Roger Waters is an Entertainer: Echoes of Floyd

Roger Waters in an entertainer. As I ascend the steps of the Nissan Pavilion, wry chemicals coursing through my veins, I know that at my age, he is as close as I am going to get to vintage Pink Floyd. I have had fantasies about stumbling into venues of the 1970s when the dark side of the moon shone down on the legions of loyal tripped-out Floyd fans. This was a fraction of Floyd, but it was arguably the most piercingly creative fraction of Floyd out there.

Mr. Waters is an old man, with a weathered grayness about him and placid eyes. His vitality comes out through the music he crafted so many years ago. He has the reputation of being a self-centered asshole, a man so caught up in his own artistic pretentiousness so as to make working with him impossible. The closest I would be to him was three hundred yards, I was prepared to absorb his persona whatever form it chose to project over that distance.

I take my position on the lawn among countless other fans. Some are old, reality-beaten hippies who have taken the chance for the ultimate mescaline experience in the DC area for years to come. Some are younger, growing up on digital compilations of the monolithic anthems of space rock. I was one of those. I have never owned an LP, vinyl is a term that these days arouses images of S&M more than rock music. But Floyd has always been a piercing field of vision behind my eyes, an encapsulation of things we’ve seen in movies or felt in our hearts, but have never been able to quite HEAR.

My friend and I camp out on a blanket I got as a high school graduation gift from my school. I take out two cigarettes, we light up. My vision is slightly double and I can’t quite feel my buttocks on the blanket. There is a thick smell of marijuana in the air. Oh, how I want to partake, but can’t alas. I was now in the real world, and unfortunately drug testing was a reality that I had to face more than most. I had to find other ways. I look around and see children with parents, fathers with daughters, all clustered together under the ominous and gloriously smelling haze of pot.