Conquering The Scene: “The Wall Live” at London’s O2 Arena

On the 17th of May, 2011, I attended “The Wall Live” at London’s O2 Arena. For readers unfamiliar/sans pulse, The Wall was the 1979 penultimate Pink Floyd album released with their most famed lineup still intact; infighting kept at bay, artistic ambition paramount. Largely, if not entirely, the brainchild of the band’s primary songwriter/lyricist/visionary Roger Waters, it was and is an album riddled with moments of brilliance, inspiration, prescience, philosophy, pseudo-philosophy, petulance, silliness, and all things in between.

Hammering away at themes he’d obsessed over on all Floyd albums previous (war, isolation, Syd Barrett, fascism and each of its authoritative iterations, Syd Barrett, desolation, and the mental collapse of the onetime PF frontman, Syd Barrett), Waters frantically expectorates on all the players of his own world’s stage. Sometimes bull’s-eye, sometimes embarrassment. Equal parts grin and cringe.

But make no mistake: The Wall is a masterpiece. With repeated listens, the album’s faults/lows become charming and endearing. The high points soar ever higher; monumentalism turned… monumentality! And such is the way of Roger Waters; an incredibly talented bassist and songwriter oft-mistaken for a genius, enfant terrible, madman, et al. He is none of these. Simply an everyman who created more than one musical masterwork which ventured a little too far out in the intellectual swimming pool. No matter, the music is the thing…

The people agreed. The Wall, for all its heavy lifting, went on to become undoubtedly the most successful concept album in history. Told from the perspective of Pink, a disillusioned rock star with serious mother issues and a father who was killed in the war, the story is paint-by-numbers dystopian drivel. With reasons ranging from childhood trauma to domestic disturbance, Pink builds up a metaphorical wall until he’s completely isolated from humanity. In his mind’s eye, he’s become a fascist dictator ordering undesirables to the firing squad (“that one looks Jewish, that one’s a coon…”)

Ultimately, Pink feels remorse, puts himself on trial, and finds redemption. The wall is torn down. Ostensibly, this is the life story of Roger Waters. But, invariably… and pathetically, there’s the perpetual fetishistic specter of Syd Barrett hovering about; golden ghost hair futilely trying to cash royalty checks.  Not happening dead boy.   An eyebrow shaven Bob Geldof (gasp!) directed by hack du jour Alan Parker (double gasp!) in the 1982 eponymous cinematic monstrosity is all the proof we need. Screenplay by… Roger Waters!

Unless Waters had alopecia post-Pink fame, this movie is Syd Barrett Exploitation 101, or in Roger’s case; Syd Barrett Exploitation 500: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love Exploiting Syd. Surrounding cadavers blinded by Syd’s retroactive Tasmanian whirlwind…

A hugely successful world wide tour followed in 1980, Waters’ megalomania and profligacy on full display. A 40’ wall, constructed of cardboard “bricks”, would gradually be built up as the show progressed, mirroring Pink’s mental fragility. Various giant inflatable characters such as the menacing Teacher and the record sleeve’s ubiquitous hammer, both emblazoned with the Soviet/Nazi simulacrum, hang suspended above the stage. All the while, legendary Pink Floyd performing the album’s songs in sequential order; the cardboard wall crumbling down as a climax. High theatrics for a rock concert. And much appreciated, deservedly so.

Roger left Pink Floyd in 1985, embarking on a long and undistinguished solo career writing songs about war, isolation, and Syd Barrett. He performed The Wall once more, in the shadowy rubble of the fallen Berlin Wall (entering unparalleled levels of exploitation territory here.  A person and a people?  RW rubbing his balls all over the earth’s sleeping face.) The brilliant Van Morrison rendition of Comfortably Numb, used beautifully in Martin Scorsese’s The Departed; the highlight of the night. Picture a veritable wall of stone-faced East Germans looking up at this prancing pony, his stench of manure carried 700 miles; a homogenous mass of unimpressed.

Picture a veritable wall of stone-faced East Germans looking up at this prancing pony, his stench of manure carried 700 miles.

It is with all of this in mind that I saunter through the security gates at London’s O2 arena, 9PM. Sunglasses on, New England Patriot hoodie covering head. Linen pants bulging at the nether. Give me all you got, Roger Waters…

Sitting down in our seats, five rows removed from the stadium’s farthest reach, the show is ready to begin. Aside from the obnoxiously drunken Brits in our section singing various jingoistic chants of anti-this team and anti that-country, I am in the zone; quiet American, locked in: eyes popping out of head and scared shitless, ready to flee the scene…

With the guitar continuing to zing and zang, out strolls the oldest leather clad bitch I’ve ever seen.

And then “In the Flesh” kicks in. Mass hysteria. Words cannot describe how thrilling that first guitar riff is, accompanying fireworks and the appearance of “the wall” only compounding the euphoria. What we have here are no longer cardboard bricks but individual LCD screens; a confluence of brilliant digital images forming an awe inspiring whole. With the guitar continuing to zing and zang, out strolls the oldest leather clad bitch I’ve ever seen. Walking from one end of the stage to the other, both fists raised in revolutionary salute, the crowd is in a full on frenzy. “Who the fuck is that old bitch?” I ask my friend. “That’s Roger Waters, you dumb shit!” he answers. Hmm.

This motherfucker was hobbling around like a wounded dog. But as he struggled his way into character, replete with Ray Bans/leather trench coat combination, his voice was clearly still sound/unimpaired, not far removed from the vocals recorded over 30 years ago. With each passing song, the wall would erect another two or three tiers. We saw him knees up at “The Happiest Days of Our Lives”.  Waist up by  “Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2”,  and so on, until the wall’s ultimate completion.

It was during this very song, ABITW, that things got a little shaky.  Bringing in dozens of local children to sing the song’s famed chorus (“Hey, teacher. . .) as he does in every city in which the tour stops, Roger took the theatrics a step further by having said children repeatedly point and mock the giant inflatable Teacher in unison.  Intended as some sort of galvanizing grotesquerie, it elicited a wholly antithetical response from the crowd: collective cringe!   Precocious children and drunken rock fans don’t mix.  Sensing the crowd’s horror, Waters ushered those assholes off the stage and got right back into bashing Apple products and American imperialism; extra zeal in his step–”Im hip, guys.  Seriously!”

To his credit, given his age and massive wealth, Roger managed to keep the energy level high throughout the entire show. And his passion for the material, which I found quite inspiring, still seems entirely genuine.  Which makes sense, given that it really is his life’s work.  With a relentless stream of agitprop imagery assaulting the senses in 50’ of glorious LCD, the show never suffered a dull moment. Even during some of the slower, more introspective tunes, the elation did not waver.

…the ticket was worth every penny…

By the time the band launched into “Hey You”, the wall had been completed. Without a single band member visible, it was quite a sight to behold. Along with “Comfortably Numb”, “Mother”, and “Bring the Boys Back Home”, this was the high point of a tremendous show. Perhaps the best of my lifetime.

At $140 and, as mentioned earlier, in nearly the last row of the house, the ticket was worth every penny; silliness and sophomoric politicizing a non-issue.  The experience trumps all.  Roger Waters could pull this show off well into his 80′s; modifications dictated by the latest craze of consumerism or whatever war happened to be waged that week by the American Imperial Army.  And Sid. . . still dead.

Rolled out on stage; a hairless, demented, diamond encrusted relic, engulfed by a thirty thousand strong throng of rabidity,  RW might then finally understand the pool of tragic which his bastardly toe has dipped in a few too many times.  With overwhelming, epiphanic shame, Roger will sing those songs more majestically than ever.  The phantom of Sid Barrett hanging suspended in the rafters, gag ball in mouth; unremitting spray of cathartic, phantasmagorical ass blood washing over the ignorant masses below.  I would pay top dollar to see that show, and one day, I will. . .