A FAN’S NOTES
US + Them
Early last June my friend Rene, a graphic
designer, called from Calgary.
Roger Waters, formerly of Pink Floyd, had a fall date in Edmonton. Rene, a native Edmontonian,
described Waters as a “bucket list” act and thought a road trip north to see
the show and check out the new downtown arena might be fun. We got in touch
with our friend Roy, a stone-carving wildlife artist and self-proclaimed
aficionado of “all things related to The
Wall.” Last year, my birthday gift to Roy
was a gently used The Wall coffee mug
and a cinema ticket for Roger Waters:
The Wall.
The three of us met almost 30 years ago in
the advertising department of a major corporation. One of the conundrums of
advertising is easily described by imagining a simple linear scale that extends
from one to ten. The designer’s mind is at ten. The available software is
either a seven or an eight. The budget and production resources usually
register around four.
Waters’ departure from the progressive band
was so acrimonious as to be petty. In return for ceding the name of the group
he co-founded to remaining members he demanded the rights to The Wall and his inflatable pig. He’s
often perceived and portrayed as a cynical crank. Now, reimagine the
advertising graph. Substitute Waters for the designer. An analogue recording
studio becomes the software. Live performances transform into the means of
production. We’ve wormed into a lobe of his brain and the neurons are firing
frustration.
In 2017 technology caught up with much of
what must go on in Waters’ head. The floating pig is now a drone. Through some
miracle of ticketing Rene was able to acquire us seats the venue described as
“lower-drink rail.” We were cordoned off above and behind a lower bowl section
on comfortable chairs before a shelf to rest and bend our elbows on. The
soundboard island down on the hockey rink’s floor was larger than Canada’s
smallest province. I counted a baker’s dozen of lit laptops before struggling
to remember what number follows 13.
The focal point for the audience was an
immense video screen which dwarfed my perception of the depth of the stage. The
boards to be trodden were maybe two planks, nothing wider than a window
washer’s gantry. Pose some of your children’s action figures on a cribbage slat
in front of your 60” flat screen TV and you’ll get the picture. Band members
were uniformly dressed in black. The bearded guitarist and co-vocalist bore a
curious resemblance to a young, unshaven David Gilmour.
A rock critic once acidly and rather
amusingly described the Eagles as “loitering” on stage. There was no Freddie
Mercury in Pink Floyd either. The Floyd relied on special effects, lights and
backdrop slides. If complex compositions were not road worthy, well, a movie
could be filmed in a Roman ruin. Waters is more charismatic in interviews than
performance, as snide and opinionated as his lyrics.
The evening’s sensory assault was casual
fan friendly. The set list was stuffed with material from Dark Side of the Moon, Wish
You Were Here, Animals and The Wall. I assume the sole song I
didn’t recognize came from Is This the
Life We Really Want? his latest release. Mercifully, we were not required
to reassess The Pros and Cons of
Hitchhiking. Because a $12 Rogers
Place beer is processed at the same rate as the buck-a-can variety, I scurried
off to the men’s room during ‘Money’ because I’m okay if I never hear that
track again. If there was a theme to the performance, it could be summed up
succinctly: “Mother, should I trust (insert personal bete noir here)…”
As the US + Them extravaganza marched
toward its climax, I was glad I was wearing my glasses though I didn’t know
where to look. A second video screen, perpendicular to the first dropped from
the ceiling, its supporting cables rendered as white smokestacks. It stretched
from goal line to goal line. A remote controlled pig flew around the upper
tiers past an image of the Battersea power station snuffling after a silvery,
remote controlled moon. Down on the floor the prism from the cover of Dark Side was recreated as a pyramid, Giza sized, with white
lasers. The multi-media surrealism was a parsec beyond anything Waters could’ve
imagined let alone orchestrated and staged during Pink Floyd’s prime.
Fittingly, the show ended with ‘Comfortably
Numb.’ Rene, Roy
and I walked over to the Hotel Macdonald to have a beer under the portrait of
the Fathers of Confederation. I felt overloaded, hungover almost, battered by
the volume of everything: the music, the effects, the visuals. Minds blown. We
reached a questioning consensus. “What the hell did we just go to?” If we still
smoked up our brains would’ve melted. There had been a few whiffs of skunk in
the arena and the olfactory trigger had made me grin, thinking about the 70s
for a fleeting moment, rock shows, basements with wood paneling and shag
carpets, rolling papers, record sleeves and black vinyl, and clunky stereo
headphones.
Roy examined his phone. “How do we get Uber?”
I said, “There’s a taxi stand right outside
the door.”
“Old school,” Rene said to me. He turned to
Roy, “I think
you have to download the app.”
“How do I do that?”
“We could just grab a cab, you know.”
“No, we’re taking Uber.”
