REVIEW - Remember That Night

All of my face-to-face friends (rather than the hundreds of pretty young things I've never met but nevertheless hang on my every blog-word) know that whenever I refer to "my friend Bill", I mean "my friend Bill who I met nearly 20 years ago when I first moved to Denver, and still know and love even though he now lives in Houston and I live in San Francisco. Bill who I used to work with, ski with, play hoops with, play raquet-ball with, and trade car wish-lists with. Bill with whom I still fritter away hours wondering how we can become millionaires just by being ourselves".

Anyhow, that Bill just sent me the DVD "Remember That Night. David Gilmour Live At The Royal Albert Hall", instructing me to watch the whole thing with an open mind. Usually, that kind of request ends up with me buying a subscription to an existential periodical. 

What I'd like to do is open a bottle of 1982 La Mission Haut Brion and discuss the concert footage with him. Until then (and Bill, I promise that one day I will spring for that $850 bottle) these words will have to do.

For a start, in my view you can't go wrong if you have a lot of guitarists. I remember nudging another good friend, David, when we were at Slims watching Ash (with 4 guitarists at the time), and saying "You can't go wrong with 4 guitarists. I'll have another vodka and tonic if you're buying."

Great guitar gives me goose-bumps. There's some exquisite guitar here, even if it's a bit painful to see one old fart do a solo, then nod to an even older fart that it's his turn to do a solo.

It's proof positive that you don't need to be young, hip, sexy and good-looking to fill a stadium full of adoring fans. Or in this case, a very special, classic auditorium full of adoring fans. David Crosby has never looked hip, sexy and good-looking, but in this company his old grandpa act doesn't even look that out of place. And I'm not even going to comment (much) on the fact that good old Robert Wyatt was in a wheelchair for his contribution.

The one thing I never liked about Pink Floyd, and this sounds so shallow when I say it out loud, is that they always took so long to get to the point. And even once they did get to the point, or the hook, in a tune, they would then retreat from it, when what I really wanted was for them to, er, crank it up to 11.

What happens is that a lot of their work comes across sounding like it should be a film score rather than a mosh-pit-worthy live gig. 

I realize this is sounding like I didn't really enjoy the show. But I did. I have every single Pink Floyd CD in my collection, and have had Dark Side of The Moon, plus oddities like Interstellar Overdrive semi-permanently on my iPod. When I'm on a long flight, I often choose to listen to these tunes in order to sink right back into them, and forget that I'm cooped up in coach. But then I remember where I am, and put some attitude-adjusting Fall or Joy Division on instead.

Anyway, back to Kensington, London SW7. This is a fabulous show featuring 11 artists at the top of their game, if not necessarily in their prime. And when David Bowie sang the first words to "Arnold Layne", shivers shot up my spine (and stayed with me for the rest of the song).

I think Bill wants an epiphany from me, a road to Damascus conversion - for me to throw up my arms and say "I've been wrong to have frolicked with The Fall, noodled with New Order and mucked around with MGMT. Pink Floyd are the beginning, the middle and the end of everything that matters in music." Well, they're not half bad, and on this showing they might sell a couple of CDs.