Pink Floyd

“If this concert is allowed to be performed in Hamilton, the city will be taken over by dope fiends, motorcycle gangs and Americans.” This is what was written in a Hamilton Spectator editorial a few months prior. I can’t imagine how close promoters CPI & Garfunkel had come to not realizing this musical/theatrical event. The paper was relentless in drumming up hysterical ‘Pink Floyd madness’ scenarios. City police were sent down to Buffalo NY to witness a Rolling Stones concert, earlier that June. Dutifully reported in the paper was the account of a drugged female, barely conscience, as three men took turns having their way with her while she was lying prone on the turf. I had already bought four tickets ($8.50 each) at Sam The Record Man. Now knowing that the fair city now was aware of our police watching repeated assaults being perpetrated on a victim at that event across the border, had me very worried. How could mayor Vic Copps now allow the Pink Floyd concert to happen at Ivor Wynne Stadium. But it did happen. June 28, 1975. Four of us spent the sunny afternoon on the lawn of the school on the west side. We were enjoying watching other Pink Floyd fans streaming towards the stadium. I had been to this location many times as a young Ti-Cat fan, with $2.50 tickets for viewing our CFL gladiators from the bleacher section. The big difference with the furtive glances on this day was that they weren’t accompanied by swigs of liquor from concealed mickeys and flasks but shared tokes on small pipes and doobies. Looking up at the stadium, near the goal line I noticed a cable that crossed diagonally, high above the field. A couple of times we saw what looked like a WWII buzz bomb being raised towards the bank of lights there, and released to glide within the confines of the stadium. The road crew was synchronizing the timing of the explosion at the tail of ‘On The Run’. There was a crowd slowly moving up towards us on Cannon Street. It was a constant motion of individuals pressing in close to the centre of the mass, then after a few moments, walking away in amazement at a very tiny item pressed between fingers. As I walked towards this spectacle, a young man emerged, sized up my long hair and in an excited whisper, held up pinched fingers to my face and said, ‘free blotter acid man!’ and tilted his head towards the huddle. Too bad we had already paid for our hits. Besides, we didn’t need to be freaking out if the motorcycle gangs and Americans started messing with our heads. It looked pretty though, embellished with a pastel coloured, round clock face with the hands depicting the time, ten to nine. The stadium gates opened about 6:30 pm and we headed towards the south stands to catch all the rest of the rays of sun we could. No windy bleachers for me this night. It seemed that once we were in the sanctity of our seats at mid-field, the unwritten law was that lighters and matches had to be engaged. It was happening all around us. ‘Excuse me, pardon me,’ plop…FLICK…fffffftt! It was a constant and various mingling of what Ann Landers would describe as ‘the smell of burning leaves’. Not just ordinary leaves this night but connoisseur types. Thai stick, Jamaican, Punta Rojas as well as Moroccan and Afghani hash. We would drop the acid an hour later so we wouldn’t start peaking til the sun was setting. It was like being on an exotic vacation where everyone around you was relaxed, and sending you blissful smiles. Before the turf filled up with bodies, beach balls and frisbees crisscrossed each other in flight. Yeah, yeah there was the guy with the repeated piercing staccato cry/scream. But he used to do that at the Delta and Roxy theatres before the repertoire movies would start. He was about as harmless as the streaker on the field running around yelling, ‘Woodstock… Woodstock!’ At least the former got to stay and see the show. Pink Floyd started with the most glorious, mainly instrumental, music to feel with the waning summer sun. I believe all but one were tunes from their yet-to-be-released (September) album, Wish You Were Here. They took a short break and then the huge round screen on stage started projecting an animated short. The band started into the intro of Dark Side of the Moon, Speak To Me. It took a while for me to see through the waning rays of sunlight licking the screen to view the short, but then it became much clearer. A huge squadron of thick discs were flying against a cloud-spattered sky at various points-of-view. The heartbeat was still pounding in the song when the discs stopped flying west, suspended for a few moments. Then the disc in the centre distance rotated upright and it started very slowly towards the camera. Clare Torry belted out her shrieking scream, her ever increasing amplitude drowning out the heart beats. The disc, increasing speed towards collision, was a familiar looking clock. The crash-zoom held on the clock smacked at absolute full screen, on cue with the track-ending crescendo. That last scream sounded like it came from the stands. The clock face read ten to nine. What followed was the essential tool for selling stereos across North America for a decade - the rest of The Dark Side of the Moon, in larger than life, quadraphonic stadium sound. The band was tight, they seemed to be having fun. Did anyone else get the shivers when Clare Torry performed The Great Gig In the Sky? Jesus! Her voice was ten stories tall. The buzz bomb didn’t disappoint either. It crashed on cue after flying spot-lit across the stadium in a huge magnesium flash of white light. Roger Waters thanked and wished us a good night on the conclusion of Eclipse. The standing ovation lasted for about fifteen minutes, I was quite prepared to keep whistling for an hour. A small but significant number of the sixty thousand were leaving or had already left. The band came back onstage and proceeded to play Echoes, the whole B side of Meddle. Tears were streaming down my face. My favorite twenty-five minutes of all Pink Floyd’s repertoire. What made this aural experience so complete was the Dick Parry sax contributions that are not on the album. We exited the way we came and were going to catch a bus back home. Outside the stadium I couldn’t find a can to drop a bag of garbage into. I carried it a few streets down to Barton Street and dumped it into one in front bus stop. A bus pulled up packed with music fans. With about twenty people waiting on the sidwalk for the next one, we decided to float a couple of miles home instead. We saw one fight break out before the concert. The stadium was packed with over three times the amount of people usually assembled for a football game. Somebody remarked on our walk that an Argo /Ti-Cat game would have more violence in the crowd than that. The following Monday the Spectator printed a picture of the side of the stadium where we exited, with an empty can in the foreground, garbage strewn all around. The caption read, ‘A garbage can pleads “Feed Me” as rock fans trash the city’. But it did happen.