I’ve never enjoyed my visits to the dentist.

Yeah, who does? Sharp pieces of metal probe the teeth; firm filaments of floss massage the gums. Then, there’s the sturm und drang of the tooth polisher as it whirls from molar to incisor, removing tartar, assorted fungi and maybe a lost M&M or two.

Of course, these visits are smart, important and necessary. My teeth are a reasonably healthy 53 years old now, and I owe much of their longevity to Dr. Marshall Price and his staff on Route 146 in Guilderland. Thanks to doctor and hygienists, I’m always going to have ultra-bright meat snatchers. Those three damn witches who pestered “Macbeth” might have had five good teeth among them. I’ve got a shiny 32 — 36, if you count four impacted wisdom teeth I’m saving for a rainy day. Everyone should carry spares.

I’m cursed in other ways: The Price staff says I’m still grinding my teeth at night. I never know it, never feel it, but there’s extra wear-and-tear in places where there shouldn’t be. I have a custom-made plastic shield for my lower teeth, but it always seems to go walking after midnight. Last time, I found it in the mattress frame. It might be in a sneaker under the bed this month.

Anyway, this grinding had something to do with my latest woe. Last month, Dr. Price noticed one of my fillings — in an upper tooth, right side — needed repair. Dr. Price would have to fire up the drill.

A few years ago, I would have dreaded the 30 minutes or so in the reclining, padded chair. First, the prick of a needle and Novocaine into the gums. Second the plastic “tent” — it sure feels like a tent — that hygienists install in the mouth to isolate the work area. And third — the part I really like — the high-pitched whine of the dental tool as it removes tooth damage and paves — yes, the perfect word — the way for a new composite replacement.

Man, that drill — there is no sound like it in science or nature. If the science-fiction boys ever decide to do a movie with mosquitoes the size of basketballs, I guess they’d sound something like that drill. And once the drill has found its mark, and jackhammers out bad tooth or old fillings ... well, those pleasant sounds used to bounce all over my head.

No longer. Whenever dental fireworks are planned now, I take consultants with me. Keith Emerson has made the trip. So has Chrissie Hynde. On Tuesday, it was John Kay.

They’re musicians — musicians associated with loud, rock’n’roll music. I’ve learned that earfuls of “Karn Evil 9,” the long and pretentious keyboard and percussion piece blared and blasted by Emerson, Lake & Palmer during the early 1970s, is the perfect antidote for any drill work. A CD goes into my portable player, earplugs go into the ear and I receive a loud audio welcome back to the show that never ends.

I know the drill is there, but the sounds of demolition can’t compete with Emerson’s Hammond organ. Seems like the louder the music is, the quicker the procedure goes. And if you are following the lyrics or the beat, you’re not thinking too much about the sound and fury below the ears.

It’s just got to be fast. If I was listening to Three Dog Night’s slow-and-dreamy “Easy to be Hard,” James Taylor’s “You’ve Got a Friend, or anything by Air Supply, I’m sure I’d be holding the arm rests of Dr. Price’s chair in death grips, my face an anguished mask of discontent.

But then again, I guess that would be pretty much my reaction anywhere, as far as Air Supply goes.

That’s why I like Chrissie Hynde’s work with the Pretenders — straight and loud on tunes like “Precious” and “Middle of the Road” I’ve drafted Jethro Tull and parts of the “Aqualung” album to scare off my dental demons; I’ve also put Chicago (horns are as good as the Hammond), Cream, Yes, and XTC on the job.

On Tuesday, it was John Kay and the 1960s crew of Steppenwolf. And Dr. Price said that because this was a replacement filling, and not a lot of drilling would be required, I might skip the Novocaine. It was a great move — I got through “Born to be Wild,” “Rock Me” and “Move Over.” I was halfway through “Magic Carpet Ride” when Dr. Price nudged me and said the concert could end. The tooth was back on-line, and the right side of my face was comfortably un-numb.

I know there are louder, more raucous bands I can take to the dentist. I’m holding Black Sabbath in reserve, just in case I ever need a root canal.

I’m just hoping I never need a hearing doctor.