The Moody Blues, Sunday, November 13, Oakland, California, Paramount Theatre.

Concert number five. I'm as nauseated as I've ever been. I have a terrible headache. My head is pounding. I feel like throwing up, and I'm having trouble swallowing. And the beauty of it is, you want to feel like this every day. After doing this for three decades, I'm starting to understand aspects of the music that once baffled me — like how many minutes to take between second and third encores for maximum Bic lighter-age, or where to position the keyboardist onstage in relation to the bassist and drummer. Tonight, I took some excellent LSD during "Nights in White Satin" because I wanted to peak during "Ride My See-Saw," and they always play that six songs — fifty-four minutes — later. I know these things. I predict outcomes based on past performance. Still, the magic remains at the center of it all. Four guys rocking. Each working in relation to the others. A machine. A unit. Beautiful. Just beautiful rock & roll.