OUT OF HIS LEAGUE: ROGER, ROGER WATERS
by Tello Real, mraspatello@rivalfish.com
"Each Monday, Rivalfish's Rival Room awards two athletes from the previous week that have performed 'out of their league,' for better or worse. As the Jersey Chasers of the land open their mouths and aim for the midsections of anyone wearing a jersey, we at Rivalfish help them navigate the VIP room waters with precision and class" - Rival Room Editor
jersey chaser, n, A person who only pursues, or is receptive to, the advances of athletes. Most commonly women and most commonly found on or around college campuses or professional sporting contests
Every week I write this column and every week I forget that I always have and I always will love music more than I like sports. But tonight, I'm going to forget that Rivalfish is a sports site.
On Friday night, I voyaged an hour south of our beautiful Blue-ass city to the Red-ass area that houses "Chicago's" premier amphitheatre for big acts, the First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre (nee The World Music Theatre, nee Tweeter Center). I was with my dad, bonding over our greatest joint-pastime since ground ball drills in the driveway of my youth: Pink Floyd. But unfortunately, it was only one creative half, and one-fourth the still-living lineup: Roger Waters.
First, a little background for you Non-FloydHeads. In 1984, Roger Waters famousl
y left the band and threw a lawsuit at his former bandmates to prevent them from going on under the name "Pink Floyd." Despite album writing credits claiming otherwise, Waters asserted that he actually probably wrote and composed 75% of their tunes, and Pink Floyd without him wasn't actually "Pink Floyd." But he lost, and Pink Floyd continued to be one of the most popular and money making acts in the world until 1995; and then once again for 2005's Live 8 (when presented with the opportunity to disagree with political leaders).
Continuing with his competitiveness with the remaining Floydians, Waters followed the other creative half, David Gilmour's, tour early this year (in which he featured original
Floyd keyboardist Rick Wright and played their masterpiece Dark Side of the Moon album in its entirety) with a Dark Side of the Moon US Tour.....during which he and his band played DSOTM in its entirety.
But throughout the years, the two camps have had an amazing ability to ascend above comparative judgment. Put much more eloquently than I sure as hell could, rock writer Kevin Klein correctly contends, "It's amazing in and of itself that one band could fragment in two directions, yet still hold such potency on either given side of the fracture." Well put Kevin. Need a job with a sports blog?
But enough of the background, and back to the observations that prompted my first pseudo-serious foray into concert reviewing.
Thirty seconds into the night-long mesmorization that began with "Mother," I realized that Waters can imitate himself 30 years ago better than I can imitate myself at my peak, which occurred about five years ago.
But I was near-immediately distracted from this depressing fact by Roger's moving tribute to Syd "Sad Story" Barrett, the founding and short-lived genius behind The Floyd. For a guy that's been deemed as callous and selfish and removed from his fans and bandmates and acquaintances as Waters remains, he certainly knows how to give a touching tribute to a friend. Crystal clear video imagery of Syd in his able-minded youth beamed from behind the players, as Roger devoted nearly a set-full of music famously inspired by the loss of his best friend to the very thing that Roger notoriously laments: fame. Without fame, Syd would not have been a psychedelia folk-hero, under a constant and deceitful acid barrage from those trying to get close to him in the early days of Pink Floyd's rise. The story goes: People would slip LSD into Syd's orange juice just so they could say they spent the day with Syd Barrett of The Pink Floyd on LSD. Who knows if he'd grab his acoustic and pen a Floyd song in front of the lucky fan? Or if he would pour paint over his head instead and sit in the garden catatonically for six-to-eight hours. Supposedly he spent 6 straight months on acid 24 hours a day, unknowing of the tactics of his well-meaning followers. Makes sense why people thought he was already dead when he finally passed this summer.
And when I was done noticing this poetic irony, it started to drizzle. And there's not a
rock show in the world that isn't made cooler by a little bit of God's psychedelic tears of joy. As cliched as it is, I ain't gonna lie to y'all.
As the first set surged on, the mostly-middle-aged crowd remained on their feet. More than at any Who, Stones, or Plant & Paige show I've ever been too, and more than in any of the aforementioned shows, the people there looked like people who I'd otherwise think would chastise me for getting high with my dad and zoning out to Floyd like a 1974 version of a Trenchcoat Mafia kid.
And even though I remain on the Gilmourian side of the epic power struggle, I once again noticed not long into this fun-filled first set that Roger Waters hires better backing musicians than Gilmour. But that's just an observation. It's not what it's all about. But nevertheless, award-winner Dave Kilminster fucking rocked. Legendary Floyd support-musician, Snowy White, seemed to be having a little more fun than usual, as well. He almost seemed living.
Have I mentioned that the LCD jumbo-screen at this venue is amazing now; crystal clear, like an HDTV in a rich kid/fat kid/spoiled kid's basement. Movies behind musical performances can get bashed for being trite or gimmicky or hackneyed, but it would have been credited as a "great art film effort by a great musician" had it been premiered at any of the film festiv
als in those otherwise-small ski or country or foreign towns. However, when he played his one new tune, "Leaving Beirut," he aired what was practically a propaganda film as his anti-Bush and Blair sentiment even made my hippie dad, who thinks it's totally kosher to sit Indian style in the middle of a public park and throw grenades at the fascist police force, to look around uncomfortably, and then turn to me and say "whoa Roger, whoa." If you've got a second, I'd check out the lyrics to this supposed-to-be-sentimental story about two Lebanese poor folks that took in a young, hitchhiking Waters back in the day.
But it struck me as a tab bit and a rad bit touching, that this egomaniac who I somehow still think is incredibly cool and talented and worth listening to, seems to position himself an assembler of the heretofore fleeced rubes of the U.S. populace. "Don't get led into terrible foreign policy by less-than-honest colonialist tyrants," he
repeatedly spells out to his Anglo-American audience. This is the guy who once spit on a fan to nail home the dichotomy between the artist and the gawker. A daily regimen of weed, Metamucil, and Sanka seem to be softening a brother.
Nevertheless, in addition to his heavy-handed, although pretty right-on, politics, early reviews blasted his props and gimmicks and blown up spacemen and propaganda-graffitied pig and extra female vocals. But what would they have said if he had left that stuff out? That's Pink
Floyd. People said drummer Graham Broad's imitation of Nick Mason's tom-tom drum performance leading into "Time" was weak. Didn't notice. When the drum solo broke, it did something to me my girlfriend hadn't in a monkey's millennium. Catch my drift?
And this sentiment continued, through the Dark Side of the Awesomest Moon Human Astrologers Never Discovered that began the second set, and the "Comfortably Numb" encore that ended it. To call it a "pleasant surprise" would be severely undercutting a show I was pretty damn sure would disappoint me. Like most Floyd fans, every appearance of a former Floydian is admittedly another opportunity to say "I saw him one more time." And we all know, one of these days that's all it's going to be. But this night wasn't that day, and Roger put on a show that epitomized nearly everything anyone has ever written, spoke, or sung about the man, far outshining his In The
Flesh Tour performances of '00 and '01. I'm glad I didn't read any reviews of last week's shows before I went, and I'm even more glad I hadn't memorized the identical setlist he's played on every stop of the tour. I'm glad I didn't try to compare him to Gilmour, or Australian Pink Floyd, or the last real Floyd tour of '84. But I'm damn glad that that self-righteous genius is still ticking, and giving every one of us faithful Sheep exactly what we were afraid to expect. But exactly what we all wanted.
Oh yeah, and that's why, yada yada yada, Roger Waters is (say it all with me!) RIVALFISH's Jersey Chaser Target of the Week!
"Each Monday, Rivalfish's Rival Room awards two athletes from the previous week that have performed 'out of their league,' for better or worse. As the Jersey Chasers of the land open their mouths and aim for the midsections of anyone wearing a jersey, we at Rivalfish help them navigate the VIP room waters with precision and class" - Rival Room Editor
jersey chaser, n, A person who only pursues, or is receptive to, the advances of athletes. Most commonly women and most commonly found on or around college campuses or professional sporting contests
Every week I write this column and every week I forget that I always have and I always will love music more than I like sports. But tonight, I'm going to forget that Rivalfish is a sports site.On Friday night, I voyaged an hour south of our beautiful Blue-ass city to the Red-ass area that houses "Chicago's" premier amphitheatre for big acts, the First Midwest Bank Amphitheatre (nee The World Music Theatre, nee Tweeter Center). I was with my dad, bonding over our greatest joint-pastime since ground ball drills in the driveway of my youth: Pink Floyd. But unfortunately, it was only one creative half, and one-fourth the still-living lineup: Roger Waters.
First, a little background for you Non-FloydHeads. In 1984, Roger Waters famousl
y left the band and threw a lawsuit at his former bandmates to prevent them from going on under the name "Pink Floyd." Despite album writing credits claiming otherwise, Waters asserted that he actually probably wrote and composed 75% of their tunes, and Pink Floyd without him wasn't actually "Pink Floyd." But he lost, and Pink Floyd continued to be one of the most popular and money making acts in the world until 1995; and then once again for 2005's Live 8 (when presented with the opportunity to disagree with political leaders).Continuing with his competitiveness with the remaining Floydians, Waters followed the other creative half, David Gilmour's, tour early this year (in which he featured original
Floyd keyboardist Rick Wright and played their masterpiece Dark Side of the Moon album in its entirety) with a Dark Side of the Moon US Tour.....during which he and his band played DSOTM in its entirety.But throughout the years, the two camps have had an amazing ability to ascend above comparative judgment. Put much more eloquently than I sure as hell could, rock writer Kevin Klein correctly contends, "It's amazing in and of itself that one band could fragment in two directions, yet still hold such potency on either given side of the fracture." Well put Kevin. Need a job with a sports blog?
But enough of the background, and back to the observations that prompted my first pseudo-serious foray into concert reviewing.
Thirty seconds into the night-long mesmorization that began with "Mother," I realized that Waters can imitate himself 30 years ago better than I can imitate myself at my peak, which occurred about five years ago.
But I was near-immediately distracted from this depressing fact by Roger's moving tribute to Syd "Sad Story" Barrett, the founding and short-lived genius behind The Floyd. For a guy that's been deemed as callous and selfish and removed from his fans and bandmates and acquaintances as Waters remains, he certainly knows how to give a touching tribute to a friend. Crystal clear video imagery of Syd in his able-minded youth beamed from behind the players, as Roger devoted nearly a set-full of music famously inspired by the loss of his best friend to the very thing that Roger notoriously laments: fame. Without fame, Syd would not have been a psychedelia folk-hero, under a constant and deceitful acid barrage from those trying to get close to him in the early days of Pink Floyd's rise. The story goes: People would slip LSD into Syd's orange juice just so they could say they spent the day with Syd Barrett of The Pink Floyd on LSD. Who knows if he'd grab his acoustic and pen a Floyd song in front of the lucky fan? Or if he would pour paint over his head instead and sit in the garden catatonically for six-to-eight hours. Supposedly he spent 6 straight months on acid 24 hours a day, unknowing of the tactics of his well-meaning followers. Makes sense why people thought he was already dead when he finally passed this summer.And when I was done noticing this poetic irony, it started to drizzle. And there's not a
rock show in the world that isn't made cooler by a little bit of God's psychedelic tears of joy. As cliched as it is, I ain't gonna lie to y'all.As the first set surged on, the mostly-middle-aged crowd remained on their feet. More than at any Who, Stones, or Plant & Paige show I've ever been too, and more than in any of the aforementioned shows, the people there looked like people who I'd otherwise think would chastise me for getting high with my dad and zoning out to Floyd like a 1974 version of a Trenchcoat Mafia kid.
And even though I remain on the Gilmourian side of the epic power struggle, I once again noticed not long into this fun-filled first set that Roger Waters hires better backing musicians than Gilmour. But that's just an observation. It's not what it's all about. But nevertheless, award-winner Dave Kilminster fucking rocked. Legendary Floyd support-musician, Snowy White, seemed to be having a little more fun than usual, as well. He almost seemed living.Have I mentioned that the LCD jumbo-screen at this venue is amazing now; crystal clear, like an HDTV in a rich kid/fat kid/spoiled kid's basement. Movies behind musical performances can get bashed for being trite or gimmicky or hackneyed, but it would have been credited as a "great art film effort by a great musician" had it been premiered at any of the film festiv
als in those otherwise-small ski or country or foreign towns. However, when he played his one new tune, "Leaving Beirut," he aired what was practically a propaganda film as his anti-Bush and Blair sentiment even made my hippie dad, who thinks it's totally kosher to sit Indian style in the middle of a public park and throw grenades at the fascist police force, to look around uncomfortably, and then turn to me and say "whoa Roger, whoa." If you've got a second, I'd check out the lyrics to this supposed-to-be-sentimental story about two Lebanese poor folks that took in a young, hitchhiking Waters back in the day.But it struck me as a tab bit and a rad bit touching, that this egomaniac who I somehow still think is incredibly cool and talented and worth listening to, seems to position himself an assembler of the heretofore fleeced rubes of the U.S. populace. "Don't get led into terrible foreign policy by less-than-honest colonialist tyrants," he
repeatedly spells out to his Anglo-American audience. This is the guy who once spit on a fan to nail home the dichotomy between the artist and the gawker. A daily regimen of weed, Metamucil, and Sanka seem to be softening a brother.Nevertheless, in addition to his heavy-handed, although pretty right-on, politics, early reviews blasted his props and gimmicks and blown up spacemen and propaganda-graffitied pig and extra female vocals. But what would they have said if he had left that stuff out? That's Pink
Floyd. People said drummer Graham Broad's imitation of Nick Mason's tom-tom drum performance leading into "Time" was weak. Didn't notice. When the drum solo broke, it did something to me my girlfriend hadn't in a monkey's millennium. Catch my drift?And this sentiment continued, through the Dark Side of the Awesomest Moon Human Astrologers Never Discovered that began the second set, and the "Comfortably Numb" encore that ended it. To call it a "pleasant surprise" would be severely undercutting a show I was pretty damn sure would disappoint me. Like most Floyd fans, every appearance of a former Floydian is admittedly another opportunity to say "I saw him one more time." And we all know, one of these days that's all it's going to be. But this night wasn't that day, and Roger put on a show that epitomized nearly everything anyone has ever written, spoke, or sung about the man, far outshining his In The
Flesh Tour performances of '00 and '01. I'm glad I didn't read any reviews of last week's shows before I went, and I'm even more glad I hadn't memorized the identical setlist he's played on every stop of the tour. I'm glad I didn't try to compare him to Gilmour, or Australian Pink Floyd, or the last real Floyd tour of '84. But I'm damn glad that that self-righteous genius is still ticking, and giving every one of us faithful Sheep exactly what we were afraid to expect. But exactly what we all wanted.Oh yeah, and that's why, yada yada yada, Roger Waters is (say it all with me!) RIVALFISH's Jersey Chaser Target of the Week!
posted by Rival Room Editor at
12:00 AM
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