As an ageing if not old fart, I do of course enjoy Pink Floyd. I have a raft of their albums, still in glorious 12-inch vinyl, which I therefore play on an increasing vintage Thorens turntable. I known their work fairly well up to about 1977, but dislike of The Wall means my interest falls off from there. In fact I prefer the experimental 1960s work not too post-Barrett. So a tribute band that has been known to do all of a later album in one show, and whose backdrop advertised a condensed Wall tour was kind of worrying. But I have never seen Pink Floyd live, so The Australian Pink Floyd Show was and is the closest I am going to get.
The band closed the Saturday night in the Big Top, a venue I spent a lot of time at, and with a start-time during the act of arena headliners The Sex Pistols again meant a decision. But it was an easy one because The Sex Pistols were the worst headliners of the weekend: a short range of dated music performed by self-indulgent wrinkly old men. And so it was off to a tent to hear music that, if it were performed by the real artists, would also be performed by self-indulgent wrinkly old men.
I’ll say this: The Australian Pink Floyd Show is good and captures the essence of the experience, lights, sounds and all. But it suffers because Pink Floyd’s music is also essentially self-absorbed, and standing listening to a number that goes on for 10 to 15 minutes is just a bit much. I stood it for about an hour and left with the conclusion that Pink Floyd is best enjoyed lying down, clinging to a floor while the universe’s stars and planets circle gently overhead. That state is best and most comfortably achieved at home with a record.