And there he was… in all of his elderly glory. A tall, slender figure dressed all in black and sporting a haircut that would raise an eyebrow if worn by anyone else, snuck onto to the center of the stage under the cover of a blinding light show.
Now carrying his signature black Fender Precision bass guitar, the old man crept up to the center stage microphone, which by this point in his career was an action as common as brushing his teeth or wiping his ass.
As the light show fizzled out, he took a moment to shoot a quick look to each of his musicians; all of which reciprocated with a nod of assurance that they were prepared to carry out their holy duty.
He smiled, inhaled, and then –
Roger Waters, a man who I have idolized for nearly a decade at this point, and who up until now had only existed to me through his music, was now just a stadium’s length away from my face; which at this point was drenched in tears.