WHEN PINK FLOYD FOUNDER member Richard Wright died last week, people kept saying that he'd finally gone to that great gig in the sky. I would nod sympathetically, because even though it seemed a slightly odd way of putting it, the metaphor was appropriate considering his well-known musical background. What I didn't realise is that keyboardist Wright actually wrote a Pink Floyd song called The Great Gig In The Sky. And the reason I didn't know that is because I'd never consciously listened to Dark Side Of The Moon, the 1973 album that secured Pink Floyd's prog godhead - proghead? - status.

Considering I was minus three when the album originally came out, I have a decent excuse for not owning a first pressing. By the time my musical taste was petrifying during the vulgar days of Britpop, Pink Floyd had become a museum piece: monolithic, humourless and sonically intransigent. Floyd acolytes were so convinced of the band's transcendence that a mere place in any rock'n'roll hall of fame seemed beneath the group - they deserved their own arcadian cenotaph on one of Jupiter's volcanically active moons. For non-believers, this sort of interstellar overpraise can be intensely off-putting.

It doesn't seem right, though, that I own more records by Ted Nugent than Pink Floyd. So as a belated salute to Wright, I vow to go where a mere 40 million or so have gone before: set the controls for the Dark Side Of The Moon.

First, I need to track down a CD. None of my friends has a copy, or if they do, they won't admit it. But I figure since it's been such a colossal seller, it'll be a stalwart of second-hand record stores, just like there's a dog-eared copy of Peter Benchley's Jaws on every charity shop bookshelf.

The first Glasgow city-centre record exchange I try doesn't appear to have any Pink Floyd albums at all, which seems strange. Turns out they keep them all behind the counter. "Is that because there's so very many of them?" I ask, pleased at my own deduction. "No, it's because people keep stealing the CD covers," replies a staff member. "People who like heroin also seem to like Pink Floyd. They like to stare at the pictures on the covers." That's a bit of a worry, I think. And to compound matters, there's not even a coverless copy of the album to be had.

Impatient, I head for Zavvi, the megastore that lost its Virginity. They have a rather bog-standard CD for £14. £14! No-one pays £14 for CDs any more! I go next door to HMV. They have the exact same CD, but for £16. I go back to Zavvi, and take possession of my first ever copy of the third biggest-selling album of all time.

On the journey back home, I'm surprised at how apprehensive and excited I feel. I genuinely can't remember the last time I bought an album specifically to sit down and properly listen to it - to absorb the music, let it permeate me, transport me. In fact, it's been so long, it feels kind of awkward. Will I remember how to do it properly? I sit down on the couch, wondering if I should light some candles. It doesn't help that the album gets off to a slow start. A minute-long fade-in of sonic atmospherics should be easing me into the experience, but instead, I'm antsy.

To properly focus, I need to be doing something. Reading a book won't work, because it'll take too much concentration away from the music. Flicking through a magazine seems disrespectful, like I'm just killing time in a waiting room. Maybe I could watch a film? It would have to be with the sound off. So which movie?

Then I remember The Wizard Of Oz. About a decade ago, an irresistible rumour sprang up in America that if you watch the 1939 Judy Garland classic on mute while listening to Dark Side Of The Moon, the images and music sync up in mind-bending ways. No-one seems quite sure how the story started, but thanks to the internet, it's been blogged about enough to be practically incontrovertible. (Maybe it was inspired by the iconic album cover - that stark beam of light prisming into a rainbow echoes The Wizard Of Oz blossoming from black-and-white to vivid Technicolor after the first 20 minutes.)

Notably, Pink Floyd themselves don't subscribe to the theory, but what would they know? After a little preparation, I'm ready to start the multimedia extravaganza. It's only then that I discover the UK version of the DVD apparently runs too fast to sync up properly: you have to "digitally speed up" the album by 4.16% to hit the sweet spot. After casting around the internet, I land upon a properly-synced American version that I can stream through my laptop. I have mixed feelings about this discovery since it cost me £10 to buy The Wizard Of Oz on DVD and I can't see myself taking it back even under Fopp's Suck It And See returns policy. (Who could honestly claim they don't like The Wizard Of Oz? The Campaign Against Witch Stereotyping? The Munchkin Liberation Front? The People For The Ethical Treatment Of Flying Monkeys?) My first trip to Oz is a little disorientating. The woozy swirl of Floyd's music doesn't seem to jigsaw with the garish-looking, slapstick action at all. During the hammering, proto-electronica of Breathe, Dorothy is still moping around in Kansas. When the twister hits, the ebb and flow of The Great Gig In The Sky (which is awesome, as it turns out) is supposed to mirror her experience of the storm, but I remain sceptical.

The first time it gels is when Dorothy steps out into Oz, just as Money kicks in. If you imagine the yellow brick road is made of unusually scrunchy gravel, her footsteps seem soundtracked by that famously percussive, till ringin', paper-tearin' beat. And as the 40-minute album ends for the first time, fading away to eerie heartbeats, Dorothy has her head pressed up against the Tin Man's cardiac-deficient chest. Coinkydink? I think not!

Then it all gets a bit fuzzy again. You have to listen to Dark Side Of The Moon two-and-a-bit times to get to the end of the movie, and it all seems to be building towards Dorothy waking up back on the farm at the exact moment David Gilmour sings "Home, home again, I like to be here when I can," on the reprise of Breathe. (This might be more convincing if it wasn't the third time you'd heard the song while watching the film.) After going through the whole process three times, I've come to a couple of conclusions. The Wizard Of Oz is a wigged-out movie, especially on mute. And Pink Floyd make profound, widdly, consciousness-expanding music that strikes a particular chord with people who have too much time on their hands. And, possibly, like heroin.

I'm still ready to take things to the next stage, though. Can anyone suggest a good movie to watch while listening to The Wall?

Tom Shields is away