GREENSBORO — Over the last two decades, an unquenchable thirst for nostalgia has permeated popular culture in almost all mediums, especially music. No matter the city, big or small, or venue, opulent hall or tiny dive bar, the event schedule is guaranteed to have a cover or tribute band on the docket.
Author, essayist and pop culture critic Chuck Klosterman once wrote that tribute bands are “arguably the most universally maligned sector of rock ’n’ roll,” and I agree. Seeing a shirtless grown man swing a microphone around believing he’s Robert Plant is truly saddening. Or worse, yacht rockers dressed in “Love Boat” attire. Still, people love it, and there’s nothing wrong with that. Nostalgia is a powerful drug. I just refuse to fork over $50 or more for a ticket.
Admittedly, I will make a few exceptions. Dark Star Orchestra is extraordinary and recreate the Grateful Dead experience spot-on, but you can’t swing a dead cat without hitting a Dead cover band playing at a bar nearby. And of course, the Grateful Dead lives on through Dead & Co., the aforementioned orchestra and countless reiterations.
But what about Pink Floyd? Arguably one of the most impactful and defining bands of the 20th century and without question the most influential and eye-opening bolts of lightning to hit me as a kid. The imagery their music and lyrics created was like watching a horror movie between my hands. I was scared of Pink Floyd, and I loved it.
“The Wall,” with its crazed militaristic overtones, malevolent teachers and kids in revolt, had me hooked. There was no turning back from David Gilmour’s piercing guitar and his voice that could switch from the warmth of a down comforter to a block of ice. Roger Waters was the razor blade, whose sorrow and anger I always thought were coming from two different people.
All these impressions were immediately embedded before my first viewing of the movie “Pink Floyd: The Wall” or seeing the video for “Learning to Fly” on MTV. Before then, I had no idea what they looked like. As a kid, the striking iconography of animated marching hammers or the giant disc and flying pig — symbols of their famously laser-heavy live performances — provided a sensory overload I couldn’t get enough of.
When they played at Carter-Finley Stadium in Raleigh in 1994, I was 13. This was my chance. But my mother, to quote her exactly, said, “Absolutely not! I heard they ‘main rail’ drugs on stage.” I’m not sure what main railing drugs means or looks like, but she had a point: I had no business attending a Pink Floyd show at that age. I missed my only chance but dived deeper into their story that inspired the music: how founding member Syd Barrett went insane and what “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” really meant, and the glaring metaphor of “The Wall.”
When I was in my 30s, Roger Waters brought his “The Wall: Live” tour to Raleigh. It was visually and conceptually mind-blowing (to put it crudely). But by that time, I knew too much about his ego and politics, which I didn’t agree or disagree with but certainly didn’t appreciate having shoved down my throat during what I saw as my chance to experience Pink Floyd.
In some ways, I grew out of Pink Floyd but never let go and remained in awe. Word of a band — sigh, another tribute band — came across my radar called Brit Floyd, which I dismissed at first but, after some research, decided I would see what they were all about. It could be my chance to get as close to the Pink Floyd experience as possible.
The Steven Tanger Center for the Performing Arts in Greensboro is architecturally outfitted to experience live music or stage productions of any type with the highest visual and auditory quality, so I knew it was the right place to give Brit Floyd a shot. Sunday night, the “Wish You Were Here: 50th Anniversary Tour,” led by multi-instrumentalist and musical director Damian Darlington, backed by at least 10 band members, delivered to a mesmerized audience the closest one could ever get to the Pink Floyd experience.
Over two sets, with the iconic lunar disk flashing images and the animated language singular to Pink Floyd looming behind them, Brit Floyd performed with three female vocalists, a percussion section the size of a jungle gym and a drummer with an equally ample kit. A throned keyboardist was surrounded by the required synths and organ, and two guitarists — with Darlington taking lap steel guitar duties. The lighting director was as much a member as the players on stage, flooding the 3,000-seat venue with the colors and symbols of Pink Floyd’s canon in sync with every note.
The first set covered as much as time would allow — “Another Brick in the Wall Part 2,” “Time” and “The Great Gig in the Sky,” to name a few. The tribute was evident, and the nostalgia played its part to many. But as Brit Floyd closed the first act with “Pigs (Three Different Ones),” the sheer talent of each player took center stage. Yes, they are a tribute band, but on their own two feet, a combo of phenomenal musicians shined through.
“Wish You Were Here,” Pink Floyd’s 1975 release, turns 50 in September, and to honor the occasion, Brit Floyd played it in its entirety. “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” “Have a Cigar” were stunningly executed. When the ominous “Welcome to the Machine” began, I turned to my friend and said, “I’m still so scared of Pink Floyd.”
When the opening notes to the song “Wish You Were Here” rang out, a moment of catharsis infected the Tanger Center. Young and old, every single person in attendance felt it. Instead of lighters, cell phones filled the room. What Pink Floyd meant to the audience Sunday night represented a microcosm of the band’s influence on the world, including the now 44-year-old who finally got to come as close as I could to the live experience.
Comparatively speaking, the Tanger Center isn’t Carter-Finley Stadium, and Brit Floyd isn’t Pink Floyd. But the purity with which they’ve managed to compact and present the sound, mystique and visual landscape of such a legendary musical behemoth deserves a label better than “tribute band.”
