Hey all you space-age hippies, how 'bout all this trippy Summer of Love psychedelia? Suddenly we're seeing a glut of here- today- gone- tomorrow bands trying desperately to write the next "See Emily Play" or "Tomorrow Never Knows." San Francisco's Dora Flood, however, float high and above most of these paisley- colored clouds of nouveau psychedelia, buoyed by their valiant attempt at expanding our jaded Post Grunge- era consciousness with Walk a Lightyear Mile.

Few alive today can offer true insider expertise on the essence of psychedelic rock. We here at Pitchfork are blessed with the ability to call upon certain supernatural forces inaccessible to most rock journalists. This talent gives us, of course, a decided advantage over our strictly terrestrial- plane- dwelling peers. We felt it necessary to exert our heavy influence in the spiritual realm, and conduct a communal cyber- seance with a panel of deceased practitioners and avatars of the original psychedelic sound.

With that said, please welcome back to the fold Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, Jimi Hendrix, Syd Barrett, John Lennon and Jerry Garcia.

Pitchfork: Janis, we'll start with you. What are your thoughts on the latter- day peace n' love sounds of San Francisco?

Janis Joplin: [a pronounced gulp is heard] Ahh, yeah. Southern Comfort, baybeh. So yer tellin' me n' Bobby McGee that this Dora Flood represents the sound of Frisco in 1999? Hell, friend, I'm glad I'm dead! [pukes].

Jerry Garcia: Well, as way-out, wacky and weird as the Dead's psychedelia could be, it still had its roots in simple rhythm and blues. This Dora Flood stuff? Man, [chuckles] it's kinda rootless, y'know? The guitar solos are kind of compact and aren't really meandering and excessive enough. Still makes me wanna spark up a fatty, though, and finish off these savories [chuckles]. Somebody pass the relish. Oops. I think that last chili dog went down the wrong pipe... [chokes]

Pitchfork: Hey, someone give Garcia a quickie Heimlich. Oh, hey, Syd. You're looking fit.

Syd Barrett: Ringy ding dingy, chickies! [singing softly to himself, lullaby- like] "...starry eyes and shepherd's pies... blippity bloop bloop blah...

Pitchfork: While Syd settles in, we'll ask you the next question, John. With all the blatant Beatles copycatting out there, how would you rate an overtly Beatles- esque tune like "Envy's Angel?" It's descending minor quality makes it sound kinda like "I am the Walrus," wouldn't you say?

John Lennon: [snarls] Christ, I mean, how many times can ye get away with rippin' off Magical Mystery Tour? And why would ya even want to, for that matta? How do ya sleep, ya cunts? It's bad enough that fookin' fairy Michael Jackson owns me entire legacy. But, not much I can do... 'cause as you know Mr. Pitchfork, some crazy fookin' maniac hadda go an' shoot me dead. Why me? Bastard had a clear shot at Yoko and didn't even take it. [snickers] Eh, the irony. Now back to me Brandy Alexanders... this is... numba nine... numba nine...

Jimi Hendrix: Groovy. Turn me on, dead man. Where the fuck am I? Damn, I'm a little sleepy, Captain...

David Crosby: Hi, fellas.

Pitchfork: What the hell are you doin' here, Crosby? You're not dead. We didn't contact you.

David Crosby: Well, my career's dead. Does that count? Naturally, after conquering drug addiction and alcohol, I'm as ubiquitous and attention- starved as ever.

Pitchfork: Well, what do you think of Dora Flood?

Crosby: Where are all the Rickenbacker twelve- strings, man? What about the obvious "Eight Miles High" Coltrane rip-off riffs? Also, these kids today just don't have those big, soaring Byrds harmonies, that's for sure.

Jim Morrison: Let's whip the horse's ass, and walk on down the hall! Ollie Stone's a revisionist asshole, and only ball- capped frat- boys listen to my music. I'm pissed! Yer alla buncha fuckin' idiots!! Wanna see my love muscle, baby? [sound of fly unzipping]

Barrett: Shit, Morrison. Shut yer trap, you filthy American... Christ, now I remember why I went into hibernation. [sings softly to himself] "...setting suns and hot-cross buns... knick knack paddy- wack. Sad sack."

Jimi: Man, that Morrison cat's got some nerve. You call that a dong, honky toast? My Johnson's been immortalized-- bronzed and plaster- casted, baby. More over rover, let Jimi take over... 'scuse me! [sound of fly unzipping] Dig on this, Lizard Boy.

Pitchfork: Please, guys, enough. Were here to talk about Dora Flood, okay? Now Jimi, you're considered the greatest guitarist in rock history. You're playing defined the psychedelic era. Wouldn't you say that the guitar work on Dora Flood's record has a pretty authentic acid-rock flavor to it? Sure, they indulge in the predictable backwards guitar and tape loop crap, but the real pleasure is in those sinewy, fuzzed-out leads... the elongated notes bending and writhing over the mix like that; and note all those warm, multi- layered analog textures swirling around the vocals.

Jimi: What? Fuck that shit, voodoo chile. I got guitar work fo' ya, baby. Ever heard my solo on "Wild Thing?" I play a mean version of the "Star- Spangled Banner," too. Wanna hear it?

Pitchfork: Uh, nah. That's okay. It might, um... wake the dead. Anyway. Help us out, Syd. Dora Flood's songwriting reminds me of the same kind of stuff you used to write: ultimately incoherent and meaningless, but nevertheless rife with clever wordplay and sometimes pleasurable tone- poetics. Although I don't think their bong-hit lyrical offerings like "Faceless angel halo cascading round your neck so tight/ Anticipating your arrival time spiralling down" can rival the extent of your ingenious hippy babble.

Barrett: I once new a voluptuous bird named Dora Flood. We drank incense, smoked a brandy snifter, then she tickled me pickle... [giggles]

Anyhow, dear reader, we don't seem to be getting anywhere with this useless panel of dead experts. So, here's the low down: in the end, Dora Flood probably have more in common with Elliott Smith, Luna and Spiritualized than any specific '60s influences (other than the obvious Beatles referencing). The band synthesizes and digests their influences fairly well. One thing's for certain: although Dora Flood's cosmic muse has showered few original gifts upon them, there's no doubt that the lush, lysergic strains found on Walk a Lightyear Mile will provoke jealous rage among one- dimensionally unoriginal retro bands like Oasis and Guided By Voices.

Keith Moon: Hey wankers! Moonie here. I just got us all a heavenly little hotel room in the clouds. What d'ya say? Let's trash it!

[The spirits give a collective celebratory shout. Then, silence.] Crosby: Hey, Mike. They've all split, man.

Pitchfork: Eh. This is depressing. How 'bout an O'Doul's, Dave?

-Michael Sandlin