Floyd vs. Zep: Let's Get It On! Gilmour Floyd and Heartbreaker '05 (Part 2)
Mary and I drove to the Tower District and made our way down Olive Avenue. The area was typically buzzing with people darting across the street and into bars and restaurants. We looked for some parking behind the theater with no luck and decided to head over a block to park by Livingstone's, where we would have dinner. Exiting the lot and heading back up to Olive, I glanced up at the marquee and saw:
The old man made his way up the aisle and passed by me. I looked back up at the screen behind the stage and watched the intro video for Gilmour Floyd. It looked like some sort of anti-violence public service announcement, but with really cool special effects of a bullet's flight. The tagline came up on screen and I decided to indeed hit the head and get that beer. In a rare twist, there was a short line for the men's room that formed right in front of the entrance of the ladies' room, which had no line. I played it classy and averted my eyes when the door to the ladies' room swung open, but the creeps in line next to me actually leaned to catch a peek inside. Some women who'd caught these overgrown 9-year-olds in the mirror scowled at them upon exiting the lavatory. The guys all giggled that they'd been made and waited for the door again. Morons. I hoped that those women didn't include me in their judgment of the group and become guilty by association.
One guy came bounding by the rest of us right up to the men's room door before one of the guys told him that there was a line. He said that he thought that we were all waiting for our girlfriends since we were outside of the ladies' room. Fair enough. He smiled sheepishly and took his spot in the back of the line. Then came a giant drunken monster about 6 and a half feet tall who scuffed his feet as he lumbered by us, right up to the door. The same guy as before said that there was a line. The behemoth turned around rapidly, staggering a bit from the centrifugal force of his movement. He tried to focus through his almost shut eyelids and pick out which of us had said that. He surveyed the line, couldn't decide where the sound might have come from and said, "I could kick all yer asses" while slowly waving his pointed finger up and down the line.
"Aw, get the fuck to the back of the line". Everyone in line turned to look at me. I'd said it before thinking. The giant looked right at me too. Hmm. He squared his shoulders and shuffled towards me, staring down the guys in line before me. "Fuckers", he slurred. When he got to me, he pointed his finger again and said, "I'm gonna remember you". I smiled right in his face. He took a deep breath, exhaled loudly through his nose, slumped his shoulders a bit and shuffled to what I thought would be the end of the line. But he continued on into the lobby. One guy laughed, "What the fuck was that all about?" Another answered, "I don't know. Maybe he forgot what he came for". I could picture him in his seat about 30 minutes later thinking, "Holy shit, I gotta piss all of a sudden!"
I reentered the theater with another beer to see, in fact, images from The Wizard Of Oz on the big screen. The fans were cheering loudly and it made me wonder which contributed to the sellout more; Gilmour Floyd or Heartbreaker. I'd heard that these guys had a fairly strong following locally and had pretty much filled the Tower by themselves, but Heartbreaker had a nice turnout at the much larger Warnors theater a couple of years back. I'd have to wait to compare the crowd reaction when Heartbreaker came on.
In the meantime, I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the sound coming through the system. Someone in line earlier had mentioned that a member of the band either owns or works for a sound system company or something to that effect. Regardless of the source, it was stellar. The separation of the instruments and the balance of the vocals was right on the mark. But the best sound system in the world can't mask a bad performance and in fact, can expose it further. I can tell you without question that these guys would have sounded good in a honky tonk playing through a supermarket's Muzak speakers. They were that damn good. I went in with lukewarm expectations and was highly impressed.
The musicians each provided enough individual talent that it was hard to focus on one for too long so as not to miss a move from another. The guitarist was spot-on playing the Gilmour style and tone. He had a decent voice as well. He played electric, acoustic, and some sort of lap-steel guitar. The keyboard player amazed me by exactly replicating the synth tones found on Pink Floyd records and he also contributed some fine backing vocals. The drummer stole my gaze most often. He had a large arsenal at his disposal, but he did not overplay the kit. His precision strikes on the smaller heads and cymbals were fun to watch because he plays so casually. A fine singer in his own right, he took the more gruff sounding vocals of the night while never missing a beat. I also liked that with him raised up on a platform, there was a great view of his playing. Normally, all you see of a drummer is his head and arms when he's enclosed in a drum kit of that size.
If I was disappointed in any aspect of the night, it was the antics of the bass player. This is no slight against his playing; he was great all night and at times really provided a warm low end that resonated in the theater. But his stage presence was that of a hair-band bass player. He strutted, smirked, bounced, ran, posed, pointed to people in the audience, clapped his hands above his head to entice the crowd to do the same, and generally got on my nerves. While the other musicians played with obvious enthusiasm, they did it with class and composure that lent an air of seriousness and respect for the music. If he were in, say, a Winger tribute band......well, shit, he would've nailed it. He really did nothing wrong, he just didn't fit in with what was happening up there. And besides, who the hell am I? He was up onstage doing something he obviously has a blast doing and I sat there and paid to see him do it.
The material leaned heavily on David Gilmour's contributions to the music of Pink Floyd (hence the moniker they chose, natch). I was a little taken aback to hear such tracks as Dogs Of War and One Slip from the album A Momentary Lapse Of Reason and not smash hits such as Money and Another Brick In The Wall. But playing just that type of set gave the band a level of credibility with me that proved that they weren't just pandering to the lowest common denominator. I'm not even what you'd call a huge Pink Floyd fan. I don't even own a Floyd CD, although I did have a couple of cassettes and LPS---the possession of such was a rite of passage in high school for every serious rocker---and I just haven't gotten around to replacing them on disc. Now, after seeing Gilmour Floyd, I have a renewed appreciation for the music of Pink Floyd. How many tribute bands can do that to a casual fan?
At the end of their set, Gilmour Floyd received a standing ovation and calls for an encore, but it was not to be. Time to set up for Heartbreaker. Mary and I now were contemplating how they'd be received, being a much more primal and sonically brutal band. Time to get another beer and prepare for the likenesses of Percy, Pagey, Jonesy, and Bonzo.
Next up: Does Anyone Remember Laughter? Gilmour Floyd And Heartbreaker '05 (Part 3)
GILMOUR FLOYD
and
HEARTBREAKER
SOLD OUT
I looked at Mary, who was maneuvering the car while scanning for possible parking. "Man, am I glad I decided to order tickets earlier this week", I said. She replied, "Yeah, and I suppose it's a good thing nobody decided to meet us down here and buy tickets after dinner. That would've sucked". I agreed. I didn't think it would sell out in advance but maybe just before the show. I only ordered tickets because I like to know I'm getting in for sure. I never want to be in my buddy Chet's position like he was at a Pantera show a few years back. (Read all about it in the Previous Posts column by clicking on A Dimebag For Your Thoughts).
We had a nice dinner and a couple of drinks before heading over to the theater. We walked on the side of the street across from the Tower and swam upstream of folks entering Roger Rocka's, a quaint litter dinner theater that's been around forever. The patrons of Rocka's tend to be middle to upper class types and it was funny to see them shoot quick glances across the street, wondering why in the world all these scruffy people were in line to see a show at the Tower Theater. (The Tower usually hosts dance troupes, an occasional blues act, and most often "smooth jazz" artists. This line of people snaking its way around the corner probably looked to the Rocka's crowd like the one at a needle exchange point.)
I walked up to the will call window to claim my tickets. For some reason, I always get a little nervous at this point. A little bead of paranoia bounces around in my skull, fueled by wicked thoughts of lost credit card numbers and misfiled paperwork. "What do mean you don't have any tickets for Tony Holt?!!" is always on the tip of my tongue. I bit my lower lip a little as the lady behind the glass rifled through some envelopes and exhaled slowly when she picked one out. I was reaching for my wallet when she handed me the tickets and said, "Here ya go". I looked at Mary with raised eyebrows. She asked, "No I.D. check? That's weird". I was just glad that Tony Hull (or someone else with a similar name) didn't claim his tickets first and get a couple of freebies. More paranoia.
We stood in line and eavesdropped on people. It's one my favorite pastimes. Usually, it takes some concentration to filter out background noise. But with the people behind us in line, you couldn't help but overhear every word. One lady had a very distinct and loud laugh. They must have just come from dinner and drinks. Or should that read, drinks and dinner? Possibly drinks and drinks. One guy was talking about some bands that I like that aren't exactly mainstream. Mary recognized some of the names and said quietly to me, "Hey, another music geek like you". "Shaddup you", I laughed. Anyway, they were loud and in the spirit of the night. They weren't really too obnoxious, but we decided that we'd make sure to sit on the opposite side of the theater if possible.
Once inside, it was time to stake out some seats and get some beers. Some nice aisle seats did us fine and I went up to get in the short beer line. I stood behind a woman who was fishing around maniacally in her wallet. She must have felt my presence because, without turning all the way around and without looking up, she asked in my general direction, "Seen these guys before?" I hesitated for just a second and said that I hadn't seen Gilmour Floyd but had seen Heartbreaker and liked them very much. She then said tersely, "I haven't seen the Led Zeppelin, but I saw Gilmour Floyd before". I waited for a remark concerning the band, the performance, or hell, even the weather. But she simply turned around and continued to sift through the papers in her wallet. Okay, I thought, that was a short conversation. I drifted out of line just a step to nosily spy what it was she was looking for. I saw no folding money, but lots and lots of what looked like scrap paper. I thought I could hear her mumbling, but I decided that I probably projected that onto her persona. As she got closer to the beer table, it became clear that she was going to be a problem. She was shaking her head back and forth in obvious frustration. The person in front of her got his beer and she stepped up to the table, never looking up at the server who was asking her what she'd like to drink. I rolled my eyes when she didn't reply right away. What was she doing? I was relieved to see another gal step up to create a second serving station. She motioned me over and took my order. In the meantime, the crazy lady was still digging around in her wallet. She continued to do so as I walked by her on the way out of the lobby, wondering if maybe she was trying to buy a beer with a Carl's Jr. coupon.
I sat down by Mary and handed her a Sierra Nevada. We people watched and smiled when we heard the lady from the line laughing from her seat across the theater. I took notice of the stage setup. A large drum kit was positioned stage right on a large riser and the multiple keyboards were stage stage left on a matching riser. Both risers had large brick facades, evoking imagery from The Wall. Two mic stands were positioned below the risers. Nothing stood center stage. I was already impressed with the stage and was intrigued as to what player would sing lead with the mics set up as they were. Behind the stage in front of the curtain was a large projection screen. I wondered aloud to Mary if the band would put up some Wizard Of Oz scenes and then, upon seeing the confused look on her face, went on to explain the phenomena of watching The Wizard Of Oz while playing Pink Floyd's Dark Side Of The Moon album. Apparently, there are coincidences of lyrics relating to scenes in the movie. I find it fun to read about, but I just don't have the kind of time it takes to experiment with it because, well, I'm not a stoner.
The lights went down and I thought I'd better make another break for the men's room and get another round. That's when I paused at the back of the theater to see if my guess was right about the Oz clips and I overheard the old man ribbing the sound guy.
----------
The old man made his way up the aisle and passed by me. I looked back up at the screen behind the stage and watched the intro video for Gilmour Floyd. It looked like some sort of anti-violence public service announcement, but with really cool special effects of a bullet's flight. The tagline came up on screen and I decided to indeed hit the head and get that beer. In a rare twist, there was a short line for the men's room that formed right in front of the entrance of the ladies' room, which had no line. I played it classy and averted my eyes when the door to the ladies' room swung open, but the creeps in line next to me actually leaned to catch a peek inside. Some women who'd caught these overgrown 9-year-olds in the mirror scowled at them upon exiting the lavatory. The guys all giggled that they'd been made and waited for the door again. Morons. I hoped that those women didn't include me in their judgment of the group and become guilty by association.
One guy came bounding by the rest of us right up to the men's room door before one of the guys told him that there was a line. He said that he thought that we were all waiting for our girlfriends since we were outside of the ladies' room. Fair enough. He smiled sheepishly and took his spot in the back of the line. Then came a giant drunken monster about 6 and a half feet tall who scuffed his feet as he lumbered by us, right up to the door. The same guy as before said that there was a line. The behemoth turned around rapidly, staggering a bit from the centrifugal force of his movement. He tried to focus through his almost shut eyelids and pick out which of us had said that. He surveyed the line, couldn't decide where the sound might have come from and said, "I could kick all yer asses" while slowly waving his pointed finger up and down the line.
"Aw, get the fuck to the back of the line". Everyone in line turned to look at me. I'd said it before thinking. The giant looked right at me too. Hmm. He squared his shoulders and shuffled towards me, staring down the guys in line before me. "Fuckers", he slurred. When he got to me, he pointed his finger again and said, "I'm gonna remember you". I smiled right in his face. He took a deep breath, exhaled loudly through his nose, slumped his shoulders a bit and shuffled to what I thought would be the end of the line. But he continued on into the lobby. One guy laughed, "What the fuck was that all about?" Another answered, "I don't know. Maybe he forgot what he came for". I could picture him in his seat about 30 minutes later thinking, "Holy shit, I gotta piss all of a sudden!"
I reentered the theater with another beer to see, in fact, images from The Wizard Of Oz on the big screen. The fans were cheering loudly and it made me wonder which contributed to the sellout more; Gilmour Floyd or Heartbreaker. I'd heard that these guys had a fairly strong following locally and had pretty much filled the Tower by themselves, but Heartbreaker had a nice turnout at the much larger Warnors theater a couple of years back. I'd have to wait to compare the crowd reaction when Heartbreaker came on.
In the meantime, I was pleasantly surprised at the quality of the sound coming through the system. Someone in line earlier had mentioned that a member of the band either owns or works for a sound system company or something to that effect. Regardless of the source, it was stellar. The separation of the instruments and the balance of the vocals was right on the mark. But the best sound system in the world can't mask a bad performance and in fact, can expose it further. I can tell you without question that these guys would have sounded good in a honky tonk playing through a supermarket's Muzak speakers. They were that damn good. I went in with lukewarm expectations and was highly impressed.
The musicians each provided enough individual talent that it was hard to focus on one for too long so as not to miss a move from another. The guitarist was spot-on playing the Gilmour style and tone. He had a decent voice as well. He played electric, acoustic, and some sort of lap-steel guitar. The keyboard player amazed me by exactly replicating the synth tones found on Pink Floyd records and he also contributed some fine backing vocals. The drummer stole my gaze most often. He had a large arsenal at his disposal, but he did not overplay the kit. His precision strikes on the smaller heads and cymbals were fun to watch because he plays so casually. A fine singer in his own right, he took the more gruff sounding vocals of the night while never missing a beat. I also liked that with him raised up on a platform, there was a great view of his playing. Normally, all you see of a drummer is his head and arms when he's enclosed in a drum kit of that size.
If I was disappointed in any aspect of the night, it was the antics of the bass player. This is no slight against his playing; he was great all night and at times really provided a warm low end that resonated in the theater. But his stage presence was that of a hair-band bass player. He strutted, smirked, bounced, ran, posed, pointed to people in the audience, clapped his hands above his head to entice the crowd to do the same, and generally got on my nerves. While the other musicians played with obvious enthusiasm, they did it with class and composure that lent an air of seriousness and respect for the music. If he were in, say, a Winger tribute band......well, shit, he would've nailed it. He really did nothing wrong, he just didn't fit in with what was happening up there. And besides, who the hell am I? He was up onstage doing something he obviously has a blast doing and I sat there and paid to see him do it.
The material leaned heavily on David Gilmour's contributions to the music of Pink Floyd (hence the moniker they chose, natch). I was a little taken aback to hear such tracks as Dogs Of War and One Slip from the album A Momentary Lapse Of Reason and not smash hits such as Money and Another Brick In The Wall. But playing just that type of set gave the band a level of credibility with me that proved that they weren't just pandering to the lowest common denominator. I'm not even what you'd call a huge Pink Floyd fan. I don't even own a Floyd CD, although I did have a couple of cassettes and LPS---the possession of such was a rite of passage in high school for every serious rocker---and I just haven't gotten around to replacing them on disc. Now, after seeing Gilmour Floyd, I have a renewed appreciation for the music of Pink Floyd. How many tribute bands can do that to a casual fan?
At the end of their set, Gilmour Floyd received a standing ovation and calls for an encore, but it was not to be. Time to set up for Heartbreaker. Mary and I now were contemplating how they'd be received, being a much more primal and sonically brutal band. Time to get another beer and prepare for the likenesses of Percy, Pagey, Jonesy, and Bonzo.
Next up: Does Anyone Remember Laughter? Gilmour Floyd And Heartbreaker '05 (Part 3)
posted by Tony at 1:22 PM
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