Fairly early on, I was acquainted with one particular small group of folk singers who performed regularly at one particular coffee house. They were fairly decent singers and guitarists, but away from the coffee house, they invariably broke out the pot about halfway through the evening.

On a couple of occasions, I tried the stuff. Got the usual time-dilations and spacial weirdnesses, and it was an interesting experience, I didn't enjoy it, so twice was enough for me. When it's going the rounds, I stick to a few beers or a glass or two of wine, enough for convivial good fellowship, but not until I get blasted.

During one particular song fest in a private home, when the pot was doing the rounds, all the participants were going on about how they were, gee whiz, playing better than they ever did. The pot really enhanced their playing and they were doing better than they ever did.

Or so they were sure their playing was so much better and "inspired" than when they were straight.

I, however, couldn't help noticing that their playing may have sounded much more inspired—to them—but in actuality, they were much sloppier than they normally were when they were straight.

They performed in Carnegie Hall every week—in their minds. So why should they bother to work so hard to achieve the real thing? The thing is, they don't.

I'll pass, thanks.

My drug of choice is music inself.

That way, any success I have is my own. Not some mind-altering substance or pharmaceutical supercharger.

Don Firth