Last night I attended a performance of what I had been told would be a ballet interpretation of Pink Floyd's The Wall. I had no idea what that meant, but our friend Anne had bought us tickets, so we signed on. We took the tram straight from work, so I was wearing jeans and a flannel and C. was in jeans and a hooded sweatshirt. When we got off the tram at the stop given in the directions, we realized that we were at Brno's main opera and ballet hall. We walked inside to find the Brnese arrayed in their finest evening wear: ankle-length satin gowns, black suits with black turtlenecks, high heels, hair spray. On a Monday night in Brno, this was the place to be. Suddenly it occurred to me. . . evening wear, opera hall. . . that I might soon be watching an orchestral "interpretation" of The Wall, or even worse.

Although it seems impossible, this sounded worse than anything having to do with synchronized fireworks or the London Philharmonic (who I believe took care of Dark Side of the Moon sometime in the '80s). It conjured up images of the night four years ago I saw Brian Wilson perform the Beach Boys album Pet Sounds, live, uncut, and in order. The curtain rose on a full symphony, who busted into an orchestral arrangement of Beach Boys medleys, touching the highlights of all the surf classics. Nearly an hour into the ordeal, we were all wondering if this was what we had paid the $35 for. But no, an MC came out and spoke to us, explaining that Brian was having some doubts about coming out onto the stage, that he was feeling a little vulnerable, and that we needed to be patient for a few minutes and give him a really warm welcome when he finally came out. This we did, and it was gorgeous. While Pet Sounds is not my favorite Beach Boys album (the incomplete and never released Smile takes that prize), I could consider it nothing less than an honor to see the aging Brian Wilson live on stage crooning through a 30-year old album which had made rock history by using Beach Boys surf harmonies as a medium to convey the passionate and intricately structured longings of a neurotic.

Thankfully, we saw no orchestra pit in the theater, and when the curtain went up on the Pink Floyd performance, I heard the opening sounds of the album itself. I used to listen to that album almost every day when I was in junior high, to the point where one of my siblings once sat me down and interrogated me about why it interested me so. I don't even think I was aware of all the angst back then, although I do remember that something in "Comfortably Numb" resonated with me when I was 11. Whenever I would get to the part in the song when Roger Waters sings

When I was a child
I caught a fleeing glimpse
out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
The child is grown, the dream is gone

a little teary-eyed nostalgia would wash over me, and I'd unpack the sepia-toned memories of my own childhood and wonder how much of my humanity I'd sacrificed since leaving the single-digit birthdays.

I haven't really listened to The Wall very much since then. I put it on the back shelf once I became old enough to understand the album as Roger Waters' overblown and somewhat calculated thirtysomething angst and ego parade. As a result, hearing the album again activated vivid and distinct memories of the house where we lived when I was 11, the endless summer days of Legos and D&D, the awful green carpet in my room.

So the set was a po-mo Picassoesque-geometried Parthenon kind of deal, all in white. There were some pretty cool colored-spotlight effects, and some interesting uses of backlit people behind very stretchy semi-translucent gauze to create a larval/purgatory effect. The dancing was amazing, especially that of the guy referred to only as "Him" in the program, by which is meant, you know, a little bit of Syd Barrett, a little bit of Roger Waters, a little bit of Everyman (you know, the guy who was played by Bob Geldoff in the film). I was really impressed by all the choreography at the beginning. At one point, Him (dressed in sanitorium white) and the woman playing his mom, in a long crimson tango dress, were up at the front of the stage doing one of those fighting-yet-embracing push-me-pull-you dances, and another couple--tiny in comparison, sillhouetted at the far back of the stage by a huge turquoise screen--was doing the exact same dance in parallel, but with the dancers' genders switched. It wasn't perfect, though. The characters were maybe a little too cookie-cuttered from the film. From time to time, it seemed that someone had taken notes from the Ron Howard school of directing, and the dancing pantomimed a bit too literally the content of the lyrics (for instance, during "Another Brick in the Wall Part I," when the dancers lay on top of one another in a little wriggling pyramid, as if they were, oh I get it, bricks). Despite the little ache in my side that reminded me I was sitting through a modern ballet set to a prog-rock anthem, the thing was interesting, well-executed overall, and it kept me watching.

By the second half, though, after the ponderous Another Brick in the Wall theme had taken over, all the dancers were dressed in nothing but underwear and hospital gowns, and Him had started cycling a second time through his series of desperate and frightened expressions, it had worn a little thin. The dancing had gone from the stark and elegant two- and three-figure interactions to ghastly white lunatics in hospital gowns marching zombie-like in huge circles in 4/4-time to "Run like Hell." When the patients all brought out giant white pillows and started throwing them at Him, it was time for the album to end. What is it with pillow fights? Why did Frodo, Merry, Pippin, and Sam have to have that slo-mo tears-of-joy-filled pillow fight in Rivendell? We half-expected Gimli to jump in, armor and all.

dude, i can see what your friend means. your blog SUCKS.

the brnese. in their evening wear. which i believe we call their brnooses.

i'm feeling quite maudlin and so i'm concluding thus: it's not fair. don't go. or well, if you keep up with the writing and all, i may be able to reconcile myself. now i'm going to plow your archives. perhaps sow some wild comments.