I’m at Cafe Vita right now finishing up next week’s features and getting totally weirded out by Pink Floyd’s Umma Gumma.

Funny story: I was in Israel for a study abroad program the year after I graduated high school. A couple friends and I went on a camping trip in the Judaean Hills outside Jerusalem—just the four of us, a few bottles of wine, a package of kosher hot dogs, and a thumb-size lump of Moroccan hash.

After night fell, we sat around the campfire, feasting on scorched weenies, guzzling cheap wine, and huffing hash from a homemade hookah (two-liter bottle, tin foil, pen tubes, plastic hose). Jackals roamed the darkness; feral howls echoed off the rocky hillsides all around us. We were drunk and stoned and totally freaked out until the animal noises finally faded away. After too much wine and hash I crawled into my sleeping bag with my headphones on, drifting off into an intoxicated half-sleep to Umma Gumma.

There’s a part in “Careful With That Axe, Eugene” where, after several minutes of early-Floydian psychedelic massage, all subtle undercurrents and gentle ebbs and flows, a maniac scream crashes through like a shrill, psychotic animal cry.

That scream cut in right as I was drifting off to sleep: “Yeeeeeeaaaaaaaaahhhhhrrrrg!”

I jolted bolt upright, my heart galloping, brain reeling from stoned to sober in a blink. Our camp was being raided by rabid jackals or killer owls, screaming their scream, making their move. I peered into the darkness, prepared to be mauled by Israeli wilderness beasts, but nothing happened except the fadeout of “Careful With That Axe, Eugene.” It slowly dawned on me that I had been Floyded.

I clambered out of my sleeping bag, stumbled over to the bushes, nervously puked out a gutful of half-cooked hot dogs, and went back to sleep with the Walkman off.