Gerald Scarfe:

« Phil Taylor recalls the pandemonium backstage during the run-up to the opening night in Los Angeles. He remembers me painting the crossed hammers on the bass drum heads, amidst the general mêlée and confusion of the band production rehearsals»

« The making of Pink Floyd The Wall », Gerald Scarfe

Mike Tiano (Audience Member ):

« (…) Here is an example of where the visuals of the performance could elevate what audiences previously only heard. In this case, the lyrics from “In the Flesh?” took on greater depth: “Is there something eluding you, sunshine, is this not what you expected to see?” This could be construed as referring to the fact that we see the musicians clothed in storm trooper-like outfits (including armbands adorned with the double hammers), and/or that we weren’t seeing the actual members of Pink Floyd on stage as “expected.” As the song concluded, fireworks were shot from the stage to the arena’s upper regions.

Subsequently, the actual members of Pink Floyd joined the “surrogate band” to continue the show. But suddenly Roger Waters started to scream on mic for the band to stop the music — that wasn’t part of the album, so could this be a new wrinkle added to the album’s concept? With all the surprises that were in store, a new addition to the story didn’t seem outside the realm of possibility. After the music came to a halt, Waters revealed that his announcement wasn’t planned after all: the show had to be halted and the house lights needed to be turned back on because some of the fireworks had caused something (possibly curtains) to catch on fire under the roof of the arena. Looking upward one could see something was indeed smoldering up there.

The house lights flooded the venue, and a cherry picker appeared in front of the stage. A fireman holding a fire extinguisher rode it to get close enough to the embers. When he put out the fire, the audience cheered his success just as the one hydraulic not planned for the show was lowered. Roger Waters then returned to the stage to announce that with the crisis averted the show could now (must?) go on. He indicated to the band to start where they left off, and after the house lights went out the performance continued. That minor incident was washed away by everything that followed, which was evidence that Lon had not been exaggerating: Including the wonder of the mammoth inflatables, the scope of the production, and the tightness of the band performing new songs and extended versions of ones on the album. I was enthralled by what I was witnessing, and relieved that I was actually present. As the first half of the show progressed the stage crew started to add bricks on top of the others already in place. Eventually, the entire stage was filled with the white bricks leaving only an opening in the lower center. The process became a race against time: As I was already familiar with the entire album from start to finish, I could see that the stage crew was under the gun to get the all the bricks into place before the end of the first set.

During “Goodbye Cruel World,” it became even more obvious that the brick-building had fallen behind schedule. Towards the end of that song, there is a two-note bass figure that precedes Waters singing, “Goodbye cruel world, I’m leaving you today …” On the album, the length of time for that bass figure is pretty short, but at this show it seemed to go on forever since there was a point where the state of the wall provided a cue for Waters to start singing, and as the bass line droned on and on the crew frantically raced to complete the wall. The final word “Goodbye” was sung just as the last remaining brick was put into place into the final opening, which had been the only portion of the stage that allowed us to watch Waters perform before the intermission.

The lights came on and what stood before us seemed otherworldly. One of The Wall’s concepts touches on the figurative wall that sometimes stands between audience and performer, and here it was, now providing an actual barrier between the two. The second half of the show began with Pink Floyd heard, but not seen: “Hey You” started to be performed, and all we could see was the wall. Eventually, clever removal of certain portions of the wall was put to inventive theatrical use. Sections would open to reveal the musicians performing, images and film would be projected onto the wall at various points while Waters sang in front and, for “Nobody Home,” a living room set appeared through an opening with Roger Waters reclining in front of a working television set as he sang his lines. (One minor item I did notice missing from the album during this song: after Waters sang “Oooh babe, when I pick up the phone,” we didn’t hear Gomer Pyle say “Surprise, surprise, surprise!” before Waters closing line, “there’s still nobody home.” Not a big deal, especially considering there were bigger priorities for challenges that were overcome on this production. But on the album, Jim Nabors uttering his TV character’s trademark line made for a poignant juxtaposition.)

A highlight was the performance of what is probably the album’s best known song, “Comfortably Numb,” with Waters in a doctor’s smock standing in front of the wall singing the doctor’s lines (“Hello, is there anybody in there?”). The audience went wild when the spotlight hit David Gilmour at the top of the wall for his part in the song. While this became a well-known highlight for both the subsequent Pink Floyd and solo Waters shows, it was startling and exciting when it happened for the first time. The remainder of the show did not disappoint. Beginning with the reprise of “In the Flesh?,” the musicians would appear on stage in front of the wall, and would remain so for the remainder of the show, until “The Trial,” where a video was projected onto the wall — the same one used in the movie version of the album. The astonishing collapse of the wall was followed by the appearance of the musicians with acoustic instruments entering from the side of the stage to finally close this historic concert with the album’s coda “Outside the Wall” as they stood in front of the heap of bricks.

As I recall the house lights came on and the audience continued to give the show a thunderous ovation. The four members of Pink Floyd – Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Rick Wright, and Nick Mason – returned to the stage (sans instruments) to acknowledge the prolonged applause. Waters made a humorous statement, something to the effect of that there would be no encore because the stage had been demolished»

«Pink Floyd – The Wall, February 7, 1980: Shows I’ll Never Forget», SomethingElseReviews.com, 8 October 2017

« Clairement, la star de ce show était le mur. Pas seulement l’album «The Wall», bien que Pink Floyd joua tout l’album et rien que cet album. (...) La star de ce show est le véritable mur – composé de 420 briques de cartons qui blancs qui s’étalent d’un côté de l’Arena à l’autre éclairés par des spotlights suspendus à 30 pieds au dessus de la scène.  Probablement le plus spectaculaire accessoire jamais utilisé par un groupe de rock, le mur constitue à la fois une pièce visuelle centrale forte mais également un problème logistique énorme. Le concert était une production éblouissante, surpuissante, voire même dérangeante, mise en place pour illustrer et expliquer l’album – bien que le crash d’un avion et l’apparition d’un cochon géant, tous les deux puisés dans les tournées précédentes, ne furent de nouveau utilisés comme accessoires que pour juste impressionner.

Pendant la première partie, le groupe joue ses chansons parlant d’aliénation infantile et de répression pendant que les roadies construisent le mur. Au début, ils le font verticalement de chaque côté de la scène, du sol aux premières rangées de sièges, puis le mur recouvre tout graduellement.  A Mother, il commence à empiéter sur la scène; à Young Lust, on ne soit plus que quelques ouvertures; lors de Empty Spaces la seule façon de voir le groupe est d’épier à travers deux trous stratégiquement placés.  A la fin de la première moitié du spectacle le groupe est simplement emmuré.

Considérant que le groupe était en face d’un public qui ne pouvait pas le voir, le second set était astucieux. Un living-room est sorti du mur au sein duquel le bassiste Roger Waters accompagné d’un micro est assis dans un fauteuil bon marché. Le guitariste David Gilmour fit, lui, son solo du haut du mur. 

De plus, le mur a été utilisé comme un écran  pour y projeter des animations de Gerald Scarfe représentant les créatures cauchemardesques présentes sur la pochette de l’allbum. Finalement, le Floyd supprima toutes ces barrières de la façon la plus éblouissante possible. Le haut du mur trembla, les briques commencèrent à tomber et la structure entière s’effondra périlleusement sur la scène juste au pied du premier rang. Le groupe revint, instruments acoustiques en main, pour conclure le show en jouant Outside the Wall en traversant les débris. Evidemment, faire un rappel fut hors de question. Voilà pour le spectacle. Il faut maintenant voir la musique. Après tout, «The Wall», la vision vicieuse et morne d’une société endommageante qui systématiquement dépersonnalise ses citoyens est l’album le plus ambitieux du Floyd depuis des années. Et c’est aussi le LP le plus personnel et intime du Floyd depuis un moment – un disque qui réclame une grande attention. »

«Up against the wall», Performance, April 1980

Gerald Scarfe:

«I remember, sitting in the hall on the first night of «The Wall» show in Los Angeles, when a huge drape caught fire up in the flies and Roger, very sensibly, called a halt. As Nick recalls «since the shouted command «Stop !»was an integral part of the show, it took Roger some time to convince the well-drilled road crew that this time it was in fact an emergency»

«The making of Pink Floyd The Wall», Gerald Scarfe

Barbet Schroeder:

« When I watched that show in LA? I kept thinking how you could turn this into a film. And I eventually realized that there was no way you could »

« Comfortably Numb - The inside story of Pink Floyd », Mark Blake

« That lean and hungry look was in their eyes. They had waited by the dozens all day, ambling around the Coliseum grounds and muttering, “Anybody got tickets?” There was the occasional ticket to be had from scalpers, but . these went for $200 a piece. By nightfall the T-shirt vendors congregated in droves. Some other entrepreneurs sold satin jackets for $20. Mick Jagger pranced by. So did President Carter’s son, Chip, trailed by a cadre of Secret Service agents.

Expectation was almost viscerally intense — a small mob of the ticketless broke two glass doors trying to burst in. only to be repelled by mounted police — because Pink Floyd was finally in town. Absent from America for three years, the band was doing only four shows in Los Angeles and four here at the Nassau Coliseum in Uniondale, Long Island. Busloads of fans came from as far away as Chicago to attend this first East Coast date. The paucity of dates, according to the Floyd, was because the show was too expensive to transport and mount in more than a couple of cities. At first this explanation seemed both laughable and typical of Floyd’s lazy attitude toward touring, but after seeing the show it makes sense. This was a million-dollar spectacle that may well have been the ultimate rock musical so far. The two-hour program was entirely based on the band’s ambitious concept album, *The Wall,” which has topped the national charts for two months now. Tracing a youth’s retreat into numbness after being brutalized by Brave New World social forces, the album concept was translated into a staggering visual tour de force.

To begin with, a wall of 340 cardboard bricks — adding up to a 30-foot high and 210-foot wide span — was erected around the band during the performance. This fostered the sense of the central character’s fading individuality, as he met with conformist pressure at home (his shrill mother was depicted by a gigantic overhead balloon with a hideously distorted, grumpy facial expression) and at school (his authority-mad teacher was depicted by another 20-foot balloon — with flapping feet and pompous waving arms — that moved by marionette strings). Early on, as the Floyd droned about the “thin ice of modern life,” an 18-foot wide cardboard airplane was buzzed by wires over the crowd, finally crashing into the wall. The first half of the night then concluded with singer Roger Waters peering out of the last remaining crack in the wall for the moving plea of “Goodbye Cruel World.”

The second half was simply mind-boggling. A portion of the wall collapsed outward, revealing a stage set of a college dorm room — bed, lamp and TV (tuned to the Olympics). Waters sat forlornly watching the tube and singing the ballad “Nobody Home,” about the protagonist’s twisted, loveless life. A 30-foot pig balloon with headlight eyes (the only carry-over from the band’s Orwell-obsessed “Animals” tour three years ago), was then floated over the crowd. An animation sequence — created by Gerald Scarfe, a British political cartoonist — followed, showing rows and rows of iron hammers goose stepping like Nazis. The protagonist — who in the animation looked like a brother of “Saturday Night Live’s” Mr. Bill, was pummeled by the hammers and indicted for having “feelings” by a wormy-looking judge. The climax came as the cardboard wall crashed down, while the Floyd’s 360-degree sound system boomed an earthquake simulation and smoke bombs flared. The protagonist had broken through his constraints. meaning he had found refuge with an equally alienated, artistic group of outcasts. Waters & Co. returned briefly as medieval minstrels — strumming acoustic guitars and whistling — before disappearing for good. So what is the upshot of all of this? Easily it was the best Stoned Rock concert of them all, but it was also a glorious children’s fable and rock fairy tale. Pink Floyd, for all of their intellectual pretensions, restore wonderment to a medium that desperately needs it »

«Pink Floyd may have created the ultimate rock musical», The Boston Globe, 26 February 1980

Interviewer: « (…) I heard that the rest of the Floyd wanted to do The Wall tour in stadiums. And that was one of the reasons you ultimately knocked the Pink Floyd on the head ...»

Waters: « Yes, in 1980 when we finished in New York, Larry Maggid, a Philadelphia promoter - I remember him promoting us there at The Electric Factory when we were supporting Savoy Brown - offered us a guaranteed million dollars a show plus expenses to go and do two dates at JFK Stadium with The Wall. To truck straight from New York, where we'd been playing Nassau Collsseum, to Philadelphia. 

And (laughs) I wouldn't do it. I had to go through the whole story with the other members. I said, «You've all read my explanations of what The Wall is about. It's three years since we did that last stadium and I swore then that I would never do one again. And «The Wall» is entirely sparked off by how awful that was and how I didn't feel that the public or the band or anyone got anything out of it that was worthwhile. And that's why we've produced this show strictly for arenas where everyone does get something out of it that is worthwhile. Blah-blah-blah. And, I ain't fuckin' going!»

So there was a lot of talk about whether Andy Bown could sing my part. Oh, you may laugh - this is what's happening now, isn't it? And in the end they bottled out. They didn't have the balls to go through with it at that point».

Interviewer: « So that was presumably a crucial incident in terms of the ultimate break-up of the group ».

Waters: «Ummm...I didn't see it as that at the time. It was just the way the band was. I always made those decisions, so it didn't seem strange at all. Now, of course, you can see the irony of it. But at the time it seemed perfectly natural».

«Interview with Chris Salewicz», Q Magazine, June 1980.

Tout de suite, on est saisi par la qualité du son quadriphonique. C’est tellement parfait, précis. qu’on reste surpris. Les effets électroniques, les vrombissements d’avions, les cris d’oiseaux, les voix ou le solos de Gilmour sont parfaitement unifiés, liés, soudés : mille vibrations, ondes, soupirs, ricanements ou rires dans une boule de dentelle qui frappe aux oreilles et aux tripes. Immédiatement le regard est accroché, crocheté là où Scarfe et Waters l’ont décidé par des jeux magnifiques de lumières orangées, rouges ou bleues, noyées les unes dans les autres, flottantes, mêlées, fondues, dansantes, jamais aguicheuses ou simplement rythmiques, non, toutes en subtilité, en émotion. Classe.  Et pendant que l’on suit des yeux l'une des bêtes géantes gonflables, une sorte d’araignée-sauterelle qui se tiendrait debout sur dix mètres de haut, inexorablement, les roadies encastrent brique sur brique. Et l'on est surpris, quand le monstre disparaît, de voir que Wright est presque emmuré.

Sur le gigantesque cercle, derrière le groupe, commence le premier ballet des animations de Gerald Scarfe, qui a conçu le spectacle et réalisera le film avec Waters. C’est d’abord une tige souple et ondulante qui laisse éclore une corolle qui semble douce, gracieuse et attirante. Une autre s’approche, et l’on comprend que c’est un masculin. Pourquoi ? Vous allez comprendre : la danse qui les unit est la danse de la séduction avec tous ses trucs, ses pièges et ses duperies. Provocations, mines, rétifs, insistance du mâle. La corolle s’ouvre après un baiser et, lentement, l’étamine se transforme en chatte, promesse de plaisirs, duveteuse, tendre et moelleuse, qui tout à coup se laisse pénétrer et... gobe l’imbécile auquel aussitôt les mecs ne manquent de s'identifier. Ce sexe avide qui avale l'homme, qui lui promet les grands espaces pour mieux l'étouffer, se transforme à nouveau en un bec vers lequel se tendent d’autres gosiers, œsophages affamés. Des nacelles se sont détachées du fond de scène pendant que nous étions rivés aux atroces images. Les projecteurs qu'elles transportent se braquent sur Gilmour et, là-bas, la petite silhouette blafarde nous envoie, comme si elle jouait pour nous seuls, un filet magique et métallique, pétrifiant. Les roadies, indifférents à notre intérêt, persuadés de notre incompréhension, de notre interprétation k égoïste, montent et montent encore le mur. Des nacelles se sont détachées du fond de scène pendant que nous étions rivés aux atroces images. Les projecteurs qu’elles transportent se braquent sur Gilmour et, là-bas, la petite silhouette blafarde nous envoie, comme si elle jouait pour nous seuls, un solo magique et métallique, pétrifiant. Les roadies, indifférents à notre intérêt, persuadés de notre incompréhension, de notre interprétation égoïste, montent et montent encore le mur dans lequel s'ouvrent maintenant des espaces. On aperçoit les échafaudages hydrauliques qui portent hommes et briques. Rick Wright disparaît le premier. Et Mason n'est plus visible que d’un côté de la salle. «Mama do you think I should trust the government ?» «No ! No» hurle le public. «Nooo». Apparaît la vieille mère mangeuse d’enfants, la mante, l’autre mante, la première au visage revêche, aux cheveux gris tirés sévèrement en chignon, aux yeux bleus dont la douceur étouffe, aux sourcils délavés qui savent froncer et menacer. Scarfe et Waters sont d’intenses misogynes. Eclatent encore les images pastel de l’horrible ballet d’amour dévorant, et la femme qui gobe par sa fente, pistil lumineux et vagin obscène comme un marécage, possède l'homme et, par le jeu étonnant d’une métamorphose définitive et précise, s’éloigne comme un ptérodactyle au-dessus de la ville. «I need a dirty woman», réclame Waters qu'on voit encore un peu alors que Gilmour manifeste sa présence par un solo déchirant. Une voix de femme propose : «Tu veux un verre de vin ? Et la voici, cette femme : immense, gonflable, c’est la caricature d’une épouse-prostituée clinquante, strassée, avide, une de ces bourgeoises encore-jeunes-déjà-vieilles réfugiées dans le shopping, les crèmes de beauté, l'Austin ou la Rolls avec chauffeur. Mais ce pourrait être n’importe quelle femme vaincue par la vie, par l’ennui, une de ces femelles-contrat qui tant qu’on les désire tiennent leur engagement et qu’on répudie dès qu’elles perdent leur attrait. «Dont leave me now», gémit Waters, qui ne sait pas ce qu’il veut. Le mur est maintenant achevé, il reste une ouverture, une fenêtre à laquelle Waters apparaît quand il chante : «Nothing to change my mind, goodbye». Un des roadies longe la scène, portant la dernière brique, et l’encastre dans le dernier espace. Soixante mètres de long sur dix de haut, le symbole est dressé, une heure et dix minutes ont passé. C’est l’entracte.

Les bars sont pris d’assaut. Les ladies font la queue devant les chiottes dans le gris poussiéreux du hall de béton. On se dispute une saucisse. Ceux qui n'avaient pas cédé aux tentations, maintenant convaincus se précipitent sur les T-shirts, les programmes (on veut garder un souvenir concret), les albums (cinq livres le double «The Wall», ce qui est une concurrence carrément déloyale !) (…)  Les tremblements, les vociférations d’un orgue nous rappellent dans la salle. On repasse les postes de contrôle. Sur scène, le présentateur du début débite d'une voix au ralenti le même laïus qu'à l'ouverture, puis apparaît la doublure du groupe, visages recouverts d’une couche de maquillage blanc, corps immobiles, fantômes (symbolisant les stars dont on ne perçoit plus la personnalité ? Qui ont perdu toute personnalité ?). Le mur, le troisième mur du monde (Berlin, la Chine, Pink Floyd) les écrase. Cassé au sommet, le mannequin rose gît dans un halo de lumière crue : «Is there anybody out there ?». Le mur, barrière infranchissable entre les êtres, n’empêche pas son concepteur d’espérer. «Hey, you, behind the wall» («Eh ! vous, derrière le mur !» ), chante Waters à la guitare acoustique, par une ouverture de trois briques. Pendant qu’on fixe la tête casquée de l’auteur, un pan de mur s’ouvre en plate-forme sur la gauche, l’intérieur d’une chambre du Tropicana de Los Angeles, fauteuil plastoc, abat-jour bon marché, TV, atmosphère désuète d’une galère de musicien de rock perdu entre ennui et futilité, loin de chez lui, de sa femme, perdu dans sa légende. Sur le mur, triple écran, des images d’une autre époque apparaissent en noir et blanc. C’est la guerre. A nouveau les Spitfire, des photos de famille, Londres détruite, soldats nettes comme pour retenir les guerriers qu’ils ne reverront plus. Vera Lynn, star anglaise de l’époque, chante «We’ll Meet Again» que les soldats fredonnaient dans les Ardennes avant de crever.

Waters est seul en blouse blanche au pied du mur. «The show must go on». Tout au sommet, poussé par un rayon halogène bleu, Gilmour fait hurler sa guitare. Les deux groupes sont réunis. Deux batteurs, deux basses, deux guitares et deux claviers. Le faux Floyd complètement figé et le vrai (mais lequel est-ce ?) qui s’agite. Vaguement, parce que ni Gilmour, ni Waters ne sont vraiment des showmen, de toute manière. Explosion aveuglante, les chœurs apparaissent aussi. Sur le mur, derrière les cibles. Waters brassard frappé de deux marteaux croisés. C’est le procès et l’accusé a rougi, voilà son crime. D a montré ses sentiments : il doit être condamné. Un énorme cochon noir portant l’emblème de l’oppression se déplace lentement au-dessus du mur, et descend jusqu’à frôler le public. Les mains se tendent, tous veulent toucher l’énorme cochon noir du Floyd. «Okay Piggy, that’s enough», A la niche ! Le mur s’écroule dans un fracas épouvantable. Les acteurs du happening reviennent sur scène dans les décombres, armés le guitares acoustiques et de tambourins. C’est la ballade des artistes qui ont tout donné »

« Wall Street », Rock & Folk, August 1980

Roger Waters :

«  It was filmed in 1980 and 1981 in London. I've got all that, and i'm putting it together. I don't want to sell it really; not because i don't want anybody to see it ... I'm not quite sure why i don't want to. But it is there and at some point it will be available for anybody who didn't see it. I've always been very reluctant to release it. Well, i've never cut it or anything but i am thinking about it now. But i've always been reluctant because it was a very strong, theatrical experience for the people who were there. But on videotape, it will be a king of historical document. It can't possibly be The Event, because you needed to be there with another 12 000 people with the quadrophonic sound and with theairplane going ... But, nevertheless, for people like you who never saw it and who are fans of the musicand are interested, it would be a very interesting document. I wouldn't call it a performance, but a record of the vent so you can at least see what happened - but you will never to be able to have "been there", if you know what i mean ...  » .

«In Studio w/. Roger Waters », US Network Radio, 1989.

Gerald Scarfe:

«Harvey Goldsmith, the promoter, asked me to exhibit some of my drawings in the foyer at Earl’s Court. Unfortunately, after the last of the five performances, I lost a number of them when I rather stupidly left them overnight. The are probably, at this moment, hanging on some dodgy fan’s bedroom wall»

«The making of Pink Floyd The Wall», Gerald Scarfe, 

Alan Parker: 

« C’était en septembre 80. J’avais beaucoup écouté le disque chez moi, ce qui m’a décidé à appeler EMI, leur compagnie de disques. Je leur ai demandés i personne n’avait songé à tirer un film de « The Wall». Ils m’ont répondu que, justement, le Floyd y pensait, mais qu’ils ne savaient pas encore comment s‘y prendre. Le type d’EMI a suggéré que je rencontre Waters. Comme nous sommes pratiquement voisins, je suis passé le voir. On a commencé à parler, j’y suis retourné le lendemain et puis les jours suivants. J’étais sur le point de partir à San Francisco pour préparer « Shoot the Moon», mais je ne pouvais pas m’empêcher de penser au sujet de ce Wall»

«Derrière le mur», Best, August 1982