By July 2012, I was thirty years old and more familiar with classic rock than most of my own anatomy.

I had my family to thank for that: Due to my parents and two uncles, I had seen The Moody Blues, the Rolling Stones, and Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young a few times over before I was old enough to drive. But that July, I'd have one of the most poignant concert experiences of my life.

I had been back in America for about seventy-two hours, and still unpacking from a master's program overseas. I had no future plans, no job, no furniture. On the drive back from the airport, my father had mentioned that he had a spare ticket for Roger Waters' performance of The Wall, and asked me if I would like to come along.

It was hardly a question. My father grew up on Pink Floyd; The Dark Side of the Moon and Wish You Were Here provided the soundtrack for his undergraduate years. I grew up on them, too—my memories from my early adolescence are indelibly linked to songs from The Division Bell. I would have felt lucky to hear the show from the parking lot, never mind tickets.

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