Notes on last Friday’s Pink Floyd Laser Spectacular, scribbled in the darkened Crest Theatre
Home, home again
Put on complimentary prismatic laser specs. Eek! Large moon flying at me! Credits read: “Based on music by Pink Floyd.” Crowd cheers.
Wow! The glasses turn a single blue-green laser spiral into a field of shapes everywhere. Heaven help the people who took psychedelics before they got here. This is already too much. Crap. Scenes from The Wall. I hate that movie. Glasses make it seem like I’m holding many pens. Blurry notebook. Smells like pot. I wonder what these flashing lights are doing to my brain.
OK, this show is amazing. It’s elaborate and fills the air with color and sound. It’s also horrifying, like a Clockwork Orange-style video experiment. Totally worth the $27 admission. They should do this with other bands.
The men next to me are smoking cigars. People in front of me are waving. Why are they waving? Why? Wait, am I freaking people out with my constant writing? Clearly, paranoia has set in.
AHHHH! Alarm-clock sound with strobe lights and rainbows so loud and bright I cover my eyes and ears.
Ticking away the moments that make up the dull day
My God, are we still on the same song we started with? How long have I been sitting here? Is my pen working? Did that multicolored sun just wink at me? Is that laser spiral made of letters? What do they spell? H-E-L-P M-E. Yeah, really.
Pen is working, I just couldn’t tell with the glasses on. My eyes hurt. Is this really a two-hour show? I just turned around and saw red circles in the air and all over the crowd.
Money, it’s a gas
Lasers project raining dollar signs. There are cheesy drawings of a lady in a miniskirt playing a saxophone. What is this, a Robert Palmer video? Everyone around me nods their heads simultaneously in the dark, wearing the same glasses.
Me, me, me and you, you, you
More hokey laser saxophones. Electric Spirograph scribbles invade the air. People’s cell phones and lighters are magnified dozens of times in my prism glasses. The woman next to me is tapping me on the arm.
“Did you see this?” she yells, pointing to the ceiling. “You’re always writing. I didn’t want you to miss it.”
The lunatic is on the grass
The lunatics are little laser guys with crescent-moon faces like Mac Tonight in leotards. Eew, they’re climbing inside a scalped head, laughing and taking the eyes out. “There’s someone in my head, but it’s not me.” Yeah, I get it.
Whoa! Cheesy emcee voice out of nowhere: “'Dark Side of the Mooooon,'” he croons. “That was written 35 years ago. Let’s give it up! We’ll be back in 15 minutes with the best of Pink Floyd.”
I am so disoriented. I don’t even want popcorn, and I always want popcorn. The men next to me left cigar wrappers and piles of ash all over the floor. Dicks.
We don’t need no education
Sound of helicopters. Creepy scowling headmasters. People clap like it’s a hoedown and pump fists in the air. It’s impossible to convey how much I hate this song. Everyone is yelling, “Hey, teacher! Leave them kids alone!” Onscreen, children in plastic masks are falling into a giant meat grinder. Why does anyone like this?
“You can sing louder than that!” the emcee says.
Hello, is there anybody in there?
My brain has adapted to all these stimuli. I don’t have to cover my eyes anymore. Hammers marching. Maggots. Boy with a dead rodent.
All in all, we’re all just bricks in the wall
My eyes, my ears, my head just hurt. I am so tired. Really, what is this doing to my brain? The finale is insane. Pink Floyd imagery flying around: pigs, prisms, the guy in the light-bulb suit, hammers coming straight for me. Oh, I am so ready to go home. Again.