In 1994, I was 18 and really into Pink Floyd. Meddle, Animals, Wish You Were Here, The Wall—I loved them all. Their songs were elegant, harmonic distillations of my disgust with the world.
Everyone was wrong. Everyone was a brick in the wall. No one knew why they were living. They went to work, ate, drank, married, reproduced because they had been told to do so by the machine. I had integrity (or at least as much integrity as someone can have while his parents pay rent and stock the refrigerator). I would never be another brick in the wall. No one would welcome me into any machine.
When I heard about their concert at Mile High Stadium in June, I made sure I had a ticket. It would be the summer’s climax.
The day of the concert was a typically beautiful Colorado summer day—dry heat, sun with a little cloud-cover, a late afternoon sprinkle to cool things off. Before heading down from Boulder, my friends and I ate some mushrooms. To ensure the full experience of Pink Floyd’s insouciance, I ate a quarter ounce.
I had never been to a stadium show. It didn’t seem like the best place to experience a concert, but I had faith in the Floyd to maintain their integrity. Tickets were $80 after all. How could an $80 show be bad?
My friends and I tailgated before the show, bringing a keg of beer to ease us into our mushroom trips. Everything was going great until I entered the stadium. The large spaces, the massive crowds of very brick-like characters, the hawking of t-shirts, the concession stands selling overpriced Coors and cheese-whizzed nachos. I became immediately disturbed. Then I found my seat. It was on the first level, in the last row next to the exit. Because the seat was deep under the first balcony, I had only a partial view of stage (apparently a large inflated pig came out of the top of the stage, but I didn’t see anything). Florescent lights flickered overhead. I couldn’t smoke weed because cops stood next to me throughout the show. Continue reading “All in All I’m Probably Just Another Brick in The Wall”