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David Gilmour has always been fascinated by death – he admitted as much in his recent interview with The Independent. Even before his days as Pink Floyd’s frontman, sat in his childhood bedroom, he would stare into space, reflecting on the idea of mortality. Little wonder, then, it’s been a constant theme throughout his music, from Floyd’s haunting 1973 song “Time” right up until his latest solo album, 2024’s Luck and Strange, on which he sings of how “these darkening days/ Flow like honey”.
At the first show of his six-night residency at London’s Royal Albert Hall, though, the atmosphere is far from funereal. Longtime bassist Guy Pratt comes on to explain housekeeping and notes the rarity of the occasion: “This will never happen again,” he claims. Phones are stowed obediently in pockets; the excitement builds. It takes a moment for the audience to realise Gilmour is on stage, unlit and unassuming in his black T-shirt and jeans.
He opens on “Black Cat”, an instrumental track on which the electric guitar licks stretch out luxuriantly, dark and lithe. On the title track of “Luck and Strange”, he sings in tender, gruff tones as drummer Adam Betts carves out deep grooves, adding hi-hats that shimmer like stardust. The band are tight without being overly polished, bringing a sense of spontaneity to a venue of such grandeur.
Gilmour is one of our greatest living guitarists, one who has long admitted his fondness for soul-shredding guitar tones. In Pink Floyd, he offered vivid, blues-influenced performances along with funk-indebted riffs and soaring, melodic solos, not to mention a pioneering attitude towards audio and production inspired by late founding member, Syd Barrett.
His chemistry with his musicians is wonderful to see. He offers encouraging grins to his superb new guitarist Ben Worsley, to Betts and to legendary keys player Greg Phillinganes. Proud smiles go to his youngest daughter, Romany, whose lilting delivery recalls the late Dolores O’Riordan as she duets with her father on “Between Two Points”.
Of course, there’s an elephant in the room – Gilmour recently gave a definitive “no” when asked about the prospect of a reconciliation with his former Pink Floyd bandmate, Roger Waters, with whom he has sparred over the years on issues spanning album re-releases, spurned reunion tours and, most recently, a row over antisemitism and Putin/Russia. His performance of “Wish You Were Here”, the title track from Pink Floyd’s 1975 record, carries a defiant undertone. Fans will know that he is thinking of Barrett, to whom Gilmour has said the song is dedicated (though Waters has claimed that the lyrics, which he co-wrote, are about him).
To see Gilmour live is to witness his prowess as a wordless storyteller. With his guitar, he weaves entire narratives into his solos, guiding the audience through mysterious galaxies and celestial highs. After a brief interval, the mood shifts from cosmic to confrontational with the opening crunch of “Sorrow”, the closing track from Pink Floyd’s 13th album, A Momentary Lapse of Reason. Ultraviolet lights flash overhead like an electrical storm.
Gilmour treats his band like family, no more so than when they gather around the piano for a candlelit rendition of “A Boat Lies Waiting”, with its laps of rippling steel guitar and the sound of seabirds in the air. It’s sombre, momentous and moving: what a pleasure it is to see a master of his craft continue to thrive.
