Remember 1967? When each new album was supposed to be an advance over the last? When the variety on Sgt. Pepper’s didn’t remind people of the Ed Sullivan show but of well, Dante’s Inferno? “A Day In the Life” as grandly depressed as T.S. Eliot. And Bob Dylan a better poet than Walt Whitman, who was stuck back there with words on a page, because electric guitars hadn’t been invented. When the idea of ’50’s rock revival seemed as impossible as Charles Manson. And heavy significance was just lying around even (especially?) in album covers, waiting to be discovered.