Review of Roger Waters: The Wall 12/5/11
Roger Waters: The Wall at the O2 Arena, London
A whopping great pig flies over the audience! A huge plane crashes into the stage and sets it on fire! 20 foot tall puppets descend from the ceiling! Crimson neo-Nazi flags are waved by jack booted minions! Blazing sparks shoot from the roof! Collossal animated buttocks are projected onto a giant wall! Oh, and in amongst that are some of the finest, most challenging songs in rock history. Nearly 30 years after its first incarnation, Roger Waters has returned with a special tour of the original and greatest rock opera of all time: The Wall.
The plot of The Wall follows the life of the imaginary Pink (a thinly veiled Waters-a-like) from the death of his father during World War II, through his childhood years with an abusive teacher and overbearing Mother to an unhappy marriage and un-fulfilling, oppressive career as a rock star. Each of these traumas symbolically become bricks in a wall that he builds around himself, shutting himself off from all human contact. During the stage show, real cardboard bricks are individually built up along the stage, until the entire band is obscured from view. Alone with his thoughts Pink hallucinates, believing himself to be a fascist dictator, and eventually puts himself on trial for his misdemeanours, culminating in his decision to, literally, "tear down the wall."
Although the grand concept is specifically about Waters' own inner struggle, fans throughout the decades have latched on to the familiar feelings of loneliness and inadequacy. While the first half is not as musically strong as Pink Floyd's previous efforts, the heartfelt lyrics and soaring imagery carry it through. The second half's bombastic pomp is underpinned by much more solid rock riffs (courtesy of guitarist Dave Gilmour during the rare times he was allowed a smidgeon of creative freedom) and is generally much more successful.
The Wall is equally famous for being a technical masterpiece and theatre extravaganza as it is for being the final cut that ripped Pink Floyd apart. Waters' increasing megalomania and ego driven vision delivered the biggest and best spectacle of the time, but it also totally alienated him from the rest of the band and effectively bankrupted them all. Broke, fed up and exhausted, Waters was unceremoniously ousted in 1985 and the band barely spoke again until their surprise reunion at Live 8 in 2008.
Perhaps that vicious split is the reason why this re-staging was so hotly anticipated. Most fans had resigned themselves to never hearing their favourite songs performed live ever again, so the chance to see the entire show just one more time was a hitherto unheard of proposition. The crowd around me consisted of mainly middle aged men, who sang, yelled and hugged each other with what The Daily Telegraph's Neil McCormick called, "a fervour verging on religious experience." Certainly, I've never been in a crowd that displayed such obvious surges of emotion; there was a lot of man love in that room. But while McCormick sneered at this crassness, he also admitted that he had not been a fan the first time round either. However this show was always aimed at dyed-in-the-wool Floyd fans, and unashamedly so, therefore, just this once Mr McCormick, allow us to indulge ourselves.
I'll admit that Waters' performance skills are not what a modern viewer expects, inured as we are to genuine talent by a parade of all-singing, all-dancing boybands and the like. With his skinny jeans and white trainers, punching the air like a Dad at a disco, his stagecraft isn't quite what you'd expect from one of the world's most successful musicians. But then, Waters was never the front man - he only took over, reluctantly, in 1968 when original singer Syd Barrett was forced to leave due to mental health issues. Notably, while The Who's Roger Daltrey had no problem performing the lead role in their own rock opera Tommy, Waters delegated that honour to the much more charismatic Bob Geldof for the The Wall film in 1982.
There's no doubt that the whole concept has its flaws but, on the night, the final execution was completely flawless. Gerald Scarfe's legendary animations were given the breathtaking clarity of digital technology and every scorching guitar riff was presented in sumptuous surround sound. New, up-to-date themes were added - including pictures of planes dropping crucifixes and Shell symbols - and photos of fallen soldiers and activists (sent in by fans) were displayed on individual bricks. This fresh, interactive approach made the performance feel less like Waters was preaching to his church, but that he had genuinely managed to step outside his own wall and finally appreciate the views and input of other people.
Nothing else could have reinforced this more when, completely unannounced, Dave Gilmour appeared on top of the wall to play Comfortably Numb. For two men who once couldn't stand to breathe each other's air, Waters and Gilmour finally shared the same stage once more (albeit 30 feet apart) belting out, arguably, their most famous hit. I can honestly say that I have never experienced anything like the huge wave of euphoria that rippled across the audience when they realised what had just happened: it's no exaggeration to say that at least half of the crowd burst into tears. I don't care that Waters is a pompous, overblown primadonna. I don't care that he sermonizes anti-capitalism and then charges me £35 for a t-shirt. I don't even care that Gilmour got the words to his own song wrong. All I know is that, on that night, every single one of us watched a piece of genuine magic.
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Funny story number 1: at the beginning, a large rag doll was brought out while the classic "I'm Spartacus" dialogue played in the background. Unable to contain myself, I stood up and shouted at the top of my voice, "I'm Spartacus and so's my wife!" Fortunately, the whole crowd was already on its feet and were making far too much noise for anyone else to hear me!
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Funny story number 2: during the interval my boyfriend's cousin went up to the merchandise stall and, in his broad Glaswegian accent, asked to buy one of the hilariously overpriced t-shirts. The man behind the stall looked him straight in the eye and said, "you do realise that we don't accept any of your money?" To which Duncan gave the only response possible which was, "AYE!"
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Funny story number 3: we went all the way to London, only to be sitting next to some fellow Glasgwegians, who kept yelling things like "mon yersel' Roger!" and "Glasgow Rangeeeeeeeeeeeers!"
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Funny story number 4: that was the only time in my life where I didn't encounter a queue for the female toilets. Female Floyd fans are evidently thin on the ground. Still, there was a satisfying moment of Schadenfreude when I saw the huge queues of men snaking round the corridors, hopping from foot to foot.
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Funny story number 5: I'd like to point out that I don't make a habit of picking up the Torygraph. I only bought it because it came with a free bottle of Buxton. :-P
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A whopping great pig flies over the audience! A huge plane crashes into the stage and sets it on fire! 20 foot tall puppets descend from the ceiling! Crimson neo-Nazi flags are waved by jack booted minions! Blazing sparks shoot from the roof! Collossal animated buttocks are projected onto a giant wall! Oh, and in amongst that are some of the finest, most challenging songs in rock history. Nearly 30 years after its first incarnation, Roger Waters has returned with a special tour of the original and greatest rock opera of all time: The Wall.
The plot of The Wall follows the life of the imaginary Pink (a thinly veiled Waters-a-like) from the death of his father during World War II, through his childhood years with an abusive teacher and overbearing Mother to an unhappy marriage and un-fulfilling, oppressive career as a rock star. Each of these traumas symbolically become bricks in a wall that he builds around himself, shutting himself off from all human contact. During the stage show, real cardboard bricks are individually built up along the stage, until the entire band is obscured from view. Alone with his thoughts Pink hallucinates, believing himself to be a fascist dictator, and eventually puts himself on trial for his misdemeanours, culminating in his decision to, literally, "tear down the wall."
Although the grand concept is specifically about Waters' own inner struggle, fans throughout the decades have latched on to the familiar feelings of loneliness and inadequacy. While the first half is not as musically strong as Pink Floyd's previous efforts, the heartfelt lyrics and soaring imagery carry it through. The second half's bombastic pomp is underpinned by much more solid rock riffs (courtesy of guitarist Dave Gilmour during the rare times he was allowed a smidgeon of creative freedom) and is generally much more successful.
The Wall is equally famous for being a technical masterpiece and theatre extravaganza as it is for being the final cut that ripped Pink Floyd apart. Waters' increasing megalomania and ego driven vision delivered the biggest and best spectacle of the time, but it also totally alienated him from the rest of the band and effectively bankrupted them all. Broke, fed up and exhausted, Waters was unceremoniously ousted in 1985 and the band barely spoke again until their surprise reunion at Live 8 in 2008.
Perhaps that vicious split is the reason why this re-staging was so hotly anticipated. Most fans had resigned themselves to never hearing their favourite songs performed live ever again, so the chance to see the entire show just one more time was a hitherto unheard of proposition. The crowd around me consisted of mainly middle aged men, who sang, yelled and hugged each other with what The Daily Telegraph's Neil McCormick called, "a fervour verging on religious experience." Certainly, I've never been in a crowd that displayed such obvious surges of emotion; there was a lot of man love in that room. But while McCormick sneered at this crassness, he also admitted that he had not been a fan the first time round either. However this show was always aimed at dyed-in-the-wool Floyd fans, and unashamedly so, therefore, just this once Mr McCormick, allow us to indulge ourselves.
I'll admit that Waters' performance skills are not what a modern viewer expects, inured as we are to genuine talent by a parade of all-singing, all-dancing boybands and the like. With his skinny jeans and white trainers, punching the air like a Dad at a disco, his stagecraft isn't quite what you'd expect from one of the world's most successful musicians. But then, Waters was never the front man - he only took over, reluctantly, in 1968 when original singer Syd Barrett was forced to leave due to mental health issues. Notably, while The Who's Roger Daltrey had no problem performing the lead role in their own rock opera Tommy, Waters delegated that honour to the much more charismatic Bob Geldof for the The Wall film in 1982.
There's no doubt that the whole concept has its flaws but, on the night, the final execution was completely flawless. Gerald Scarfe's legendary animations were given the breathtaking clarity of digital technology and every scorching guitar riff was presented in sumptuous surround sound. New, up-to-date themes were added - including pictures of planes dropping crucifixes and Shell symbols - and photos of fallen soldiers and activists (sent in by fans) were displayed on individual bricks. This fresh, interactive approach made the performance feel less like Waters was preaching to his church, but that he had genuinely managed to step outside his own wall and finally appreciate the views and input of other people.
Nothing else could have reinforced this more when, completely unannounced, Dave Gilmour appeared on top of the wall to play Comfortably Numb. For two men who once couldn't stand to breathe each other's air, Waters and Gilmour finally shared the same stage once more (albeit 30 feet apart) belting out, arguably, their most famous hit. I can honestly say that I have never experienced anything like the huge wave of euphoria that rippled across the audience when they realised what had just happened: it's no exaggeration to say that at least half of the crowd burst into tears. I don't care that Waters is a pompous, overblown primadonna. I don't care that he sermonizes anti-capitalism and then charges me £35 for a t-shirt. I don't even care that Gilmour got the words to his own song wrong. All I know is that, on that night, every single one of us watched a piece of genuine magic.
Funny story number 1: at the beginning, a large rag doll was brought out while the classic "I'm Spartacus" dialogue played in the background. Unable to contain myself, I stood up and shouted at the top of my voice, "I'm Spartacus and so's my wife!" Fortunately, the whole crowd was already on its feet and were making far too much noise for anyone else to hear me!
Funny story number 2: during the interval my boyfriend's cousin went up to the merchandise stall and, in his broad Glaswegian accent, asked to buy one of the hilariously overpriced t-shirts. The man behind the stall looked him straight in the eye and said, "you do realise that we don't accept any of your money?" To which Duncan gave the only response possible which was, "AYE!"
Funny story number 3: we went all the way to London, only to be sitting next to some fellow Glasgwegians, who kept yelling things like "mon yersel' Roger!" and "Glasgow Rangeeeeeeeeeeeers!"
Funny story number 4: that was the only time in my life where I didn't encounter a queue for the female toilets. Female Floyd fans are evidently thin on the ground. Still, there was a satisfying moment of Schadenfreude when I saw the huge queues of men snaking round the corridors, hopping from foot to foot.
Funny story number 5: I'd like to point out that I don't make a habit of picking up the Torygraph. I only bought it because it came with a free bottle of Buxton. :-P