Delivered by the smoothest, molasses-lined pipes the Master ever stitched inside a mortal man, the message defines our very existence here on this dwindling spec of cosmic debris. We must travel together, astral partners in rhyme, dime and crime, and hopefully cross energy fields out there somewhere allowing for some truly sweet music. This is why I'm telling everyone I know to see Across the Universe, anyone with a musical heart. It's more than just a psychedelic re-imagining of the most-high fabulous four. The film doesn't give a fuck about what anyone thinks. It only cares about what the audience feels.

There are moments so perfectly, sublimely, Technicolor psychedelic, I damn near got cotton mouth from the awe gaak jaw. Bono's cameo as the merry prankster bus driving professor Feelgood, Dr. Robert, is so far off the manuscript page, you, too, will be knocked off kilter until those Irish pipes launch into the anthem of all bong load anthems, "I am the Walrus." I cannot help but imagine that even the irascible Lennon would have enjoyed the whacked-out interpretation of his magical, mystery masterwork.

We good people all know the Spock-like illogic of war. But we're human and not yet fully evolved so we keep killing. For honor, money, power, land God…don't matter. It is never and will never be right. And to drive that truth home as we world wide web our way into the End Times, we're getting new interpretations, flashing billboards, showing us our mistakes in the brightest bright. Across the Universe dares to dream that the opposite is possible. That all we really do need is love.

With that archetype message in mind, segue to the Met Theater in Hollywood, hosting the 40th anniversary production of Hair. I was re-introduced to the'60s, follicle fairy tale by my friend, Sara "Songbird" Mann, a member of the enchanting cast. I loved Hair as a kid; used to spin the vinyl with the regularity of a Beatles disc. I didn't see the original L.A. run at the Aquarius Theater, a bit too young for such sophisticated fare. But boy did I know the songs: "Age of Aquarius," "Good Morning, Star Shine," "Easy to be Hard," "Manchester, England," and of course, that generation's hippie hymn, "Let the Sun Shine." Four decades hence, we have a new war, and as relevant and beautiful the tunes from Hair still are, the decent-of-man song remains sadly the same. This weird, wonderful counter culture masterpiece is a microcosm of what's taking place across the Universe of our pop culture as artists unite worldwide on stages and pages, emerging from their cages to illuminate the endless error of our ways. The cast of Hair prays, dances ands sings for our very survival.

Henry Miller postulated that when man finally reached the brink of self-destruction (like, uh, now); the artists (certainly not the politicians) would be the ones to shine the light, illuminate the truth, and save all our asses. Which brings us to the gentle, remarkable, and oh so bright, Conor Oberst. Two tickets fall in my lap for the recent Bright Eyes Hollywood Bowl performance where the underground yet not so underground Nebraska folk pop phenom is performing with the L.A. Philharmonic orchestra. Only recently made hip to this veteran outfit via their latest, mesmerizing long play, Cassadaga, I attended the show with eyes, mind, body, heart and soul wide open. Long fairy tale short: The concert was transcendent.

Conor's quivering vocals are a startling balance of fragility and steely confidence. He is a Dylan-esque poet, unafraid to be fierce and revolutionary one moment, simple and wistful the next. On a perfect, starry night, The Bowl is unspeakably romantic. When our longhaired hero waltzed into Cassadaga's achingly honest, "Make a Plan to Love Me," the ladies swooned like they'd been sprinkled with poppy dust from the Wizard of Oz. And the boys swooned right along with them. But instead of drifting to sleep, the crowd rose in sing along song, a tribe fused by an aortic anthem.

For two hours, 18,000 southern California souls were relieved of their daily foibles, removed from the media onslaught of endlessly stupid, toxic images and restored to sanity by a few drops of the life-saving elixir known as rock n' roll. I drifted out of the Bowl in a similar, dreamy headspace as I did post the Hair experiences, feeling momentarily healed, damn near happy, even a bit hopeful. If this the 11th hour of mankind, hold dear the minstrels, for their arrival is bright on time.