I recently bought Pink Floyd: Live at Pompeii, proving that – despite my professed anti-ness – advertisements work. One of the big boxers roped me in.

The aspect of it that surprises me most reflects in the bandmates’ casualness. The first cassette I owned was Darkside of the Moon (well, it was a tie with Bat out of Hell). But, since I’m only 31, I’ve never known a Pink Floyd that isn’t an amusement park.

At one point, a bunch of cocky guys and a crapload of musical gizmos made up Pink Floyd. That era, most psych-snobs would agree, ended in my single-digit years.

But during their halcyon days, those guys took part in the making of this wonderful, imperfect film. It belies the honesty of people doing what they love. You can tell by their coolness and ego. At one point, Nick Mason predicts the group would eventually devolve into a group of relics.

Prescient, if you’re a fan of that era. I am.

The point I want to make though, lies in the complete lack of cynicism. It’s so, um, generative. Think of the difference between the Rolling Stones in 1970, and the same guys going through the motions in 2005 – as grandfathers. Or, closer to the Xer frame, imagine Nirvana in 1990 vs. the post-Cobain sell-a-thon. How about Tupac A.D.?

You get the idea. It’s American culture in 2005, and everything sinks into a dense layer of marketing after its vital shelf life.