Cover Up

Not being a fan of opera, I am always on the look out for intriguing alternative performances to attend just to have a reason to belong inside the iconic Sydney Opera House.

Before the show, I like to enjoy a glass of Cabernet in the corner of a quiet lounge with purple carpet.

I adore the whimsical look of Luna Park shimmering across Sydney Harbour on the foreshore.

And, I love the polished refinement of the interior of the concert hall.

As the band took the stage, I settled into my seat and surrendered myself to the spectacle of flashing green lasers piercing a veil of theater smoke and painting mesmerizing patterns on the ceiling. My body shuddered as deep bass rifts pulsated through my corporeal senses. Haunting keyboard melodies lifted my consciousness up into the celestial ether. Each hard-hitting guitar chord sent my soul reeling through the cosmos. Quite unexpectedly, my ego came crashing back into my flesh with a palpable jolt as I came upon the sudden realization:

I am watching a Pink Floyd cover band.

Elvis impersonators excepted, I have always held a disdain bordering on contempt for acts that make a living paying ‘tribute’ to talented performers through the questionable use of near-flawless imitation. I have often ridiculed audiences that would pay top dollar in the hopes that an ersatz reminder of yesterday might reinvigorate those faded youthful emotions of open-hearted exuberance and endless possibility.

However, in the face of impending hypocrisy, I was forced to reevaluate and modify my position.


Seated in front of me were an older man and his teenage daughters, who rocked out with rapt amazement through the entire 3 hour show. I began to value the ability of a cover band to keep pivotal elements of musical history alive and accessible to new generations (although this does not explain nor excuse Rob Hanna). Although I have seen both Roger Waters and David Gilmour in concert, I never had the chance to see Pink Floyd. I don’t suffer any delusions that this current performance perfectly recapitulates that experience, but it is suggestive enough of the original to certainly qualify as a good evening of entertainment.

I concluded that some rock ‘n’ roll bands have transcended the limitations of popular enjoyment and become master artists worthy of duplication. Just as the plays of Shakespeare are re-dressed and re-told, so is the music of certain icons reinterpreted and re-exhibited. No one who plays Mozart is accused of being an impostor or criticized for not coming up with their own compositions. And while I am intensely unforgiving with any alteration of Dark Side of the Moon, the cover band did do a good job of making the music their own (although I most certainly could have done without the brutally blinding lights that were cruelly flashed into the aged faces of the audience - have some decency! the muscles of my pupil don’t respond that fast anymore.)

Along with fanciful nostalgia (and a piercing headache behind my eyeballs), my entertainment dollar bought an insightful epiphany…and a wonderful evening at the Opera House.