Some people don’t like Pink Floyd. This is a quite reasonable view, I think, in the same way that some unfortunate people are allergic to oxygen or sunlight. I grew up on Pink Floyd, surrounded by a prog-rocker dad and uncles, who rejoiced in all things lengthy, arcane and experimental. I remember The Wall and Dark Side of the Moon the way that others remember their first bicycle, and their soundworld set the template for the kind of music I like best – the multi-sectional epic, from “Bohemian Rhapsody” to “Paranoid Android”.
Florencia en el Amazonas proved a visual treat and the English National Opera was on manoeuvres in Manhattan.