The tears came later. For now, Stacey was finding her way into the song. Her head traced loose circles, her shoulders following, while Pink Floyd performed “Comfortably Numb” in the Pulse concert film.
Then came a soft “wow.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, still swaying when she opened them. As the chorus began, Gilmour’s voice came forward: “There is no pain, you are receding.” On “receding,” her expression shifted. She continued smiling, though the smile now seemed to contain something sadder.
“His voice is going to make me cry.” A breathy laugh slipped out. “It sounds so beautiful.”
By the end of the first chorus, her eyes were glossy. Then the guitar solo began. She shifted, settling into her chair. As the solo ended, she hit pause.
“I don’t even know how to describe what I’m feeling.”
She hesitated a moment longer, then pressed play again.
Stacey made music-reaction videos on YouTube. This was her first Pink Floyd reaction. She knew almost nothing about the band: she couldn’t name anyone onstage and knew none of its history.
Later, the long final guitar solo began, darker than the first. Stacey had no idea how long it would keep building, though many of her viewers knew. I knew too and leaned closer to the screen. For nearly four minutes, the solo kept finding somewhere else to go, and Stacey tracked it through every change.
The performance ended. For a moment, Stacey said nothing. Then she called it incredible and dabbed at the corner of her eye. She described the experience as warm and intoxicating and said she felt as if she were floating.
Then: “I think I’m in love with Pink Floyd.”
I hoped she was.
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First-listen love doesn’t always last. I’ve fallen hard for prog-rock bands and moved on without a fuss. For ten days, Nick Drake and I had a thing. We’re still connected on Spotify, but just administratively.
But Pink Floyd has lasted for me. Would they last for Stacey?
One reaction wasn’t enough to find out; I kept checking in. I’d mostly listened to Pink Floyd alone, and watching Stacey made something I’d known intimately, but mostly in private, feel shared.
Then three consecutive reactions brought the emotion back: “On the Turning Away,” “High Hopes,” and “Wish You Were Here.” The names in the credits became familiar. She wasn’t just sampling Pink Floyd anymore; she was moving in.
Video after video, she became a fan in front of the camera, leaving her future self a playlist of nostalgia. My Gen X path to fandom survives only in fragments: The Dark Side of the Moon in a basement, two girls moving with the music while I lay nearby and daydreamed; cassettes with cracked cases; the ride home from Sam Goody trying to free a new CD from impossible plastic.
By the time Stacey reached Pink Floyd’s 2005 Live 8 performance, she’d heard dozens of their songs and knew the history. At a Pink Floyd trivia night, she would’ve been dangerous.
Over the twelve-string opening of “Wish You Were Here,” Roger Waters spoke about being back with the band after all those years. “Anyway, we’re doing this for everyone who’s not here, and particularly, of course, for Syd.”
Stacey held both hands over her heart, then fanned herself frantically.
“Stop,” she urged, tears streaming.
The song continued. So did the tears.
Later, they played “Comfortably Numb.” On “my hands felt just like two balloons,” Gilmour gave a playful two-handed wave. Stacey broke into a huge smile, then burst out laughing.
#
About a year after that first “wow,” Stacey played the Pulse performance again, this time for her older brother Andrew. Now Andrew was the newcomer.
Stacey usually sat in her chair, but now she stood beside him. She mouthed the lyrics, swayed, and fidgeted. When Gilmour sang “receding,” she glanced toward Andrew.
That line had caught her. She looked to see if it would catch him too.
