1994, I was 21, the tickets to Pink Floyd had been bought six months earlier, in 1993, and the night before the gig we’d been playing poker all through the night. A couple of friends playing high stakes: macaroni! We spent the night awake, planning for quick access to the front line of the queue. Come the day; no queue. Just a bunch of tired youngsters heckled by a passer-by. “Ey, have you gotten some bad shit, or whut?” (in a broad Gothenburg-accent).
Inside the stadium there was the waiting. Waiting and rain. It rained halfway through this truly great gig, and then somehow Pink Floyd actually managed to seduce the clouds into letting the night-time stars shine in. Lasers all over the place, planes forbidden to fly over Ullevi. Even so, in the middle of the gig, the sound of a helicopter circling overhead. Wtf? The crowd, much like a cat following a laser-spot, look up in unison to see that there’s no chopper. Just sound. And what sound it was! Most profound memories from this gig are the great gig in the sky, one of these days, the giant disco ball, the helicopter, the pigs (oh, wow, the pigs!) and the whole damned thing. I was gobsmacked all through the three hours it lasted. Sure’d truly like to see Pink Floyd again.
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