Photograph by Silas Battise

Skipping the ass-clown fashion show and focusing on the music.

“Wygdjgedy Gilmour hednkjehuicehk amplifier cmoiewjcpew.” That’s not my cat walking on the keyboard, but rather an estimation of what I hear from behind me as two people carry on a conversation at normal talking volume, not even bothering to whisper. I want it noted that I am not referring to them as “slapdicks” because I’m a professional. But I’m reminded of Janis Joplin, yelling at the cops who were telling kids at her show to sit down: “I’m trying to establish a fucking vibe here.” The Pink Floyd tribute band Which One’s Pink? is onstage at The Magnolia in El Cajon, mounting a set of classics that includes Animals in its entirety, and the relaxed atmosphere starts from the moment we park in a structure next to the venue — for free!

The easy entrance leads directly to on-site eatery The Plaza, where my brother Silas and I do some investigative journalism involving elote, nachos, and tacos. My commitment to immersing myself in the story results in my eating a full serving of all three items, though the nachos alone would have been a delicious meal in themselves. Unlike most patio restaurants at venues, The Plaza has plenty of room, plus tables to accommodate patrons, and the food costs about as much as an average meal out.

There are plenty of Pink Floyd shirts worn by the attendees, along with a smattering of Roger Waters and David Gilmour solo garb. Overall, it’s a cross section of authentic tour shirts and big box store swag. From the smoking section, I hear a band playing at one of the Main Street restaurants, covering tunes that include Journey’s “Any Way You Want It.” I have the urge to walk over there and tell them the way I want it is not the way they’re doing it, but there’s no reentry. So instead I chat with fellow ticketholders and catch up with my friend Deborah Mora, who schools me on all kinds of prog rock, recommending something from Supertramp besides the revolting Breakfast In America.

My standard question —whether the first or second solo on “Comfortably Numb” is the greatest solo of all time — ends in a dead heat, and while debate about favorite album rarely reaches a conclusion — instead serving as an exposition of the assets and memories attached to each — there is a slight emphasis on Animals, which I saw Les Claypool’s Fearless Flying Frog Brigade perform and will see Which One’s Pink? surpass. While it does my heart good to hear that people too young to have seen any of the members of Pink Floyd live continue to listen to entire albums under the influence of hallucinogens, I can’t help but note that those of us who have seen Floyd in their many incarnations are in a slight minority here. That number will only dwindle as we all grow “shorter of breath and one day closer to death.”

My disdain for tribute bands is based on their self-inflated images that are too often “borrowed” from artists who did the hard work of making music and making a name for themselves. But there’s something to be said for keeping the music alive via breathing musicians after the composers stop touring. Which One’s Pink? skips the ass-clown fashion show to focus on the music; they’re less concerned with being comical doppelgangers and more concerned with performing a relatively flawless set. It’s refreshing to note that bass player Scott Richards is using a five-string bass, one string more than Roger Waters’ instrument of choice. Guitarist/vocalist Paul Samarin takes on Waters’ borderline psychotic vocals as Richards provides David Gilmour’s angelic counterpoints.

The production isn’t a recreation of Floyd’s stadium shows, which would be absurd in the 1200-seat Magnolia, but the lighting is effective and dramatic. There are cues that Floydians can read instantly, such as Richards reaching for his fretless bass, signaling “Hey You,” and sound effects provided by Dan “The Lunatic” Johnson walking out onstage and making pig noises. I’m experiencing the euphoric recall of hearing these songs for the first time, with and without chemical enhancement. The yakkers behind me stop when I begin taking video of them, and that enables me to slip back into the zone. A young man clearly tripping balls sways with the music as his companion screams like the transition from “The Happiest Days of Our Lives” to “Another Brick In the Wall Part 2,” but it melds with the vibe.

I imagine a commercial featuring Which One’s Pink?: “Come on out and celebrate the music of Pink Floyd played by people who love the band as much as you. Slapdicks not included.”