Some sunny day
Some twenty-four years ago tomorrow was my sixth birthday. As those days go, it was fun, perhaps even great, but hardly worth recording in the history books. However, as I was unwrapping presents and ingesting far too much sugar, on the other side of the world, a German audience was watching Pink Floyd play the final show of the Wall tour. It would be remarkable simply for that fact, but years later it would also gain notoriety for another reason: it was the final show that Pink Floyd played as a foursome.
Or so we thought.
As every Pink Floyd fan likely knows by now, the four members of the band have agreed to reunite for Bob Geldof's massive concert to raise awareness of Third World debt. Reaction has ranged from absolute giddiness to morose cynicism. Given the odds that were stacked against any such reunion occurring prior to a blizzard in hell, fans can be excused for any and all of the above, although I find the cynical take to be disheartening, to say the least.
Everyone has heroes, and it's fair to say that Pink Floyd has long been one of mine. I was indoctrinated to their music through osmosis, hearing it seep through from my brothers' rooms for years as I slept, ate, and lived. Pink Floyd albums became the soundtrack to my youth, and eventually the level of my interest far outstripped that of my siblings. I bought books, collected crappy concert recordings, and practically wallpapered my room in band posters. And then, almost thirteen years to the day after Roger's last show in Germany, I finally got to see them live for myself.
Thinking about it even now, years later, the experience is so vivid that it's nearly overpowering. It was, for me, the summer after high school graduation, a time charged with excitement but also loaded with trepidation. Some months earlier, we had ventured to a local department store to buy tickets. On arrival, we were handed raffle tickets for a place in line, in order to foil scalpers. In an attempt to stack the deck in our favor, each of the six of us got raffle tickets. The two of us with the best numbers then got in line to buy tickets. As it happened, I had the highest number, a fact that thrilled me even as I tried desperately to hide my satisfaction.
To backtrack a bit, throughout high school, I had a long, unrequited crush on a fellow Floyd fan, a beautiful, dark-haired cheerleader, who, like my longtime best friend Zack, was a year ahead of me in school. She and I had bonded over the band, and it seemed only fitting to invite her to the concert, much to Zack's bewilderment. He knew that we would get much better seats if there were only two of us. But, even though she had been away at college for a year, I still held out hope that somehow things would magically work out for her and me.
The day of the concert arrived, and we congregated at my house. Piling into two cramped cars, we headed up to the show. It was a humid, hazy Midwestern summer day, just like thousands of others I had seen before. I can remember climbing the hill, surrounded by hundreds of fellow fans, heading for the arena. The stage was visible even before we crested the hill, two giant towers on either side of that familiar circular stage. We flirted with the merchandise stand, and then found our seats.
My friends in the other group had a lucky break. Their seats would have put them behind the massive mixing desk, which loomed in the middle of the stadium like an enormous elephant covered in black velvet, and so they were bumped up to the first tier of seats! That would teach me to be smug, even just to myself, about getting high number at the raffle.
The show took quite some time to start. The band wanted the light show to have full effect, but at the height of summer, it took more than an hour past the time on the tickets for darkness to fall. In the meantime, we made idle chitchat and tried to spy the band lurking behind the backstage barriers. (No such luck.) The other group stopped by to tell us just how awesome their seats were. I'm sure everyone tried as hard as I did to not act jealous. When it was at last dark enough, the music began.
Strangely, my recollection of the actual set that night is less vivid than my memory of the events surrounding the show. But a few things definitely stand out. I remember thrilling at the opening chords of "Astronomy Domine." I remember the blinding white lights during "Learning to Fly," and the slight twinge of disappointment that the "swing song" (the one part of the setlist that was truly variable from night to night) turned out to be "A Great Day For Freedom." I remember "On the Turning Away" being, well, awesome. And I remember sneaking glances at Michelle, standing just inches away, as she soaked in the show. There was no place else on earth I would rather have been.
During intermission, my friend Ben, part of the relocated group, came back to tell me that, as a birthday gift, he was trading seats with me, to let me see my heroes up close. Well, closer than I was before. He told me a superfan like myself deserved it on his birthday. I was thrilled, but also torn. What about Michelle? I got to see her so rarely...
Then again, I got to see Pink Floyd, well, never. I took the seat.
Was it better? Absolutely. I may very well have had a religious experience. Oddly enough, it came not during "Comfortably Numb" or "Shine On," which -- don't get me wrong -- were both brilliant, but during "Money," of all things. The hair on my arms stood up, almost like I was about to be struck by lightning.
Before very long, though, the show was over. The final chords of "Run Like Hell" faded away, the band waved goodbye, and we came back down to earth. On the walk back to the car, Ben asked me how it was. What could I possibly have said that would do it all justice? Instead, I just grinned.
Whether we knew it or not, this would be very much the last hurrah for this group of friends. We would go our separate ways, some of them more separate than others. Still, I smile whenever I think of them and that day, even though the smile feels heavier as I get further and further away from it. And from them. But I smile anyway.
Pink Floyd is part of the fabric of my life, indelibly interwoven with countless experiences, countless friendships, just as it is for millions of people across the world. Which is why the reunion, however brief, makes me happy. It means that, out there, millions more will be creating memories that will stay with them long after the notes fade away. Will the show live up to every hope and dream that we fans have invested in it ever since the announcement was made? Surely not. But it must mean something that four men who have made such a powerful difference in the lives of so many are willing to put it aside, not for their own personal enrichment, but for a cause they believe in.
So be cynical if you want. If you must. But do so at your own peril. You could be missing out on something beautiful, and the show onstage is only part of it.