223. David Gilmour
Royal ALbert Hall
12 October 2024
Prog rockers never really die, they just add more pedals. I might have seen that on a T-shirt somewhere. And so, on a crisp October night, my prog-rock friend and I found ourselves once again on our ongoing prog odyssey, entering the Royal Albert Hall to see the high priest of tone himself: David Gilmour, back after eight long years, guitar in hand, expression of serene omniscience firmly intact.
The crowd was exactly what you’d expect at a Gilmour gig in 2024: a mix of silver-haired sonic scholars, solemn forty-somethings clutching copies of Dark Side on vinyl like relics, and their slightly bewildered offspring, dragged along for “a cultural education.”
When Gilmour appeared, the place rose as one. He’s 78 now but still looks disarmingly like the world’s most relaxed Jedi master. Then came that first note, that note, the one that hangs in the air longer than most relationships.
He kicked off with tracks from his new record Luck and Strange, a collection of late-night melancholy, elegant as whisky in a crystal tumbler. Songs like “Between Two Points” and “Black Cat” proved that Gilmour can still make wistful guitar sound endless, even when singing about the passage of time and, quite possibly, high-end carpentry, it’s hard to tell without Roger Waters’ bitingly observed lyricism.
But halfway through, the evening took a rather charming turn: Gilmour introduced his daughter, Romany, to the stage. Now, if you’re the offspring of a man whose solos are practically UNESCO heritage material, that’s some pressure. But good lord, she had chops. She sang with smoky confidence and cool poise, sliding into “Between Two Points” like she’d been born in a recording booth. The family genes were clearly strong.
Then came the inevitable parade of greatness: “High Hopes”, “Sorrow”, “On an Island” each one sounding like the musical embodiment of a sunset. Gilmour’s fingers barely seemed to move; the notes just appeared, hovering above the audience, as though he were communing directly with the gods of reverb.
You could feel it coming before it arrived “Wish You Were Here.” That opening acoustic figure dropped like a stone into a still pond. Thousands sang along in ragged unison, a chorus of the faithful.
By the time “Comfortably Numb” hit, the emotional dam burst. That solo. That solo. It’s not even music anymore, it’s a public service. The crowd’s collective jaw hit the floor as Gilmour coaxed out that soaring cry of sound that’s made grown men weep and teenagers decide they’ll never be that good.
Between songs, Gilmour was wry and warm, poking fun at himself, his age, and his supposed retirement. He closed, naturally, with “Shine On You Crazy Diamond”, and if you didn’t feel something stir in your chest during those first four notes, you might want to check for a pulse. The lights shimmered, his guitar wept, and somewhere up there, Syd Barrett hopefully smiled.