The day after a demoralizing Election Day, I found myself scaling the many escalators of Madison Square Garden to see David Gilmour, the former lead of Pink Floyd. As I joined an overwhelmingly male, late-middle-aged crowd (typical long time devotees of Pink Floyd), I felt entirely out of place. But for two and a half hours, David Gilmour’s Luck and Strange tour offered exactly what I needed: a chance to forget the world outside and sink into his transportive, timeless music.
From my perch in the nosebleeds, I watched extravagant light and laser displays light up the arena while fog enveloped the stage. Gilmour was a dark, distant figure, barely discernible amidst the spectacle, but it hardly mattered. Gilmour’s music transcends the need for a close-up; it simply demands space to breathe. Sound reverberated through Madison Square Garden, and the arena was transformed into a cathedral, with Gilmour at the pulpit.
The show opened with “5 A.M.” and “Black Cat,” two gentle guitar- and keyboard-driven instrumentals that served as preludes rather than statements, their delicate guitar and keyboard lines stretching out like a morning yawn. Then came “Luck and Strange,” the title track of Gilmour’s latest album, which carries a sense of elegy beneath its stately chords. “When the curtain call is done,” Gilmour sang, his voice weathered but still resonant, “Morning always comes.” It was a quiet acknowledgment that life marches on, even when it feels like it shouldn’t.
The first set transitioned seamlessly into a medley of Pink Floyd classics from The Dark Side of the Moon: “Breathe,” “Time,” then “Breathe (Reprise).” It was here that the nostalgia hit hardest, the audience erupting in cheers at the first sound of those unmistakable chords. Pink Floyd’s music has always carried a subversive spirit—anti-war, pro-drug, and deeply skeptical of capitalism—and hearing these songs in 2024 against a backdrop of political disillusionment gave them fresh urgency. Yet Gilmour, ever the craftsman, let his guitar do most of the talking. His solos soared, mournful and transcendent, reaching every corner of the arena.
One of the evening’s highlights came in “Fat Old Sun,” a track from Atom Heart Mother that Gilmour has reimagined over the years as a vehicle for extended guitar improvisation. Starting with a warm acoustic strum, the song built to a psychedelic crescendo, Gilmour’s electric guitar cutting through the layers of sound with piercing clarity. Every note felt deliberate, every bend and vibrato packing its own punch.
The set also made room for new material, including “Between Two Points,” a cover of the dream-pop song from The Montgolfier Brothers, which featured Gilmour’s daughter, Romany, on harp and lead vocals. Her ethereal voice brought an intimacy to the performance that contrasted beautifully with the grandeur of the arena.
After an intermission, The Great Gig in the Sky was a revelation, reimagined with four-part harmonies led by Louise Marshall’s gentle piano playing. Stripped of its original vocal improvisations, the arrangement felt contemplative, almost hymn-like, transforming the familiar into something strikingly new. This was followed by “A Boat Lies Waiting,” a tribute to late Floyd keyboardist Rick Wright.
Gilmour leaned heavily on material from his new album Luck and Strange, including “Scattered,” which closed the main set with another breathtaking solo. His newer songs, though less immediate than the Floyd staples, felt as if he were inviting us into his private musings on life and legacy. While the newer songwriting didn’t always reach the heights of his earlier work, the sincerity and craftsmanship were undeniable.
“Comfortably Numb” served as the encore and Gilmore’s final word on stage. As the band bathed the stage in stark white light, Gilmour’s solo erupted like a storm, its iconic peaks and valleys eliciting cheers from an audience that had waited all night for this moment.
As I shuffled out with the crowd, the reality of the world outside began to creep back in, but the music lingered, its echoes offering a strange kind of solace. Gilmour, now 78, may not have the vocal power of his younger days, and his newer songs may not carry the same cultural weight as The Wall or Wish You Were Here, but his guitar remains a voice unlike any other—one that speaks directly to the soul.
