Kearney