David Gilmour was particularly focused that afternoon. There was something about performing in Pompeii that had awakened a deeper level of musical expression in him. The acoustics of the Amphitheater, the weight of history surrounding them, and the absence of a traditional audience had combined to create a performance environment unlike anything he had ever experienced.
As he began the opening notes of “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun”, the first drops of rain began to fall. They were large, warm Mediterranean raindrops that seemed almost welcome after several days of intense Italian sun. The crew covered their equipment as much as possible, but the filming continued.
Then, within minutes, the weather transformed from gentle rainfall to something much more serious. The storm that hit the Pompeii Amphitheater that October afternoon came with the sudden violence that Mediterranean weather systems are known for. The wind, which had been barely noticeable moments before, began howling through the ancient stone corridors with increasing intensity.
The rain, which had started as scattered drops, became a driving downpour that soaked everything in the exposed Amphitheater. Most concerning of all, lightning began flashing across the darkened sky, followed by thunder that competed with the sound of Gilmour’s amplified guitar for dominance over the acoustic space of the Amphitheater.
The film crew, working with expensive and potentially dangerous electrical equipment, began to show obvious signs of nervousness. Lightning and electronic equipment are a notoriously dangerous combination, and the safety protocols of 1971 were far less comprehensive than what would be standard today. Adrian Maben faced a decision that would define the entire project.
Halt the filming and seek shelter, or continue and risk both equipment and human safety for the possibility of capturing something extraordinary. David Gilmour made the decision for everyone. Instead of stopping his performance as the storm intensified around them, Gilmour began playing with even greater intensity and focus.
It was as if the natural drama of the storm had awakened something primal in his musical expression. His guitar seemed to be answering the thunder, challenging the lightning, engaging in a musical dialogue with forces that had been shaping this landscape since long before humans had built their Amphitheaters and cities.
The rest of Pink Floyd, Roger Waters on bass, Nick Mason on drums, and Richard Wright on keyboards, followed Gilmour’s lead, continuing their performance despite the increasingly dangerous conditions. But it was Gilmour, standing at the front of the stage with his Stratocaster, who seemed most directly engaged in this battle between human artistic expression and the raw power of nature.
Lightning strikes were now visible in the distance, moving closer to the Amphitheater with each flash. The ancient stones around them seemed to glow momentarily with each electrical discharge, creating an otherworldly atmosphere that the film cameras were somehow managing to capture despite the challenging conditions.
What happened next would become legendary among those who witnessed it, though the full story wouldn’t be widely known until decades later. A massive lightning bolt struck somewhere very close to the Amphitheater, close enough that the thunder was merely simultaneous with the flash, indicating that the electrical discharge had occurred within a few hundred yards of where they were performing.
The sound was so loud and sudden that it temporarily overwhelmed the band’s amplification system. For a moment, everything went silent except for the howling wind and driving rain. Most professional musicians would have used this as a natural stopping point, a clear signal from nature that it was time to seek shelter and wait for better conditions.
The safety of the performers and crew would normally take precedence over any artistic vision, no matter how ambitious. David Gilmour did exactly the opposite. As the echo of the thunder faded and the amplification system came back online, Gilmour began playing again with an intensity that seemed to match the storm itself.
His guitar work became more aggressive, more primal, as if he was determined to prove that human creativity could stand toe-to-toe with the most dramatic forces that nature could unleash. The performance that followed was unlike anything that Pink Floyd had ever created before or would create again. Gilmour’s guitar seemed to be channeling the electrical energy of the storm, creating sounds and musical phrases that appeared to be directly inspired by the lightning and thunder surrounding them.
Roger Waters later described the experience as watching Gilmour having a conversation with the gods, while Nick Mason said it felt like they were participating in some kind of ancient ritual that connected us to every musician who had ever performed in that space. The film crew, despite their growing concern about equipment safety, continued filming because they recognized that they were witnessing something unprecedented.
The images they captured of Gilmour playing his guitar as lightning illuminated the ancient Roman ruins behind him, of the band performing in driving rain with Mount Vesuvius looming dramatically in the background, would become some of the most iconic concert footage ever recorded. But what made the performance truly extraordinary wasn’t just the visual drama of musicians battling the elements.
It was the music itself, which seemed to be elevated to an entirely different level by the natural forces surrounding them. Gilmour’s guitar solos during that storm became something beyond technical proficiency or even artistic expression. They became a form of communication with forces much larger than any individual performer.
Each flash of lightning seemed to inspire new musical ideas. Each crash of thunder prompted new rhythmic patterns. Each gust of wind suggested new melodic possibilities. The other band members found themselves responding not just to Gilmore’s musical leadership, but to the storm itself. Waters’ basslines became more thunderous.
Mason’s drumming took on the rhythmic irregularity of the wind. And Wright’s keyboards seemed to echo the electrical discharges flashing across the sky. As the performance continued, the crew members who had initially been focused on equipment safety found themselves mesmerized by what they were witnessing. This wasn’t simply a rock concert happening to take place during a storm.
This was a collaboration between human artistry and natural forces that seemed to be creating something entirely new. The ancient amphitheater, which had been silent for centuries, was once again filled with the sound of performance. But this time the performance was being shaped by the same volcanic forces that had originally brought the city to its dramatic end.
As the storm reached its peak intensity, with lightning flashing almost continuously and thunder creating a nearly constant rumble, Gilmore’s performance reached what could only be described as a transcendent level. His guitar seemed to be summoning responses from the storm, creating a feedback loop between human creativity and natural power that had never been captured on film before.
