at Robert Wyatt's Meltdown. Royal Festival Hall - Friday June 22nd 2001
It's no great secret and I don't have any qualms about admitting it. I'm scared to death of Pink Floyd.
I shudder when I recollect childhood memories of 'Another Brick In The Wall' hanging around at number one in '79 - pouring scorn upon the evils of an education system I was about to endure for the next sixteen years. My spine turns to jelly when I recall the snotty-nosed adoration lavished upon 'Dark Side Of The Moon' by my patronising male school-friends, their enthusiasm propelling the perennially popular LP back into the charts every bloody Christmas. And don't even mention the Earl's Court performance of 1994, a video I was literally tortured with during university by my prog-rocking (yep, youšve guessed it male) flat mates.
Yet despite this accumulated terror, I was willing to give Dave Gilmour's solo performance a try. After all, he played with Paul McCartney on 'Run Devil Run' and the Meltdown Festival is known for its special guest appearances.
The don of this year's Meltdown is Robert Wyatt the former drummer of iconic hippie band Soft Machine whose featured artists for the festival have ranged from the contemporary to the international to the institutional enter Mr. Gilmour. It's no real surprise that Wyatt drafted in the old Floydster for the event - his affiliation with the band harks back to the 80's when he collaborated with Nick Mason on 'Nick Mason's Fictitious Sport'. But for the hardcore fans, and boy, there are enough of them, this is a rare treat the first time Gilmour has performed a solo gig in ten years.
When Gilmour humbly takes the stage a surprisingly low-key entrance despite his abundant frame the young man behind me starts to whoop and scream with the ferocity of a thirteen-year-old at a Britney Spears concert. I realise that the hysterics are accountable to Gilmour's solo introduction to 'Shine On You Crazy Diamond' a classic progressive intro which (unsurprisingly) spans the obligatory ten minutes. The dark memories come flooding back and I'm already shifting in my seat.
But when Gilmour starts to sing I'm riveted to the spot. I never imagined that he'd possess one of the most uplifting and, dare I say it, beautiful, live vocal talents I'd ever heard. Soft, lilting, captivating it's a pleasure to hear him sing. His mastery of the guitar is indisputable and when he is joined by his all-star band (including former-cohort Michael Kamen on piano) the performance is breathtaking. I realise, despite my initial reservations, that this is an event rather than a run-of-the-mill gig.
Gilmour gets through various Floyd classics and even treats us to a new composition. An emotional moment is enjoyed by the crowd when Robert Wyatt is wheeled to the side of the stage (an accident deprived him of the use of his legs) and joins Gilmour on lead vocals. The wonderful input of the gospel backing singers sends shivers down my spine that couldn't be further from the pangs of fear I felt as a child and his closing elegy the second half of 'Crazy Diamond' is exhilarating. I even have a little chuckle; when an audience member requests a track from 'Animals' during the encore, Gilmour wittily replies 'we'd still be here after turf-out time if I did that'.
The only thing to spoil the night was the screeching, over-excited uber-fan to my rear. And I realise that, as an adult, its not the music I dislike its the testosterone churning, overly zealous hero-worship exhibited by the fans that scares me off. Much of Gilmour's performance is easy to absorb, audibly accessible and technically brilliant. What a shame that the aforementioned 'devotee' presumed shouting a tonsil rattling 'you fat bastard' would bring him out for a second encore.
I didn't get McCartney but I wasn't too downhearted. During the performance, Gilmour summarised Syd Barrett as a guy with 'a light in his eye and a spring in his step' and when I left the Festival Hall, that just about describes the way I felt.
Johanna Payton
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