The sky begins clouding over just before dusk as the Midwestern sunset reddens the sky.
The threat of rain can’t stop twenty thousand rock fans from flocking to Cincinnati’s River-front Coliseum to see and hear Pink Floyd.
Three hours before the show, several thousand early birds are all keyed up for the high-energy Pink Floyd show decked out wearing their best rock-concert, faded blue jeans, and tie-dyed T-shirts.
The gawking wandering newcomers are conspicuous to the rock scene with their obvious neatly pressed checked slacks and expensive shirts.
Squinting so they can steady themselves, the loners eyes are barley open as they weave aimlessly around the circles, arms dangling uselessly at their sides.
Near the fountains and in remote corners, couples cling to each other.
Real police, not the rent-a-cop breed, stride confidently in large groups among the crowd twirling their billyclubs looking for trouble as they sweep the area with their eyes.
Laughter is drawn by the hawkers who call out to the crowd trying to unload cheap T-shirts and pennants.
As the numbers grow, the circles of roamers, couples, and cops swarm over the acres of concrete that lead up to the auditorium.
Just in time the doors open and fans pour into the coliseum to wait out the final hour before the show tired and sweaty from waiting, as the management realizes the hordes can no longer be contained peacefully.
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