Why Not Pink Floyd? (Revisited)

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The Pink Floyd Discovery Studio Album Box Set

I. See Saw

I have recently listened to every single song from every single Pink Floyd album, so you don’t have to.

The question is: Should you?

The answer: I’m not sure.

Pink Floyd occupies a curious and somewhat unique place in rock history. Certainly it would seem ludicrous to suggest that this celebrated band has not received sufficient attention. Still, most of their approbation has been focused, not unjustly, around the streak of albums they made starting with 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon through 1979’s The Wall. That these works are among the best-loved and best-selling of all time is not a matter of dispute. That this run ended just after (or just before, depending on your perspective) Roger Waters’ exodus—a move he considered the de facto final act of the band’s career (he was wrong as it turned out)—and set the stage for more than two decades of bad blood, recriminations and music that, to put it charitably, does not sit comfortably on the shelf with what came before, is pretty well established fact.

As such, Floyd became infamous for the feuding and ever-bloated arena tours, and not since The Beatles (or possibly Led Zeppelin) has such anxiety, hope and expectation been wasted deliberating whether a reunion—however strained—was inevitable. In the meantime, the work the band did before Dark Side has tended to get overlooked or else dismissed as middling by people who have never provided much evidence that they’ve bothered to listen to the albums in question.

With the possible exception of their 1967 debut The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, which featured original songwriter Syd Barrett, and Meddle, which preceded—and anticipated—Dark Side, the first band in space’s early output has existed in a critical (if not commercial) black hole. This can’t be helped, but it could be rectified. And so: the occasion of yet another exhaustive reissue campaign should provide necessary incentive for some exploration by the uninitiated.

II. Pinks (Three Different Ones)

There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the first one named—and led—by Syd Barrett; the one obliged to carry on after Barrett’s acid-fueled disintegration (which brought his old mate David Gilmour into the fold), and the one that eventually made those string of masterpieces commencing with Dark Side. Casual fans may not realize that Pink Floyd made more albums before The Dark Side of the Moon than they did after it. Some fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made any albums before The Dark Side of the Moon.

Thinking about Floyd’s chronology, and how they got from the alternate Summer of Love soundtrack of their debut all the way to Dark Side—an effort many consider the ultimate, even perfect rock album—required several years and six albums, none of which sounded especially alike, a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental, that served as a centerpiece which at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “A Saucerful of Secrets” (from the second album of the same name), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma), “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother) and “Echoes” (from Meddle). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, each of these pieces built on one another and brought them closer to the sacred ground they were stalking. Certainly the post-Piper efforts were practically by definition transitional albums, but that is inevitable when the ultimate destination is The Dark Side of the Moon.

And herein lies the enigmatic, if seemingly paradoxical assessment that a great deal of Floyd’s work has long gone unscrutinized and underappreciated. If the band had not made their incomparable string of albums, the early work would arguably be more fondly recalled. But since the majority of albums, by Floyd or anyone else, will suffer in comparison to the mid-‘70s masterpieces, it seems like crying over spilled champagne.

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

Rating: 10

III. Point Me at the Sky

You don’t need to know anything about Syd Barrett to fully appreciate The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Wall. But if you know his story, his iridescent rise and spectacular fall, it will invest those albums with additional layers of import, and impact. It remains difficult to imagine what Floyd would have sounded like had Syd managed to stick around for two rather obvious reasons. One, the more musically-oriented direction the band went in owed much to David Gilmour, who was hastily recruited once things with Syd began to spiral. Two, even the subsequent work Barrett did (two difficult but addictive solo albums) sound nothing like Floyd’s debut.

It is possible that The Piper at the Gates of Dawn was such a fully-realized burst of sui generis psychedelia that it could never be equaled or imitated. Following the success of the singles “Arnold Layne” and “See Emily Play” the band (then known as The Pink Floyd) set up shop at Abbey Road Studios, across the hall from the Fab Four, who were assembling Sgt. Pepper. Evaluating the results in last year’s feature on Syd Barrett, I wrote:

The results, remarkable in and of themselves, assume an added layer of relevance when considered as primarily the result of one man’s singular vision (as opposed to the Four Fabs, or five if you count George Martin—and you should). The three selections, “Chapter 24”, “Bike”, and a remix of “Matilda Mother” (an early version with different lyrics) are an adequate overview, but anyone who wants to more fully understand Pink Floyd, 1967, psychedelic rock, and one of the more consistently satisfying debut albums ever is obliged to acquire The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.

Oh, by the way, this one’s Pink. With due respect to Waters, Wright, and Mason, the band’s first effort was Barrett’s baby. His lyrics, ranging from the obligatory astral imagery of the era (“Astronomy Domine”) to the obligatory shout-out to I Ching (“Chapter 24”) to the brain salad surgery of “Bike”, reveal an erudite and eccentric wordsmith, more light than dark, more ebullient than enigmatic. Piper, in short, is a happy explosion of creative potential, producing fruit that flourishes more than 40 years on. And intriguing as Barrett’s words and voice are throughout, the real revelation is his songwriting. The compositions, with the notable exception of the extended space-rock jam “Interstellar Overdrive”, are exercises in precision, packing maximal sound and feeling into bite-sized bits. Barrett’s clever if unconventional use of a Zippo lighter as a makeshift slide gave him the ability to play fast while conjuring a shrill metallic shriek from his guitar. Those glistening cries are in full effect on the single “Apples and Oranges”, adding just enough quirky edge to give it the signature Floyd sound (that, and the “quack quack” after the line “feeding ducks in the afternoon tide”—a classic Barrett embellishment).

Considering Piper and the handful of singles and outtakes, one could make a reasonable case that Barrett’s diamond shined as bright as any artist’s in 1967. (And beyond: Although not included in this set, consider the fey, teasing vocal performance on “Candy and a Currant Bun”—formerly “Let’s Roll Another One”, a title the band was obliged to change for obvious reasons—which is worth noting for the template it provided the young David Bowie.) The world had every reason to think that Pink Floyd was going to make game-changing music and be around for a long, long time. As we know, they did, and were; albeit without their front man, who was asked to leave the band less than a year after Piper was released. It was unbelievable then, and remains difficult to completely comprehend now.

 

IV. Let There Be More Light

The follow-up album did—and will—inevitably disappoint anyone looking for a repeat of Piper. The bad news: with the exception of one song (the harrowing “Jugband Blues”, equal parts peak inside the cuckoo clock and a resigned J’accuse to his bandmates), Syd Barrett is gone, baby, gone. The good news: David Gilmour is now on the scene. Even on this effort, at times tentative, grasping and assured, there are hints of the sounds and obsessions that would indelibly color the Pink Floyd canon. Take the sardonic if jarring “Corporal Clegg” for a first glance at Waters’ disdain for war and society’s treatment of veterans; the solemn heavy-handedness he would later succumb to is undercut with a claustrophobic barrage of voices, sound effects and a sing-along chorus featuring a kazoo(!). Richard Wright attempts to capture the lysergic whimsy in songs he later dismissed but which, more than 40 years later, hold up in their way… if semi-shoehorned lysergic whimsy is something you like in your saucer.

A Saucerful of Secrets
Rating: 7

Two tracks stand out and obviously indicate directions the band would move toward going forward. “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” (featuring brilliantly restrained mallet work from drummer Nick Mason) is the first successful “mood” music the new Floyd created. The band doubles (triples?) down on the ambition for the title track, which succeeds as a piece of avant-garde, music concrete and early prog pretension (see the manipulated “celestial voices” during the coda). From the ominous plucked piano strings to the percussive chaos to a slowly unfolding finale that achieves a genuinely affecting release, this is the track the band would, in a sense, keep revisiting until it was better, different, perfect.

In 1969 the band made two albums, both of which served as stepping stones toward a slowly evolving sound. The first, a soundtrack for a film few people seem to have seen called More, remains very much an overlooked gem, overwhelmed by the volume of quality Floyd recordings. From a purely historical perspective, More is an important album as it illustrates a template for the aesthetic the band would refine in the following decade. Gilmour in particular strides to the fore, assuming primary vocal duties and uncorking a guitar tone that is no longer lost in the haze and sheen that sometimes bogs down A Saucerful of Secrets. The elements of (take your pick) psychedelia/space-rock/trippiness, executed to greater effect in their live recordings, abound but are sharpened by a less guarded (less calculated?) Gilmour, who liberally sprinkles in his blues roots and a rawer, less refined sound.

Soundtrack from the Film More
Rating: 8

The album can be broken somewhat cleanly into two parts: the slower, acoustic pieces—mostly written by Waters, and the lucid, icy grandeur of the instrumentals, dominated by Wright and Gilmour. The acoustic tracks are worthwhile (particularly the hallucinogenic “Cirrus Minor” and “Green is the Colour”) but ultimately don’t rank with the band’s better work. It’s the dream sequences, at once evocative and mesmerizing, that make More an indelible album in its own right. If you take the laid back confidence of “More Blues” and combine it with the aggressive, almost abrasive energy of “Ibiza Bar” you can almost predict where Meddle came from. Likewise, Rick Wright’s uncanny ability to create mood is showcased on “Quicksilver”, which anticipates “Echoes” and “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”. On “Main Theme” and “Dramatic Theme” Gilmour and Wright lock into a groove and Waters and Mason flex some nice rhythmic muscle.

It’s possible that Floyd would never sound this human again, and if they had to move on to bigger and better things (they did), there is sufficient evidence here that Floyd could balance raw and fresh and achieve a coolness without being chilly. Of course, no one could do light and dark with the dexterity of Floyd in their prime, and they make it sound easy here, perhaps because, for them, it was.

Ummagumma
Rating: 6

So while the live-in-the-studio experiments achieve a seemingly effortless air, the sense of purpose and inexorable pretense is more than slightly palpable on Ummagumma. Now this is a transition album. First, a very welcome live set which proves Floyd could credibly cover Barrett (“Astronomy Domine”) and improve upon earlier material (“Careful With That Axe, Eugene” is longer, more intense, and satisfying than the single). “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” and “A Saucerful of Secrets” demonstrate the band’s comfort with stretching out already ambitious material—a process that would reach fruition during the recording of the Pink Floyd at Pompeii film, which boasts definitive versions of these three non-Barrett tracks.

The second disc is an exercise in indulgence, adventure or embarrassment, depending on what you read. In actuality, it is the result mostly of a band feeling pressure to record new material while tailoring their collective compositional chops. Typically, there are elements of the aesthetic that would continue to crystallize in the coming years. Each member has a set of “solo” songs and while none are flawless, we can hear the way the craftsmanship is coalescing and the confidence is building. The band is unquestionably stretching out, and the best elements of this experimentation (Waters’ and Mason’s flair for the absurd; Wright’s and Gilmour’s more structurally sound tunesmithing) would be retained and improved upon in short order.

V. Childhood’s End

Back when Pink Floyd was the biggest underground band in the world, they remained mysterious—and hip—by being invisible. With few exceptions their faces weren’t on the album covers, which underscored the obvious: it was always all about the music. For a band that would come to suffocate on its seriousness (or, the seriousness with which Waters regarded his work, and his place in the band served to suck the air—and life—out of the later work), Floyd displayed a subtle sense of humor for a spell. Take the ingenious cover for Atom Heart Mother: at once a non sequitur, it is also disarming; a close-up glamour shot of a cow, with no mention anywhere of the band. This could be regarded as the band taking the piss out of the critics (and themselves) while also announcing that the ‘60s were over not only literally, but figuratively.

Atom Heart Mother
Rating: 8

Their most ambitious (and uneven/inscrutable/unlistenable, according to seemingly everyone who has written a review) work yet, the entire first side is taken up by the 20-minute-plus opus (excuse me, suite). Using a chorus, an orchestra, their growing facility for studio slicing and dicing and an inimitable elan concerning the art of the segue, Floyd created a very odd, endearing and English work. And that’s just the first few minutes.

To be certain, this is not easy listening, particularly for fans looking for first drafts of future hits like “Time” and “Money”. Although, if you’re rightly mesmerized by the truculent calm of “Mother”, Waters’ doleful acoustic track “If” is a precursor or sorts, and the eerie drill noises that follow the lines “please don’t put your wires in my brain” certainly anticipate “Brain Damage”. “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast”, while being more than a bit of a lark, still features the type of strategic repetitions, eccentric spoken passages and—believe it or not—gorgeous interludes by both Wright and Gilmour. Speaking of Gilmour, his ultra-mellow “Fat Old Sun” succeeds as the pastoral arrangement Waters gamely attempted on Ummagumma’s “Grantchester Meadows”, and features a tasty guitar solo to boot. Gilmour’s tone is fuller and fatter throughout, and first-time listeners will likely experience the shock of recognition scattered like breadcrumbs throughout certain songs.

Meddle
Rating: 9

Meddle, from 1971, was the first full flowering of the Pink Floyd sound—increasingly melodic and balancing precision with the ethereal. While in every regard a group effort, Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group. The observation that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time (though it is indeed that) so much as the realization of a style the band had been inching toward with each previous album. A fairly extensive track-by-track evaluation of the album was attempted a few years back.

In addition to Gilmour’s (and to an only slightly less dominant extent, Wright’s) sonic imprint, we see the notable development of Waters’ skills as a lyricist; his words are now more mature and topical—a welcome and necessary development. On the third track, “Fearless”, there is another nod to Barrett but also a next installment of a growing Waters concern: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against —or reeling from—a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as a blueprint for the ironic employment of actual voices that pepper subsequent Floyd albums.

Just before breaking ground on their (first) masterpiece, there was a second soundtrack to contend with. Obscured By Clouds benefits from a loose yet confident air, the last time the band would proceed informally in the recording studio. The results, recalling More, are split between straightforward songs (with lyrics and vocals) and incidental music for the film (all instrumental).

Obscured By Clouds
Rating: 8

Not surprisingly, Obscured By Clouds in many regards summarizes what led up to it and previews what is about to happen. Gilmour is still front and center, taking most of the vocal duties and his guitar works as heat lightning cutting through the surreal smog. Wright’s keyboards are at once unobtrusive yet omnipresent: the band is soaring, but requires Wright’s foundation and flourishes to get it airborne. (Challenge: listen to any Pink Floyd track from ’67-’79 and try to isolate all of Wright’s contributions; without him their unique sound is inconceivable.) It’s instructive to hear how the Gilmour/Wright alternating (and/or synchronized) vocals, so effective on “Echoes”, work together on “Burning Bridges” to prefigure “Time”. Lyrically, “Free Four” anticipates the concerns that would dominate Waters’ later work. Special mention for “Wots… Uh the Deal” which also functions as an aperitif for the showbiz laments Waters would make a specialty; here Gilmour alternates acoustic and electric guitar to beautiful effect while turning in one of his best vocal performances. Floyd was almost there: with a little more care, attention and inspiration a song like “Stay” would become “Us and Them”; “Childhood’s End” and “Burning Bridges” would combine to become “Time” and the extended instrumental passages would resurface, in refined form, on the next four albums.

VI. Welcome to the Machine

The Dark Side of the Moon is rightly recognized as one of rock music’s most perfect achievements. It also tends to (not unjustifiably) get singled out as the pinnacle of Pink Floyd’s career. While this may ultimately be the case—and who wants to argue the point?—a more accurate appraisal might be that the group, starting in ’73, locked into a virtuosity that has not been equaled by many, if any other outfits. The four albums released between 1973 and 1979 are among the most discussed, beloved and influential of all time; their collective import remains impossible to overstate.

Dark Side, how do we love thee? Let us count the ways. Perfect opening song. Perfect closing song. No, even that is not quite sufficient praise. No other album begins and ends as sublimely as this one does. From the opening heart beats to the sardonic assertion “There is no dark side of the moon, really…as a matter of fact it’s all dark”, this is rock music’s visionary apex. Dark Side represents the ultimate balance of aesthetic and accessibility—demanding yet consistently satisfying—that The Beatles initiated with Sgt. Pepper. 7 41 weeks on the charts and it somehow remains invigorating; it is still capable of surprising you, whether it’s the reverb of Gilmour’s slide just before the (improvised) caterwauling on “The Great Gig in the Sky” or the ceaselessly rousing climax of Waters’ understated poetry in “Eclipse” (“And everything under the sun is in tune/But the sun is eclipsed by the moon”). This is it; it’s all in here and it never got better than this.

The Dark Side of the Moon
Rating: 10

Of course, some listeners contend that Wish You Were Here is Pink Floyd’s supreme achievement. An extended meditation on loss, the lyrics certainly address Syd Barrett and serve as equal parts explanation (of) and apology (for) what really went down in 1968. But Waters’ words are expressive enough to welcome additional, deeper interpretations. Certainly songs like “Have A Cigar” and “Wish You Were Here” speak to Loss with a capital L: loss of innocence, loss of intimacy or loss of connection(s) to others as well as oneself. If the two-part suite “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” is a rousing elegy for Barrett, “Welcome to the Machine” manages to condemn stardom, the system (military, corporate, entertainment) and the eventual disenchantment that follows success, all while creating a seven minute soundtrack to make Dystopia sound at once inevitable and irresistible.

Interestingly, while the two albums that preceded it and the blockbuster that followed it receive—if demand—most of the attention, Animals is arguably the most cohesive and satisfying concept album Pink Floyd recorded. Neither as immediately arresting nor as alluring upon repeated listens, Animals is, among other things, the last time all principle songwriters came together in the service of a project that superseded ego and personal ambition.

Roger Waters was steadily asserting himself as the Alpha Male, which is ironic considering the lyrical subject matter. Separating the human species into three basic groups, Waters assails the cultural systems of hegemony: the power-crazed minority that craves and enforces the jungle code and the puppets, who are either uncaring or oblivious to the ways they are subjugated. Utilizing a bilious indignation that, for the time being, was just on the side of healthy, Waters get politicians, corporate strivers and their timid victims into his sights.

Wish You Were Here
Rating: 10

Gilmour and Wright, working gamely within this structural framework, lend some of their best support, helping turn what might have been an irredeemably dark and disconsolate work into something that illuminates the filth without wallowing in it. Gilmour’s talk box pyrotechnics (on “Pigs”) lend a perfectly mordant touch to Waters’ sneering diatribe against the opportunism and prurient hypocrisy that did (and does) dominate the political scene on both sides of the pond. Wright’s synthesized shrieks (on “Sheep”) convey the apprehension, fear and helplessness of lambs being led to the slaughter, beers and bibles in hand. For “Dogs”, the last (almost) side-long track the band would attempt, all elements are in accord, resulting in the only song that can possibly challenge “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” in terms of impact, effect and staying power. It still sounds like every single trick and skill the band had learned and mastered, going back to the ‘60s, reach their fullest flowering in this grim but redemptory tour de force. By the time Waters rhetorically sneers “Who was dragged down by the stone?” it is as though his contempt has produced an exorcism of sorts, enabling him to deliver the definitive words on subjects that had preoccupied him for so long. As it turns out, he was only getting started.

Animals
Rating: 10

VII. The Thin Ice

If Animals was somewhat of a tough sell, offering three songs exceeding the ten minute mark (and two short acoustic tracks to bookend the proceedings), The Wall has no such issues. Their longest work since their last double-album, Ummagumma, The Wall actually contains only three songs longer than five minutes, and more than a handful that managed the previously unthinkable by becoming radio hits.

The Wall is regularly heralded as another masterpiece and in some circles it is considered the masterpiece in the Floyd canon. There is no denying that some of the band’s finest work is on display (“In the Flesh?”, “The Thin Ice”, “Mother”, “Hey You”, “Comfortably Numb” and the concert-ready classics “Run Like Hell”, “Young Lust” and “Another Brick in the Wall”). There is also ample evidence that Waters had long since set his ego for the heart of the sun and, on far too many tracks, the glare—at times pompous or misguided—is too much to bear. Not unlike the Beatles’ White Album, had Floyd sliced off some of the fat this could have been a truly killer effort; also like the White Album, you would be hard-pressed to find two fans who agree which songs are filler and which are exceptional.

The Wall
Rating: 8

Oh by the way, which one’s Pink? If your view is that Roger Waters was the genius behind the scenes (an opinion Waters would share), this—and the next—album provide ample evidence for that claim. If, on the other hand, you believe that Waters’ lyrics, vision and compositional acumen needed the finesse and artistic reliability that Wright and Gilmour lent to each previous recording, The Wall signifies the beginning of the end of Floyd’s miraculous run. Indeed, both camps sensed that things had run their course, albeit for different reasons.

The Final Cut, while in some regards is Waters’ most lyrically mature effort, probably should have been his first solo recording (something he would have been happy to accommodate). One need not invoke any albums from the ‘70s to illustrate this album’s shortcomings; its flaws are abundant and easy to itemize without comparisons. Short and not-so-sweet: way too much Waters, not enough Gilmour. On earlier works Waters, as a vocalist was most effective in small doses (see Dark Side and Wish You Were Here). Or, if Gilmour was not such a superior singer, Waters (and Wright) could have handled the task and the results would have likely been adequate. Even on The Wall there are several songs where one can imagine the improvements more vocals by Gilmour would have made; yet it’s difficult to imagine hearing (or wanting to hear) Gilmour singing about waiting for the worms and being filled with the urge to defecate.

This subject matter was intensely personal and meaningful to Waters, but he was not able—or willing—to comprehend that similar themes were explored to exceedingly richer and more varied effect on songs like “Us and Them”, “Free Four” and even the frenetic, experimental “Corporal Clegg”. This is somber material and it’s ludicrous to suggest it needed to be lightened up; rather, it needed to be fleshed out. Indeed, Gilmour has recalled listening to the demos and recognizing tracks that didn’t make the cut for The Wall, giving this album’s title a rather unfortunate prescience. It could be called an uncompromising work, but it’s also a narrow and overbearing one that comes close to suffocating on its own self-righteousness. Whether or not the band (now sans Rick Wright) should—or could—have done things differently is impossible to imagine, and largely irrelevant. Waters charged on, content to go it alone, and Gilmour, after releasing his second solo album, licked his wounds and bided his time. There was nothing left for Pink Floyd to prove, unless it was that they could soldier on without Waters and make a shitload more money.

VIII. Us and Them

There is little Pink Floyd could do to tarnish their near impeccable brand, but they certainly gave it their best shot, having one of the ugliest and most protracted divorces in the history of popular music. Practically from the moment The Final Cut dropped it seemed like a matter of time until it became official, and Waters made no bones about his desire to move on, free from the meddling and cumbersome presence of his band mates. The others mostly kept quiet; that is until the small matter of whether or not they were still entitled to be a band without their lyricist and self-proclaimed leader. Long story short: Gilmour recruited Mason, and then Wright (and a few dozen friendly session players) and set about to prove to the world (and Waters) that he could make it happen.

The Final Cut
Rating: 5

“You’ll never fucking do it,” as Gilmour claims Waters told him, may be the words Waters will always regret uttering. He may also have come to realize his comments to the press, which increasingly belittled the role the others (particularly galling were the accusations that Gilmour was mostly along for the ride) played set the stage for what happened. What happened was A Momentary Lapse of Reason, the album that sailed up the charts and catapulted Pink Floyd back into the public consciousness. The subsequent tour made the already rich men wealthy beyond their most brain-damaged dreams.

So, while it seems silly to quibble over whether it’s truly a Pink Floyd album (the simple answer is yes… and no), the more important question is whether it’s a worthwhile album. The simple answer is… yes and no. It certainly sounds like Floyd, at least more so than the stark and sallow Final Cut. Opening track “Signs of Life” is practically a paint-by-numbers reproduction, in miniature, of “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”. Only it is smaller in scale, ambition and import. Waters derisively called the album “a pretty fair forgery” and there is some merit to that assessment; it is an earnest, if half-assed approximation of what the band was capable of more than a decade before. The music is back to being mostly front-and-center, which is just as well as the lyrics are, for the most part, embarrassing. But beyond that, there is something missing, and that something is Roger Waters. If it was easy to pinpoint exactly which musical elements Wright and Gilmour brought to the classic recordings, the role Waters played (his own opinion notwithstanding) was much more than bassist and lyricist. If he was an abrasive taskmaster, he was also a perfectionist, a tinkerer and an unbelievably driven artist. Hopefully it does not sound too harsh to suggest that without Waters, the band sounds like a talented football team determined (or forced) to play without its coach, calling its own plays and having fun, but ultimately not able to execute at a high level.

A Momentary Lapse of Reason
Rating: 5

It was hard to begrudge Gilmour and company: they wanted to do it, they were told they couldn’t do it, and to their credit (and the credit the assorted cast of characters brought in to help), they did it. But in the end, the same complaints leveled against The Final Cut can be made here: it’s a Pink Floyd album and the world is ultimately better for it, but something significant is missing.

Bully for the boys, they were game for another go, and in 1994 they released their (as of today) swan-song, The Division Bell, and embarked on another mega-arena tour. Like the previous effort, the album (mostly) sounds like Floyd, only less so. Gilmour’s voice is still pleasant enough, his guitar still has an edge when necessary and the panache he brings to any proceedings, and Wright is more noticeable, definitely a good thing. Nevertheless, while it’s not a failure, it’s a pretty forgettable album. Very little engages the listener, and there is certainly nothing here that challenges or confronts.

The Division Bell
Rating: 4

Not all of this can be attributed to the absence of Waters; it was now two decades after Wish You Were Here and the band had long since become dignified, middle-aged men. Each of them had other hobbies and passions (Mason race cars and Gilmour flying, to name two big ones) and, understandably, the single-minded fixation that is necessary to produce great and lasting art had long since left the building. On the other hand, Waters did not seem to lose any steam and his focus was still ostensibly laser-like, yet he has never come anywhere close to making an album that sounds anything remotely as impressive as the work he did with Floyd. Is it possible that at a certain age rock stars simply can’t compete with their previous work? The long (and growing) history of still-living legends who sound more comfortable, if less convincing, playing oldies instead of coming up with new material only bolsters this proposition.

Not unlike the Beatles before them, Floyd needed one another to create the idiosyncratic sounds they patented in the ‘60s and ‘70s. More, those albums (by Floyd; by everyone) needed to made during those decades, a time when progressive rock was not yet a joke and the best bands in the world took their art very seriously indeed. It’s less important to wonder if they could have recaptured (or might still rekindle) that unique magic than to acknowledge—and celebrate—the not unremarkable fact that they performed at such an astonishingly high level for as long as they did. Pink Floyd, as much as any band, consistently upped the ante and they never repeated themselves. We have the evidence to prove it, and we will never grow tired of listening until the day when there is no room upon that hill.

IX. Postscript: We Call It Riding the Gravy Train

Why Pink Floyd? That is the name of the campaign accompanying this remastering (or re-remastering or, if you really want to be technical, re-re-remastering) of the Floyd discography. Hopefully this feature has helped the undecided determine if there are indeed old albums they should revisit or check out for the first time. For those who own all or most of the catalog, the inevitable question must be addressed: is this just another cash grab by a famous band? This question comes up regularly, in part because at this point so many groups have had their catalogs revamped so many times.

On the plus side, the albums have never sounded better (especially the older albums: there is nuance and detail that was difficult to detect in previous versions). On the lame side, there is zero bonus material: no out-takes, no live cuts, no demos, nada. If this stuff simply does not exist—however unlikely that would be—then there is nothing to be done. It does seem fair to inquire, however, whether or not the band/label is waiting for yet another opportunity to soak the consumer with yet another unveiling on repackaged material, this time with “extras”. Simply put, the more than casual fan is advised to consider which, if any, discs they’d like to hear as they’ve never heard before (and the differences are not that earth-shattering), or if they are content with the versions they already own. For those who don’t yet own some of these discs, now would seem an ideal time to pick up a copy.

In terms of the bigger picture, the question could easily be why not Pink Floyd? If any band warrants the love and attention, it’s this one. Moreover, if there happen to be people out there who have not experienced Animals or even Wish You Were Here (not to mention the pre-Dark Side works), now is as good a time as any to let them hear what they’ve been missing. If this occasion, in sum, tempts someone to discover any of these albums for the first time, it’s a victory all around, and that is a much more important consideration than dollars and cents. Whatever one ultimately makes of the business rationale behind these releases, their artistic merit is unassailable. Pink Floyd is perhaps the first truly underground band that cultivated a sound that was too remarkable to remain obscure. They willed themselves to be huge, and their influence is undiminished today.

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Ten Albums That Supposedly Suck (But Do Not): #4 (Revisited)

4. Pink Floyd, More (1969)

Here’s another one that may not be accused of sucking so much as not being acknowledged at all which, we should agree, is even worse. This is the single entry in the Pink Floyd catalog that might have fared better if it was not associated with the band. If More, incidental music for a film no one seems to have seen, was created by an obscure, one-and-done band, it would have turned up, by now, in some list as the great, lost psychedelic soundtrack. In reality, it is an egregiously overlooked gem somewhat understandably lost in the vault of treasures the group made before, and after it.

From a purely historical perspective, More is an important album as it illustrates an evolution of the “Floyd sound”. In particular, the interplay between guitarist David Gilmour and keyboardist Rick Wright, which had been perfected by the time Dark Side of the Moon, and the masterpieces that followed, were made. The elements of (take your pick) psychedelia/space-rock/trippiness, executed with mixed results on A Saucerful of Secrets and their live sets of the time, abound but are sharpened by a less guarded (less calculated?) Gilmour, who liberally sprinkles in his blues roots and a rawer, less refined sound.

The album can be broken somewhat cleanly into two parts: the slower, acoustic pieces—mostly written by Roger Waters and sung by Gilmour—and the lucid, icy grandeur of the instrumentals. The acoustic tracks are worthwhile (particularly the hallucinogenic “Cirrus Minor” and “Green is the Colour”) but ultimately don’t rank with the band’s better work. It is the dream sequences, at once evocative and mesmerizing, that make More a crucial stepping stone in the Floyd aesthetic and an indelible album in its own right. If you take the laid back confidence of “More Blues” and combine it with the aggressive, almost abrasive energy of “Ibiza Bar” you can almost predict where Meddle came from. Likewise, Rick Wright’s uncanny ability to create mood is showcased on “Quicksilver”, which anticipates “Echoes” and “Shine On You Crazy Diamond”. On “Main Theme” and “Dramatic Theme”, Gilmour and Wright lock into a groove and Waters and Nick Mason flex some rhythmic muscle.

It is possible that Floyd would never sound this human again, and if they had to move on to bigger and better things (they did), there is sufficient evidence here that Floyd could balance raw and fresh and achieve a coolness without being chilly. Of course, no one could do light and dark with the dexterity of Floyd in their prime, and they make it sound easy here, perhaps because, for them, it was.

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Pink Floyd: The Prog Rock Archetype

It isn’t that Pink Floyd made some of the best albums of the ‘70s (they did), or that Pink Floyd moved the art form forward (they did); it’s that Pink Floyd did the impossible: they made music that can’t be marginalized, and more than any other band, brought progressive rock into the mainstream. This, along with the unparalleled streak of top tier albums they created, elevates them above all others as the prototypical and most significant prog band.

As much praise as the group rightly receives, they may not be fully appreciated for the ways they changed the future of music. The Dark Side of the Moon did for progressive music what Sgt. Pepper did for rock ‘n’ roll: elevating it from pop to art, and through one indelible and irrevocable triumph, granted authenticity—for all time—to an entire genre. It simply cannot be overstated how meaningful it was, and remains, that one of the best-selling and influential albums in history happens to be the apotheosis of prog rock’s canon. In short, Pink Floyd made it not only possible, but inevitable that other bands would attract more—and more serious—scrutiny, however much many of them suffered by comparison. (My album-by-album analysis of the band’s output can be found at “All Things Reconsidered: Why Not Pink Floyd?”, PopMatters, 11 November 2011.)

Needless to say, The Dark Side of the Moon did not arrive as an abrupt burst of brilliance (great art seldom does) so much as the end result of a long and at times excruciating process, a sort of prog rock apprenticeship. Casual fans may be unaware that Pink Floyd made as many albums before The Dark Side of the Moon as they did after. Even more casual fans may be unaware that Pink Floyd made any albums before The Dark Side of the Moon. Of course, before there was prog rock, there was psychedelic rock. Pink Floyd’s debut, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn (1967) was, in its way, a Sgt. Pepper for the underground, and it remains the most fully realized expression of lysergic-laced pop whimsy: deeply surreal songs you can sing along with.

The initial high from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn proved short-lived as the band’s principal songwriter, troubled genius Syd Barrett, suffered a drug-induced breakdown. (Much more on Syd HERE.) His mate David Gilmour was hastily recruited and, at least at first, did his best Barrett impression. Suffice it to say, no one could—or would—have predicted Pink Floyd’s eventual breakthrough based on their early struggles. As a result of Barrett’s departure two crucial changes occurred: Waters gradually assumed chief lyrical responsibilities and Gilmour became the primary vocalist.

Getting from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn to The Dark Side of the Moon required several years and several albums, none of which sounded especially alike—a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each release, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental, that served as a centerpiece that at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the prism in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from The Piper at the Gates of Dawn), “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” (from A Saucerful of Secrets), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma), “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother) and “Echoes” (from Meddle).

Perhaps the single-most important song Floyd produced during the earliest stages of their extended transitional period is the title track from their second album. The ways in which “A Saucerful of Secrets” expanded and crystallized is documented on the live section from Ummagumma, as well as the definitive version, recorded for their movie Live at Pompeii. Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as a major musical force within the group, forging—along with keyboardist Rick Wright- – an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound.

This performance, recorded just before the sessions for The Dark Side of the Moon commenced, is very much the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward, carving away at the stone with each successive effort. The pieces finally came together (or fell apart, if you like) in the form of “Echoes”, the song that officially ended their transition and prepared them to make their masterpiece.

But if “Echoes”, combined with the shorter, snappier (and raw, earthy) tunes from 1972’s Obscured By Clouds provides a blueprint for the sensibility they would sharpen in the service of The Dark Side of the Moon, it’s 1970’s “Atom Heart Mother Suite” that epitomizes the extremes and excesses prog rock would embrace, for better or worse. Where King Crimson can, and should, be credited with creating prog rock’s first unfettered proclamation, In The Court of the Crimson King (1969), Pink Floyd can, and should, be credited—or rebuked—for dropping the first truly progressive side-long “suite” on Atom Heart Mother (1970).

After this one, all bets were off and for the better part of a decade, many bands—including Pink Floyd—attempted to refine and improve upon this opus. Their most ambitious (and uneven/inscrutable/unlistenable, according to seemingly everyone who has written a review) work to that point, clocking in at over 23 minutes, it remains the most blatantly uncommercial track from an album that reached number 1 in the UK.

Making use of a chorus, an orchestra, the band’s growing facility for studio slicing and dicing and an inimitable élan concerning the art of the segue, Pink Floyd created a very odd, endearing and English work. And that’s just the first few minutes. It remains an intriguing question whether or not “Atom Heart Mother” (the suite and the album) would enjoy a better reputation, or at least seem less pretentiously impenetrable for many fans, if the band has stuck with its working title, “The Amazing Pudding”, quite apropos for such a gloppy, sweet, not especially easy to digest jumble.

It’s not just that Pink Floyd did everything first, it’s just that they often did things bigger, and more convincingly. However much Emerson, Lake and Palmer was admired/eviscerated for their audacity, typified by the insufferably titled Works, wherein each player had his own “solo” side, Pink Floyd did the same thing (sort of) on Ummagumma. They were not the first, and certainly not the last band to lie down tracks occupying entire album sides, but they made it acceptable, even inevitable.

Back when Pink Floyd was the first band in space, they remained mysterious, and cool, by keeping invisible. For being one of the biggest rock groups in the world all through the ‘70s, the average fan would not have recognized any of them in an airport. With few exceptions, their faces weren’t on the album covers, and as the resulting records prove, they always put the music first.

Although they became hugely successful, Pink Floyd championed a type of integrity that seems uniquely associated with progressive rock: they never imitated anyone else or copied their own previous efforts. For Pink Floyd it was always about feeling and the evocation of a particular mood (the altered states in sound of “Quicksilver”; the solidarity of human voices, literally via the chanting football crowd in “Fearless”; the frenzy of modern travel/life  in “On the Run”; the almost inexpressible sorrow of loss and remembrance in “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”).

It’s interesting: although a “faceless” band celebrated for their inimitable blend of complexity and precision, Pink Floyd endures as one of the more soulful bands of the ‘70s. For this we can thank Roger Waters, whose development as a lyricist is responsible for a body of work that holds its own against anyone else’s. With the possible exception of Peter Gabriel (with and without Genesis) no songwriter composed more sensitive yet compelling statements concerning the human condition.

From “If” to “Echoes”, then “Free Four” to everything through The Final Cut, Waters was rock music’s consummate psychologist, turning a keen (and increasingly wary) eye on Western culture. His calling card became a series of trenchant takes on the intersection between the personal and the political as they relate to a society turned sideways. His insights on the forces governing our affairs, be they corporate, military, nationalistic or religious, were fodder for some of the most engaging artistic reflections of our time.

Perhaps, when measuring the true scope of their import, it’s most instructive to consider the way Pink Floyd handled their post-The Dark Side of the Moon career. With the exception of “Money” there were no obvious or intentional attempts at a crossover song that might receive airplay. As phenomenal as they remain, it seems certain that “Wish You Were Here”, “Have a Cigar” and “Welcome to the Machine” all became classic rock staples once Pink Floyd was already Pink Floyd. Or, these were the last three songs until The Wall sufficiently short to even get played on the radio.

Beginning with The Dark Side of the Moon and stretching through The Wall, Pink Floyd at once exemplified prog rock while transcending it. Every album was a perfect calculation; from the album art to the sequence of the songs, each entirely convincing on its own but an irreplaceable part of the whole. Again, considerable credit must be given to Waters who, through a tense combination of talent, ego and will, claimed ultimate control of the band’s direction. His acerbic personality and control freak tendencies took their toll, inexorably leading to his departure and one of rock music’s most bitter, protracted soap operas. But attention must be paid: his drive and vision demanded indelible work that may otherwise have been merely excellent.

A well-documented instance would be the two songs that served as prototypes for later masterpieces. “Raving and Drooling” and “You Gotta Be Crazy” were road-tested contenders for inclusion on The Dark Side of the Moon‘s follow-up. If the rest of the band had had their way, they would have comprised one side of the new album while “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” would have run, uninterrupted, on the other. Waters was not satisfied and, judging from the fascinating but far from flawless live versions, he was correct.

As a result, he busied himself on a set of new songs that became “Welcome to the Machine”, “Have a Cigar” and “Wish You Were Here”—a triptych of disenchantment, alienation and bereavement that are crown jewels in the Pink Floyd canon. As important, the temporarily sidelined songs were refined and reworked into Waters’ most cohesive concept album, Animals. With major contributions from Wright and Gilmour, “Sheep” and especially “Dogs” represent some of the best work the band ever did.

It’s not, in sum, that Pink Floyd became the most visible and best band to carry the progressive rock banner (they were). It’s not that they sold the most albums (they did) and had the best album art (they did—R.I.P. Storm Thorgerson!). It’s that they provided cover, through their influence and example, for smaller, equally brave bands who sought to push past the tedious Top 40 boundaries. By the time 1977 rolled around, space rock seemed as prehistoric as hippies and Johnny Rotten became the punk rock poet laureate, insolently scribbling “I Hate” above his Pink Floyd t-shirt. How much street cred would he have had sporting similar sentiment on a Gentle Giant or Jethro Tull t-shirt?

To this day any band, whether it’s The Flaming Lips, Bjork or Radiohead, who emphasize sound and feeling over accessibility, are in some way emulating the standard Pink Floyd set. The key to understanding Pink Floyd’s magnitude is that they made consistently challenging, progressive music, and still found an audience. Indeed, they did not find an audience so much as their audience found them. Pink Floyd was the first truly underground band to cultivate a sound too remarkable to remain obscured by clouds. They willed themselves to be consequential, and their eminence is undiminished today.

http://www.popmatters.com/pm/column/171044-pink-floyd-the-prog-rock-archetype/

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Why Not Pink Floyd? (Revisited)

The Pink Floyd Discovery Studio Album Box Set

I. See Saw

I have recently listened to every single song from every single Pink Floyd album, so you don’t have to.

The question is: Should you?

The answer: I’m not sure.

Pink Floyd occupies a curious and somewhat unique place in rock history. Certainly it would seem ludicrous to suggest that this celebrated band has not received sufficient attention. Still, most of their approbation has been focused, not unjustly, around the streak of albums they made starting with 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon through 1979’s The Wall. That these works are among the best-loved and best-selling of all time is not a matter of dispute. That this run ended just after (or just before, depending on your perspective) Roger Waters’ exodus—a move he considered the de facto final act of the band’s career (he was wrong as it turned out)—and set the stage for more than two decades of bad blood, recriminations and music that, to put it charitably, does not sit comfortably on the shelf with what came before, is pretty well established fact.

As such, Floyd became infamous for the feuding and ever-bloated arena tours, and not since The Beatles (or possibly Led Zeppelin) has such anxiety, hope and expectation been wasted deliberating whether a reunion—however strained—was inevitable. In the meantime, the work the band did before Dark Side has tended to get overlooked or else dismissed as middling by people who have never provided much evidence that they’ve bothered to listen to the albums in question.

With the possible exception of their 1967 debut The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, which featured original songwriter Syd Barrett, and Meddle, which preceded—and anticipated—Dark Side, the first band in space’s early output has existed in a critical (if not commercial) black hole. This can’t be helped, but it could be rectified. And so: the occasion of yet another exhaustive reissue campaign should provide necessary incentive for some exploration by the uninitiated.

II. Pinks (Three Different Ones)

There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the first one named—and led—by Syd Barrett; the one obliged to carry on after Barrett’s acid-fueled disintegration (which brought his old mate David Gilmour into the fold), and the one that eventually made those string of masterpieces commencing with Dark Side. Casual fans may not realize that Pink Floyd made more albums before The Dark Side of the Moon than they did after it. Some fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made any albums before The Dark Side of the Moon.

Thinking about Floyd’s chronology, and how they got from the alternate Summer of Love soundtrack of their debut all the way to Dark Side—an effort many consider the ultimate, even perfect rock album—required several years and six albums, none of which sounded especially alike, a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental, that served as a centerpiece which at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “A Saucerful of Secrets” (from the second album of the same name), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma), “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother) and “Echoes” (from Meddle). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, each of these pieces built on one another and brought them closer to the sacred ground they were stalking. Certainly the post-Piper efforts were practically by definition transitional albums, but that is inevitable when the ultimate destination is The Dark Side of the Moon.

And herein lies the enigmatic, if seemingly paradoxical assessment that a great deal of Floyd’s work has long gone unscrutinized and underappreciated. If the band had not made their incomparable string of albums, the early work would arguably be more fondly recalled. But since the majority of albums, by Floyd or anyone else, will suffer in comparison to the mid-‘70s masterpieces, it seems like crying over spilled champagne.

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

Rating: 10

III. Point Me at the Sky

You don’t need to know anything about Syd Barrett to fully appreciate The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Wall. But if you know his story, his iridescent rise and spectacular fall, it will invest those albums with additional layers of import, and impact. It remains difficult to imagine what Floyd would have sounded like had Syd managed to stick around for two rather obvious reasons. One, the more musically-oriented direction the band went in owed much to David Gilmour, who was hastily recruited once things with Syd began to spiral. Two, even the subsequent work Barrett did (two difficult but addictive solo albums) sound nothing like Floyd’s debut.

It is possible that The Piper at the Gates of Dawn was such a fully-realized burst of sui generis psychedelia that it could never be equaled or imitated. Following the success of the singles “Arnold Layne” and “See Emily Play” the band (then known as The Pink Floyd) set up shop at Abbey Road Studios, across the hall from the Fab Four, who were assembling Sgt. Pepper. Evaluating the results in last year’s feature on Syd Barrett, I wrote:

The results, remarkable in and of themselves, assume an added layer of relevance when considered as primarily the result of one man’s singular vision (as opposed to the Four Fabs, or five if you count George Martin—and you should). The three selections, “Chapter 24”, “Bike”, and a remix of “Matilda Mother” (an early version with different lyrics) are an adequate overview, but anyone who wants to more fully understand Pink Floyd, 1967, psychedelic rock, and one of the more consistently satisfying debut albums ever is obliged to acquire The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.

Oh, by the way, this one’s Pink. With due respect to Waters, Wright, and Mason, the band’s first effort was Barrett’s baby. His lyrics, ranging from the obligatory astral imagery of the era (“Astronomy Domine”) to the obligatory shout-out to I Ching (“Chapter 24”) to the brain salad surgery of “Bike”, reveal an erudite and eccentric wordsmith, more light than dark, more ebullient than enigmatic. Piper, in short, is a happy explosion of creative potential, producing fruit that flourishes more than 40 years on. And intriguing as Barrett’s words and voice are throughout, the real revelation is his songwriting. The compositions, with the notable exception of the extended space-rock jam “Interstellar Overdrive”, are exercises in precision, packing maximal sound and feeling into bite-sized bits. Barrett’s clever if unconventional use of a Zippo lighter as a makeshift slide gave him the ability to play fast while conjuring a shrill metallic shriek from his guitar. Those glistening cries are in full effect on the single “Apples and Oranges”, adding just enough quirky edge to give it the signature Floyd sound (that, and the “quack quack” after the line “feeding ducks in the afternoon tide”—a classic Barrett embellishment).

Considering Piper and the handful of singles and outtakes, one could make a reasonable case that Barrett’s diamond shined as bright as any artist’s in 1967. (And beyond: Although not included in this set, consider the fey, teasing vocal performance on “Candy and a Currant Bun”—formerly “Let’s Roll Another One”, a title the band was obliged to change for obvious reasons—which is worth noting for the template it provided the young David Bowie.) The world had every reason to think that Pink Floyd was going to make game-changing music and be around for a long, long time. As we know, they did, and were; albeit without their front man, who was asked to leave the band less than a year after Piper was released. It was unbelievable then, and remains difficult to completely comprehend now.

 

IV. Let There Be More Light

The follow-up album did—and will—inevitably disappoint anyone looking for a repeat of Piper. The bad news: with the exception of one song (the harrowing “Jugband Blues”, equal parts peak inside the cuckoo clock and a resigned J’accuse to his bandmates), Syd Barrett is gone, baby, gone. The good news: David Gilmour is now on the scene. Even on this effort, at times tentative, grasping and assured, there are hints of the sounds and obsessions that would indelibly color the Pink Floyd canon. Take the sardonic if jarring “Corporal Clegg” for a first glance at Waters’ disdain for war and society’s treatment of veterans; the solemn heavy-handedness he would later succumb to is undercut with a claustrophobic barrage of voices, sound effects and a sing-along chorus featuring a kazoo(!). Richard Wright attempts to capture the lysergic whimsy in songs he later dismissed but which, more than 40 years later, hold up in their way… if semi-shoehorned lysergic whimsy is something you like in your saucer.

A Saucerful of Secrets
Rating: 7

Two tracks stand out and obviously indicate directions the band would move toward going forward. “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” (featuring brilliantly restrained mallet work from drummer Nick Mason) is the first successful “mood” music the new Floyd created. The band doubles (triples?) down on the ambition for the title track, which succeeds as a piece of avant-garde, music concrete and early prog pretension (see the manipulated “celestial voices” during the coda). From the ominous plucked piano strings to the percussive chaos to a slowly unfolding finale that achieves a genuinely affecting release, this is the track the band would, in a sense, keep revisiting until it was better, different, perfect.

In 1969 the band made two albums, both of which served as stepping stones toward a slowly evolving sound. The first, a soundtrack for a film few people seem to have seen called More, remains very much an overlooked gem, overwhelmed by the volume of quality Floyd recordings. From a purely historical perspective, More is an important album as it illustrates a template for the aesthetic the band would refine in the following decade. Gilmour in particular strides to the fore, assuming primary vocal duties and uncorking a guitar tone that is no longer lost in the haze and sheen that sometimes bogs down A Saucerful of Secrets. The elements of (take your pick) psychedelia/space-rock/trippiness, executed to greater effect in their live recordings, abound but are sharpened by a less guarded (less calculated?) Gilmour, who liberally sprinkles in his blues roots and a rawer, less refined sound.

Soundtrack from the Film More
Rating: 8

The album can be broken somewhat cleanly into two parts: the slower, acoustic pieces—mostly written by Waters, and the lucid, icy grandeur of the instrumentals, dominated by Wright and Gilmour. The acoustic tracks are worthwhile (particularly the hallucinogenic “Cirrus Minor” and “Green is the Colour”) but ultimately don’t rank with the band’s better work. It’s the dream sequences, at once evocative and mesmerizing, that make More an indelible album in its own right. If you take the laid back confidence of “More Blues” and combine it with the aggressive, almost abrasive energy of “Ibiza Bar” you can almost predict where Meddle came from. Likewise, Rick Wright’s uncanny ability to create mood is showcased on “Quicksilver”, which anticipates “Echoes” and “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”. On “Main Theme” and “Dramatic Theme” Gilmour and Wright lock into a groove and Waters and Mason flex some nice rhythmic muscle.

It’s possible that Floyd would never sound this human again, and if they had to move on to bigger and better things (they did), there is sufficient evidence here that Floyd could balance raw and fresh and achieve a coolness without being chilly. Of course, no one could do light and dark with the dexterity of Floyd in their prime, and they make it sound easy here, perhaps because, for them, it was.

Ummagumma
Rating: 6

So while the live-in-the-studio experiments achieve a seemingly effortless air, the sense of purpose and inexorable pretense is more than slightly palpable on Ummagumma. Now this is a transition album. First, a very welcome live set which proves Floyd could credibly cover Barrett (“Astronomy Domine”) and improve upon earlier material (“Careful With That Axe, Eugene” is longer, more intense, and satisfying than the single). “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” and “A Saucerful of Secrets” demonstrate the band’s comfort with stretching out already ambitious material—a process that would reach fruition during the recording of the Pink Floyd at Pompeii film, which boasts definitive versions of these three non-Barrett tracks.

The second disc is an exercise in indulgence, adventure or embarrassment, depending on what you read. In actuality, it is the result mostly of a band feeling pressure to record new material while tailoring their collective compositional chops. Typically, there are elements of the aesthetic that would continue to crystallize in the coming years. Each member has a set of “solo” songs and while none are flawless, we can hear the way the craftsmanship is coalescing and the confidence is building. The band is unquestionably stretching out, and the best elements of this experimentation (Waters’ and Mason’s flair for the absurd; Wright’s and Gilmour’s more structurally sound tunesmithing) would be retained and improved upon in short order.

V. Childhood’s End

Back when Pink Floyd was the biggest underground band in the world, they remained mysterious—and hip—by being invisible. With few exceptions their faces weren’t on the album covers, which underscored the obvious: it was always all about the music. For a band that would come to suffocate on its seriousness (or, the seriousness with which Waters regarded his work, and his place in the band served to suck the air—and life—out of the later work), Floyd displayed a subtle sense of humor for a spell. Take the ingenious cover for Atom Heart Mother: at once a non sequitur, it is also disarming; a close-up glamour shot of a cow, with no mention anywhere of the band. This could be regarded as the band taking the piss out of the critics (and themselves) while also announcing that the ‘60s were over not only literally, but figuratively.

Atom Heart Mother
Rating: 8

Their most ambitious (and uneven/inscrutable/unlistenable, according to seemingly everyone who has written a review) work yet, the entire first side is taken up by the 20-minute-plus opus (excuse me, suite). Using a chorus, an orchestra, their growing facility for studio slicing and dicing and an inimitable elan concerning the art of the segue, Floyd created a very odd, endearing and English work. And that’s just the first few minutes.

To be certain, this is not easy listening, particularly for fans looking for first drafts of future hits like “Time” and “Money”. Although, if you’re rightly mesmerized by the truculent calm of “Mother”, Waters’ doleful acoustic track “If” is a precursor or sorts, and the eerie drill noises that follow the lines “please don’t put your wires in my brain” certainly anticipate “Brain Damage”. “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast”, while being more than a bit of a lark, still features the type of strategic repetitions, eccentric spoken passages and—believe it or not—gorgeous interludes by both Wright and Gilmour. Speaking of Gilmour, his ultra-mellow “Fat Old Sun” succeeds as the pastoral arrangement Waters gamely attempted on Ummagumma’s “Grantchester Meadows”, and features a tasty guitar solo to boot. Gilmour’s tone is fuller and fatter throughout, and first-time listeners will likely experience the shock of recognition scattered like breadcrumbs throughout certain songs.

Meddle
Rating: 9

Meddle, from 1971, was the first full flowering of the Pink Floyd sound—increasingly melodic and balancing precision with the ethereal. While in every regard a group effort, Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group. The observation that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time (though it is indeed that) so much as the realization of a style the band had been inching toward with each previous album. A fairly extensive track-by-track evaluation of the album was attempted a few years back.

In addition to Gilmour’s (and to an only slightly less dominant extent, Wright’s) sonic imprint, we see the notable development of Waters’ skills as a lyricist; his words are now more mature and topical—a welcome and necessary development. On the third track, “Fearless”, there is another nod to Barrett but also a next installment of a growing Waters concern: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against —or reeling from—a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as a blueprint for the ironic employment of actual voices that pepper subsequent Floyd albums.

Just before breaking ground on their (first) masterpiece, there was a second soundtrack to contend with. Obscured By Clouds benefits from a loose yet confident air, the last time the band would proceed informally in the recording studio. The results, recalling More, are split between straightforward songs (with lyrics and vocals) and incidental music for the film (all instrumental).

Obscured By Clouds
Rating: 8

Not surprisingly, Obscured By Clouds in many regards summarizes what led up to it and previews what is about to happen. Gilmour is still front and center, taking most of the vocal duties and his guitar works as heat lightning cutting through the surreal smog. Wright’s keyboards are at once unobtrusive yet omnipresent: the band is soaring, but requires Wright’s foundation and flourishes to get it airborne. (Challenge: listen to any Pink Floyd track from ’67-’79 and try to isolate all of Wright’s contributions; without him their unique sound is inconceivable.) It’s instructive to hear how the Gilmour/Wright alternating (and/or synchronized) vocals, so effective on “Echoes”, work together on “Burning Bridges” to prefigure “Time”. Lyrically, “Free Four” anticipates the concerns that would dominate Waters’ later work. Special mention for “Wots… Uh the Deal” which also functions as an aperitif for the showbiz laments Waters would make a specialty; here Gilmour alternates acoustic and electric guitar to beautiful effect while turning in one of his best vocal performances. Floyd was almost there: with a little more care, attention and inspiration a song like “Stay” would become “Us and Them”; “Childhood’s End” and “Burning Bridges” would combine to become “Time” and the extended instrumental passages would resurface, in refined form, on the next four albums.

VI. Welcome to the Machine

The Dark Side of the Moon is rightly recognized as one of rock music’s most perfect achievements. It also tends to (not unjustifiably) get singled out as the pinnacle of Pink Floyd’s career. While this may ultimately be the case—and who wants to argue the point?—a more accurate appraisal might be that the group, starting in ’73, locked into a virtuosity that has not been equaled by many, if any other outfits. The four albums released between 1973 and 1979 are among the most discussed, beloved and influential of all time; their collective import remains impossible to overstate.

Dark Side, how do we love thee? Let us count the ways. Perfect opening song. Perfect closing song. No, even that is not quite sufficient praise. No other album begins and ends as sublimely as this one does. From the opening heart beats to the sardonic assertion “There is no dark side of the moon, really…as a matter of fact it’s all dark”, this is rock music’s visionary apex. Dark Side represents the ultimate balance of aesthetic and accessibility—demanding yet consistently satisfying—that The Beatles initiated with Sgt. Pepper. 7 41 weeks on the charts and it somehow remains invigorating; it is still capable of surprising you, whether it’s the reverb of Gilmour’s slide just before the (improvised) caterwauling on “The Great Gig in the Sky” or the ceaselessly rousing climax of Waters’ understated poetry in “Eclipse” (“And everything under the sun is in tune/But the sun is eclipsed by the moon”). This is it; it’s all in here and it never got better than this.

The Dark Side of the Moon
Rating: 10

Of course, some listeners contend that Wish You Were Here is Pink Floyd’s supreme achievement. An extended meditation on loss, the lyrics certainly address Syd Barrett and serve as equal parts explanation (of) and apology (for) what really went down in 1968. But Waters’ words are expressive enough to welcome additional, deeper interpretations. Certainly songs like “Have A Cigar” and “Wish You Were Here” speak to Loss with a capital L: loss of innocence, loss of intimacy or loss of connection(s) to others as well as oneself. If the two-part suite “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” is a rousing elegy for Barrett, “Welcome to the Machine” manages to condemn stardom, the system (military, corporate, entertainment) and the eventual disenchantment that follows success, all while creating a seven minute soundtrack to make Dystopia sound at once inevitable and irresistible.

Interestingly, while the two albums that preceded it and the blockbuster that followed it receive—if demand—most of the attention, Animals is arguably the most cohesive and satisfying concept album Pink Floyd recorded. Neither as immediately arresting nor as alluring upon repeated listens, Animals is, among other things, the last time all principle songwriters came together in the service of a project that superseded ego and personal ambition.

Roger Waters was steadily asserting himself as the Alpha Male, which is ironic considering the lyrical subject matter. Separating the human species into three basic groups, Waters assails the cultural systems of hegemony: the power-crazed minority that craves and enforces the jungle code and the puppets, who are either uncaring or oblivious to the ways they are subjugated. Utilizing a bilious indignation that, for the time being, was just on the side of healthy, Waters get politicians, corporate strivers and their timid victims into his sights.

Wish You Were Here
Rating: 10

Gilmour and Wright, working gamely within this structural framework, lend some of their best support, helping turn what might have been an irredeemably dark and disconsolate work into something that illuminates the filth without wallowing in it. Gilmour’s talk box pyrotechnics (on “Pigs”) lend a perfectly mordant touch to Waters’ sneering diatribe against the opportunism and prurient hypocrisy that did (and does) dominate the political scene on both sides of the pond. Wright’s synthesized shrieks (on “Sheep”) convey the apprehension, fear and helplessness of lambs being led to the slaughter, beers and bibles in hand. For “Dogs”, the last (almost) side-long track the band would attempt, all elements are in accord, resulting in the only song that can possibly challenge “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” in terms of impact, effect and staying power. It still sounds like every single trick and skill the band had learned and mastered, going back to the ‘60s, reach their fullest flowering in this grim but redemptory tour de force. By the time Waters rhetorically sneers “Who was dragged down by the stone?” it is as though his contempt has produced an exorcism of sorts, enabling him to deliver the definitive words on subjects that had preoccupied him for so long. As it turns out, he was only getting started.

Animals
Rating: 10

VII. The Thin Ice

If Animals was somewhat of a tough sell, offering three songs exceeding the ten minute mark (and two short acoustic tracks to bookend the proceedings), The Wall has no such issues. Their longest work since their last double-album, Ummagumma, The Wall actually contains only three songs longer than five minutes, and more than a handful that managed the previously unthinkable by becoming radio hits.

The Wall is regularly heralded as another masterpiece and in some circles it is considered the masterpiece in the Floyd canon. There is no denying that some of the band’s finest work is on display (“In the Flesh?”, “The Thin Ice”, “Mother”, “Hey You”, “Comfortably Numb” and the concert-ready classics “Run Like Hell”, “Young Lust” and “Another Brick in the Wall”). There is also ample evidence that Waters had long since set his ego for the heart of the sun and, on far too many tracks, the glare—at times pompous or misguided—is too much to bear. Not unlike the Beatles’ White Album, had Floyd sliced off some of the fat this could have been a truly killer effort; also like the White Album, you would be hard-pressed to find two fans who agree which songs are filler and which are exceptional.

The Wall
Rating: 8

Oh by the way, which one’s Pink? If your view is that Roger Waters was the genius behind the scenes (an opinion Waters would share), this—and the next—album provide ample evidence for that claim. If, on the other hand, you believe that Waters’ lyrics, vision and compositional acumen needed the finesse and artistic reliability that Wright and Gilmour lent to each previous recording, The Wall signifies the beginning of the end of Floyd’s miraculous run. Indeed, both camps sensed that things had run their course, albeit for different reasons.

The Final Cut, while in some regards is Waters’ most lyrically mature effort, probably should have been his first solo recording (something he would have been happy to accommodate). One need not invoke any albums from the ‘70s to illustrate this album’s shortcomings; its flaws are abundant and easy to itemize without comparisons. Short and not-so-sweet: way too much Waters, not enough Gilmour. On earlier works Waters, as a vocalist was most effective in small doses (see Dark Side and Wish You Were Here). Or, if Gilmour was not such a superior singer, Waters (and Wright) could have handled the task and the results would have likely been adequate. Even on The Wall there are several songs where one can imagine the improvements more vocals by Gilmour would have made; yet it’s difficult to imagine hearing (or wanting to hear) Gilmour singing about waiting for the worms and being filled with the urge to defecate.

This subject matter was intensely personal and meaningful to Waters, but he was not able—or willing—to comprehend that similar themes were explored to exceedingly richer and more varied effect on songs like “Us and Them”, “Free Four” and even the frenetic, experimental “Corporal Clegg”. This is somber material and it’s ludicrous to suggest it needed to be lightened up; rather, it needed to be fleshed out. Indeed, Gilmour has recalled listening to the demos and recognizing tracks that didn’t make the cut for The Wall, giving this album’s title a rather unfortunate prescience. It could be called an uncompromising work, but it’s also a narrow and overbearing one that comes close to suffocating on its own self-righteousness. Whether or not the band (now sans Rick Wright) should—or could—have done things differently is impossible to imagine, and largely irrelevant. Waters charged on, content to go it alone, and Gilmour, after releasing his second solo album, licked his wounds and bided his time. There was nothing left for Pink Floyd to prove, unless it was that they could soldier on without Waters and make a shitload more money.

VIII. Us and Them

There is little Pink Floyd could do to tarnish their near impeccable brand, but they certainly gave it their best shot, having one of the ugliest and most protracted divorces in the history of popular music. Practically from the moment The Final Cut dropped it seemed like a matter of time until it became official, and Waters made no bones about his desire to move on, free from the meddling and cumbersome presence of his band mates. The others mostly kept quiet; that is until the small matter of whether or not they were still entitled to be a band without their lyricist and self-proclaimed leader. Long story short: Gilmour recruited Mason, and then Wright (and a few dozen friendly session players) and set about to prove to the world (and Waters) that he could make it happen.

The Final Cut
Rating: 5

“You’ll never fucking do it,” as Gilmour claims Waters told him, may be the words Waters will always regret uttering. He may also have come to realize his comments to the press, which increasingly belittled the role the others (particularly galling were the accusations that Gilmour was mostly along for the ride) played set the stage for what happened. What happened was A Momentary Lapse of Reason, the album that sailed up the charts and catapulted Pink Floyd back into the public consciousness. The subsequent tour made the already rich men wealthy beyond their most brain-damaged dreams.

So, while it seems silly to quibble over whether it’s truly a Pink Floyd album (the simple answer is yes… and no), the more important question is whether it’s a worthwhile album. The simple answer is… yes and no. It certainly sounds like Floyd, at least more so than the stark and sallow Final Cut. Opening track “Signs of Life” is practically a paint-by-numbers reproduction, in miniature, of “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”. Only it is smaller in scale, ambition and import. Waters derisively called the album “a pretty fair forgery” and there is some merit to that assessment; it is an earnest, if half-assed approximation of what the band was capable of more than a decade before. The music is back to being mostly front-and-center, which is just as well as the lyrics are, for the most part, embarrassing. But beyond that, there is something missing, and that something is Roger Waters. If it was easy to pinpoint exactly which musical elements Wright and Gilmour brought to the classic recordings, the role Waters played (his own opinion notwithstanding) was much more than bassist and lyricist. If he was an abrasive taskmaster, he was also a perfectionist, a tinkerer and an unbelievably driven artist. Hopefully it does not sound too harsh to suggest that without Waters, the band sounds like a talented football team determined (or forced) to play without its coach, calling its own plays and having fun, but ultimately not able to execute at a high level.

A Momentary Lapse of Reason
Rating: 5

It was hard to begrudge Gilmour and company: they wanted to do it, they were told they couldn’t do it, and to their credit (and the credit the assorted cast of characters brought in to help), they did it. But in the end, the same complaints leveled against The Final Cut can be made here: it’s a Pink Floyd album and the world is ultimately better for it, but something significant is missing.

Bully for the boys, they were game for another go, and in 1994 they released their (as of today) swan-song, The Division Bell, and embarked on another mega-arena tour. Like the previous effort, the album (mostly) sounds like Floyd, only less so. Gilmour’s voice is still pleasant enough, his guitar still has an edge when necessary and the panache he brings to any proceedings, and Wright is more noticeable, definitely a good thing. Nevertheless, while it’s not a failure, it’s a pretty forgettable album. Very little engages the listener, and there is certainly nothing here that challenges or confronts.

The Division Bell
Rating: 4

Not all of this can be attributed to the absence of Waters; it was now two decades after Wish You Were Here and the band had long since become dignified, middle-aged men. Each of them had other hobbies and passions (Mason race cars and Gilmour flying, to name two big ones) and, understandably, the single-minded fixation that is necessary to produce great and lasting art had long since left the building. On the other hand, Waters did not seem to lose any steam and his focus was still ostensibly laser-like, yet he has never come anywhere close to making an album that sounds anything remotely as impressive as the work he did with Floyd. Is it possible that at a certain age rock stars simply can’t compete with their previous work? The long (and growing) history of still-living legends who sound more comfortable, if less convincing, playing oldies instead of coming up with new material only bolsters this proposition.

Not unlike the Beatles before them, Floyd needed one another to create the idiosyncratic sounds they patented in the ‘60s and ‘70s. More, those albums (by Floyd; by everyone) needed to made during those decades, a time when progressive rock was not yet a joke and the best bands in the world took their art very seriously indeed. It’s less important to wonder if they could have recaptured (or might still rekindle) that unique magic than to acknowledge—and celebrate—the not unremarkable fact that they performed at such an astonishingly high level for as long as they did. Pink Floyd, as much as any band, consistently upped the ante and they never repeated themselves. We have the evidence to prove it, and we will never grow tired of listening until the day when there is no room upon that hill.

IX. Postscript: We Call It Riding the Gravy Train

Why Pink Floyd? That is the name of the campaign accompanying this remastering (or re-remastering or, if you really want to be technical, re-re-remastering) of the Floyd discography. Hopefully this feature has helped the undecided determine if there are indeed old albums they should revisit or check out for the first time. For those who own all or most of the catalog, the inevitable question must be addressed: is this just another cash grab by a famous band? This question comes up regularly, in part because at this point so many groups have had their catalogs revamped so many times.

On the plus side, the albums have never sounded better (especially the older albums: there is nuance and detail that was difficult to detect in previous versions). On the lame side, there is zero bonus material: no out-takes, no live cuts, no demos, nada. If this stuff simply does not exist—however unlikely that would be—then there is nothing to be done. It does seem fair to inquire, however, whether or not the band/label is waiting for yet another opportunity to soak the consumer with yet another unveiling on repackaged material, this time with “extras”. Simply put, the more than casual fan is advised to consider which, if any, discs they’d like to hear as they’ve never heard before (and the differences are not that earth-shattering), or if they are content with the versions they already own. For those who don’t yet own some of these discs, now would seem an ideal time to pick up a copy.

In terms of the bigger picture, the question could easily be why not Pink Floyd? If any band warrants the love and attention, it’s this one. Moreover, if there happen to be people out there who have not experienced Animals or even Wish You Were Here (not to mention the pre-Dark Side works), now is as good a time as any to let them hear what they’ve been missing. If this occasion, in sum, tempts someone to discover any of these albums for the first time, it’s a victory all around, and that is a much more important consideration than dollars and cents. Whatever one ultimately makes of the business rationale behind these releases, their artistic merit is unassailable. Pink Floyd is perhaps the first truly underground band that cultivated a sound that was too remarkable to remain obscure. They willed themselves to be huge, and their influence is undiminished today.

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Why Not Pink Floyd?

The Pink Floyd Discovery Studio Album Box Set

I. See Saw

I have recently listened to every single song from every single Pink Floyd album, do you don’t have to.

The question is: Should you?

The answer: I’m not sure.

Pink Floyd occupies a curious and somewhat unique place in rock history. Certainly it would seem ludicrous to suggest that this celebrated band has not received sufficient attention. Still, most of their approbation has been focused, not unjustly, around the streak of albums they made starting with 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon through 1979’s The Wall. That these works are among the best-loved and best-selling of all time is not a matter of dispute. That this run ended just after (or just before, depending on your perspective) Roger Waters’ exodus—a move he considered the de facto final act of the band’s career (he was wrong as it turned out)—and set the stage for more than two decades of bad blood, recriminations and music that, to put it charitably, does not sit comfortably on the shelf with what came before, is pretty well established fact.

As such, Floyd became infamous for the feuding and ever-bloated arena tours, and not since The Beatles (or possibly Led Zeppelin) has such anxiety, hope and expectation been wasted deliberating whether a reunion—however strained—was inevitable. In the meantime, the work the band did before Dark Side has tended to get overlooked or else dismissed as middling by people who have never provided much evidence that they’ve bothered to listen to the albums in question.

With the possible exception of their 1967 debut The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, which featured original songwriter Syd Barrett, and Meddle, which preceded—and anticipated—Dark Side, the first band in space’s early output has existed in a critical (if not commercial) black hole. This can’t be helped, but it could be rectified. And so: the occasion of yet another exhaustive reissue campaign should provide necessary incentive for some exploration by the uninitiated.

II. Pinks (Three Different Ones)

There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the first one named—and led—by Syd Barrett; the one obliged to carry on after Barrett’s acid-fueled disintegration (which brought his old mate David Gilmour into the fold), and the one that eventually made those string of masterpieces commencing with Dark Side. Casual fans may not realize that Pink Floyd made more albums before The Dark Side of the Moon than they did after it. Some fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made any albums before The Dark Side of the Moon.

Thinking about Floyd’s chronology, and how they got from the alternate Summer of Love soundtrack of their debut to Dark Side—an effort many consider the ultimate, even perfect rock album—required several years and six albums, none of which sounded especially alike, a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental, that served as a centerpiece which at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “A Saucerful of Secrets” (from the second album of the same name), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma), “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother) and “Echoes” (from Meddle). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, each of these pieces built on one another and brought them closer to the sacred ground they were stalking. Certainly the post-Piper efforts were practically by definition transitional albums, but that is inevitable when the ultimate destination is The Dark Side of the Moon.

And herein lies the enigmatic, if seemingly paradoxical assessment that a great deal of Floyd’s work has long gone unscrutinized and underappreciated. If the band had not made their incomparable string of albums, the early work would arguably be more fondly recalled. But since the majority of albums, by Floyd or anyone else, will suffer in comparison to the mid-‘70s masterpieces, it seems like crying over spilled champagne.

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn

The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
Rating: 10

III. Point Me at the Sky

You don’t need to know anything about Syd Barrett to fully appreciate The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Wall.  But if you know his story, his iridescent rise and spectacular fall, it will invest those albums with additional layers of import, and impact. It remains difficult to imagine what Floyd would have sounded like had Syd managed to stick around for two rather obvious reasons. One, the more musically-oriented direction the band went in owed much to David Gilmour, who was hastily recruited once things with Syd began to spiral. Two, even the subsequent work Barrett did (two difficult but addictive solo albums) sound nothing like Floyd’s debut.

It is possible that The Piper at the Gates of Dawn was such a fully-realized burst of sui generis psychedelia that it could never be equaled or imitated. Following the success of the singles “Arnold Layne” and “See Emily Play” the band (then known as The Pink Floyd) set up shop at Abbey Road Studios, across the hall from the Fab Four, who were assembling Sgt. Pepper. Evaluating the results in last year’s feature on Syd Barrett, I wrote:

The results, remarkable in and of themselves, assume an added layer of relevance when considered as primarily the result of one man’s singular vision (as opposed to the Four Fabs, or five if you count George Martin—and you should). The three selections, “Chapter 24”, “Bike”, and a remix of “Matilda Mother” (an early version with different lyrics) are an adequate overview, but anyone who wants to more fully understand Pink Floyd, 1967, psychedelic rock, and one of the more consistently satisfying debut albums ever is obliged to acquire The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.

Oh, by the way, this one’s Pink. With due respect to Waters, Wright, and Mason, the band’s first effort was Barrett’s baby. His lyrics, ranging from the obligatory astral imagery of the era (“Astronomy Domine”) to the obligatory shout-out to I Ching (“Chapter 24”) to the brain salad surgery of “Bike”, reveal an erudite and eccentric wordsmith, more light than dark, more ebullient than enigmatic. Piper, in short, is a happy explosion of creative potential, producing fruit that flourishes more than 40 years on. And intriguing as Barrett’s words and voice are throughout, the real revelation is his songwriting. The compositions, with the notable exception of the extended space-rock jam “Interstellar Overdrive”, are exercises in precision, packing maximal sound and feeling into bite-sized bits. Barrett’s clever if unconventional use of a Zippo lighter as a makeshift slide gave him the ability to play fast while conjuring a shrill metallic shriek from his guitar. Those glistening cries are in full effect on the single “Apples and Oranges”, adding just enough quirky edge to give it the signature Floyd sound (that, and the “quack quack” after the line “feeding ducks in the afternoon tide”—a classic Barrett embellishment).

Considering Piper and the handful of singles and outtakes, one could make a reasonable case that Barrett’s diamond shined as bright as any artist’s in 1967. (And beyond: Although not included in this set, consider the fey, teasing vocal performance on “Candy and a Currant Bun”—formerly “Let’s Roll Another One”, a title the band was obliged to change for obvious reasons—which is worth noting for the template it provided the young David Bowie.) The world had every reason to think that Pink Floyd was going to make game-changing music and be around for a long, long time. As we know, they did, and were; albeit without their front man, who was asked to leave the band less than a year after Piper was released. It was unbelievable then, and remains difficult to completely comprehend now.

 

IV. Let There Be More Light

The follow-up album did—and will—inevitably disappoint anyone looking for a repeat of Piper. The bad news:  with the exception of one song (the harrowing “Jugband Blues”, equal parts peak inside the cuckoo clock and a resigned J’accuse to his bandmates), Syd Barrett is gone, baby, gone. The good news: David Gilmour is now on the scene. Even on this effort, at times tentative, grasping and assured, there are hints of the sounds and obsessions that would indelibly color the Pink Floyd canon. Take the sardonic if jarring “Corporal Clegg” for a first glance at Waters’ disdain for war and society’s treatment of veterans; the solemn heavy-handedness he would later succumb to is undercut with a claustrophobic barrage of voices, sound effects and a sing-along chorus featuring a kazoo(!). Richard Wright attempts to capture the lysergic whimsy in songs he later dismissed but which, more than 40 years later, hold up in their way… if semi-shoehorned lysergic whimsy is something you like in your saucer.

A Saucerful of Secrets

A Saucerful of Secrets
Rating: 7

Two tracks stand out and obviously indicate directions the band would move toward going forward. “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” (featuring brilliantly restrained mallet work from drummer Nick Mason) is the first successful “mood” music the new Floyd created. The band doubles (triples?) down on the ambition for the title track, which succeeds as a piece of avant-garde, music concrete and early prog pretension (see the manipulated “celestial voices” during the coda). From the ominous plucked piano strings to the percussive chaos to a slowly unfolding finale that achieves a genuinely affecting release, this is the track the band would, in a sense, keep revisiting until it was better, different, perfect.

In 1969 the band made two albums, both of which served as stepping stones toward a slowly evolving sound. The first, a soundtrack for a film few people seem to have seen called More, remains very much an overlooked gem, overwhelmed by the volume of quality Floyd recordings. From a purely historical perspective, More is an important album as it illustrates a template for the aesthetic  the band would refine in the following decade. Gilmour in particular strides to the fore, assuming primary vocal duties and uncorking a guitar tone that is no longer lost in the haze and sheen that sometimes bogs down A Saucerful of Secrets. The elements of (take your pick) psychedelia/space-rock/trippiness, executed to greater effect in their live recordings, abound but are sharpened by a less guarded (less calculated?) Gilmour, who liberally sprinkles in his blues roots and a rawer, less refined sound.

Soundtrack from the Film More

Soundtrack from the Film More
Rating: 8

The album can be broken somewhat cleanly into two parts: the slower, acoustic pieces—mostly written by Waters, and the lucid, icy grandeur of the instrumentals, dominated by Wright and Gilmour. The acoustic tracks are worthwhile (particularly the hallucinogenic “Cirrus Minor” and “Green is the Colour”) but ultimately don’t rank with the band’s better work. It’s the dream sequences, at once evocative and mesmerizing, that make More an indelible album in its own right. If you take the laid back confidence of “More Blues” and combine it with the aggressive, almost abrasive energy of “Ibiza Bar” you can almost predict where Meddle came from. Likewise, Rick Wright’s uncanny ability to create mood is showcased on “Quicksilver”, which anticipates “Echoes” and “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”. On “Main Theme” and “Dramatic Theme” Gilmour and Wright lock into a groove and Waters and Mason flex some nice rhythmic muscle.

It’s possible that Floyd would never sound this human again, and if they had to move on to bigger and better things (they did), there is sufficient evidence here that Floyd could balance raw and fresh and achieve a coolness without being chilly. Of course, no one could do light and dark with the dexterity of Floyd in their prime, and they make it sound easy here, perhaps because, for them, it was.

Ummagumma

Ummagumma
Rating: 6

So while the live-in-the-studio experiments achieve a seemingly effortless air, the sense of purpose and inexorable pretense is more than slightly palpable on Ummagumma. Now this is a transition album. First, a very welcome live set which proves Floyd could credibly cover Barrett (“Astronomy Domine”) and improve upon earlier material (“Careful With That Axe, Eugene” is longer, more intense, and satisfying than the single). “Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun” and “A Saucerful of Secrets” demonstrate the band’s comfort with stretching out already ambitious material—a process that would reach fruition during the recording of the Pink Floyd at Pompeii film, which boasts definitive versions of these three non-Barrett tracks.

The second disc is an exercise in indulgence, adventure or embarrassment, depending on what you read. In actuality, it is the result mostly of a band feeling pressure to record new material while tailoring their collective compositional chops. Typically, there are elements of the aesthetic that would continue to crystallize in the coming years. Each member has a set of “solo” songs and while none are flawless, we can hear the way the craftsmanship is coalescing and the confidence is building. The band is unquestionably stretching out, and the best elements of this experimentation (Waters’ and Mason’s flair for the absurd; Wright’s and Gilmour’s more structurally sound tunesmithing) would be retained and improved upon in short order.

V. Childhood’s End

Back when Pink Floyd was the biggest underground band in the world, they remained mysterious—and hip—by being invisible. With few exceptions their faces weren’t on the album covers, which underscored the obvious: it was always all about the music. For a band that would come to suffocate on its seriousness (or, the seriousness with which Waters regarded his work, and his place in the band served to suck the air—and life—out of the later work), Floyd displayed a subtle sense of humor for a spell. Take the ingenious cover for Atom Heart Mother: at once a non sequitur, it is also disarming; a close-up glamour shot of a cow, with no mention anywhere of the band. This could be regarded as the band taking the piss out of the critics (and themselves) while also announcing that the ‘60s were over not only literally, but figuratively.

Atom Heart Mother

Atom Heart Mother
Rating: 8

Their most ambitious (and uneven/inscrutable/unlistenable, according to seemingly everyone who has written a review) work yet, the entire first side is taken up by the 20-minute-plus opus (excuse me, suite). Using a chorus, an orchestra, their growing facility for studio slicing and dicing and an inimitable elan concerning the art of the segue, Floyd created a very odd, endearing and English work. And that’s just the first few minutes.

To be certain, this is not easy listening, particularly for fans looking for first drafts of future hits like “Time” and “Money”. Although, if you’re rightly mesmerized by the truculent calm of “Mother”, Waters’ doleful acoustic track “If” is a precursor or sorts, and the eerie drill noises that follow the lines “please don’t put your wires in my brain” certainly anticipate “Brain Damage”. “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast”, while being more than a bit of a lark, still features the type of strategic repetitions, eccentric spoken passages and—believe it or not—gorgeous interludes by both Wright and Gilmour. Speaking of Gilmour, his ultra-mellow “Fat Old Sun” succeeds as the pastoral arrangement Waters gamely attempted on Ummagumma’s “Grantchester Meadows”, and features a tasty guitar solo to boot. Gilmour’s tone is fuller and fatter throughout, and first-time listeners will likely experience the shock of recognition scattered like breadcrumbs throughout certain songs.

Meddle

Meddle
Rating: 9

Meddle, from 1971, was the first full flowering of the Pink Floyd sound—increasingly melodic and balancing precision with the ethereal. While in every regard a group effort, Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group. The observation that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time (though it is indeed that) so much as the realization of a style the band had been inching toward with each previous album. A fairly extensive track-by-track evaluation of the album was attempted a few years back.

In addition to Gilmour’s (and to an only slightly less dominant extent, Wright’s) sonic imprint, we see the notable development of Waters’ skills as a lyricist; his words are now more mature and topical—a welcome and necessary development. On the third track, “Fearless”, there is another nod to Barrett but also a next installment of a growing Waters concern: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against —or reeling from—a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as a blueprint for the ironic employment of actual voices that pepper subsequent Floyd albums.

Just before breaking ground on their (first) masterpiece, there was a second soundtrack to contend with. Obscured By Clouds benefits from a loose yet confident air, the last time the band would proceed informally in the recording studio. The results, recalling More, are split between straightforward songs (with lyrics and vocals) and incidental music for the film (all instrumental).

Obscured By Clouds

Obscured By Clouds
Rating: 8

Not surprisingly, Obscured By Clouds in many regards summarizes what led up to it and previews what is about to happen. Gilmour is still front and center, taking most of the vocal duties and his guitar works as heat lightning cutting through the surreal smog. Wright’s keyboards are at once unobtrusive yet omnipresent: the band is soaring, but requires Wright’s foundation and flourishes to get it airborne. (Challenge: listen to any Pink Floyd track from ’67-’79 and try to isolate all of Wright’s contributions; without him their unique sound is inconceivable.) It’s instructive to hear how the Gilmour/Wright alternating (and/or synchronized) vocals, so effective on “Echoes”, work together on “Burning Bridges” to prefigure “Time”. Lyrically, “Free Four” anticipates the concerns that would dominate Waters’ later work. Special mention for “Wots… Uh the Deal” which also functions as an aperitif for the showbiz laments Waters would make a specialty; here Gilmour alternates acoustic and electric guitar to beautiful effect while turning in one of his best vocal performances. Floyd was almost there: with a little more care, attention and inspiration a song like “Stay” would become “Us and Them”; “Childhood’s End” and “Burning Bridges” would combine to become “Time” and the extended instrumental passages would resurface, in refined form, on the next four albums.

VI. Welcome to the Machine

The Dark Side of the Moon is rightly recognized as one of rock music’s most perfect achievements. It also tends to (not unjustifiably) get singled out as the pinnacle of Pink Floyd’s career. While this may ultimately be the case—and who wants to argue the point?—a more accurate appraisal might be that the group, starting in ’73, locked into a virtuosity that has not been equaled by many, if any other outfits. The four albums released between 1973 and 1979 are among the most discussed, beloved and influential of all time; their collective import remains impossible to overstate.

Dark Side, how do we love thee? Let us count the ways. Perfect opening song. Perfect closing song. No, even that is not quite sufficient praise. No other album begins and ends as sublimely as this one does. From the opening heart beats to the sardonic assertion “There is no dark side of the moon, really…as a matter of fact it’s all dark”, this is rock music’s visionary apex. Dark Side represents the ultimate balance of aesthetic and accessibility—demanding  yet consistently satisfying—that The Beatles initiated with Sgt. Pepper. 7 41 weeks on the charts and it somehow remains invigorating; it is still capable of surprising you, whether it’s the reverb of Gilmour’s slide just before the (improvised) caterwauling on “The Great Gig in the Sky” or the ceaselessly rousing climax of Waters’ understated poetry in “Eclipse” (“And everything under the sun is in tune/But the sun is eclipsed by the moon”). This is it; it’s all in here and it never got better than this.

The Dark Side of the Moon

The Dark Side of the Moon
Rating: 10

Of course, some listeners contend that Wish You Were Here is Pink Floyd’s supreme achievement. An extended meditation on loss, the lyrics certainly address Syd Barrett and serve as equal parts explanation (of) and apology (for) what really went down in 1968. But Waters’ words are expressive enough to welcome additional, deeper interpretations. Certainly songs like “Have A Cigar” and “Wish You Were Here” speak to Loss with a capital L: loss of innocence, loss of intimacy or loss of connection(s) to others as well as oneself. If the two-part suite “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” is a rousing elegy for Barrett, “Welcome to the Machine” manages to condemn stardom, the system (military, corporate, entertainment) and the eventual disenchantment that follows success, all while creating a seven minute soundtrack to make Dystopia sound at once inevitable and irresistible.

Interestingly, while the two albums that preceded it and the blockbuster that followed it receive—if demand—most of the attention, Animals is arguably the most cohesive and satisfying concept album Pink Floyd recorded. Neither as immediately arresting nor as alluring upon repeated listens, Animals is, among other things, the last time all principle songwriters came together in the service of a project that superseded ego and personal ambition.

Roger Waters was steadily asserting himself as the Alpha Male, which is ironic considering the lyrical subject matter. Separating the human species into three basic groups, Waters assails the cultural systems of hegemony: the power-crazed minority that craves and enforces the jungle code and the puppets, who are either uncaring or oblivious to the ways they are subjugated. Utilizing a bilious indignation that, for the time being, was just on the side of healthy, Waters get politicians, corporate strivers and their timid victims into his sights.

Wish You Were Here

Wish You Were Here
Rating: 10

Gilmour and Wright, working gamely within this structural framework, lend some of their best support, helping turn what might have been an irredeemably dark and disconsolate work into something that illuminates the filth without wallowing in it. Gilmour’s talk box pyrotechnics (on “Pigs”) lend a perfectly mordant touch to Waters’ sneering diatribe against the opportunism and prurient hypocrisy that did (and does) dominate the political scene on both sides of the pond. Wright’s synthesized shrieks (on “Sheep”) convey the apprehension, fear and helplessness of lambs being led to the slaughter, beers and bibles in hand. For “Dogs”, the last (almost) side-long track the band would attempt, all elements are in accord, resulting in the only song that can possibly challenge “Shine on You Crazy Diamond” in terms of impact, effect and staying power. It still sounds like every single trick and skill the band had learned and mastered, going back to the ‘60s, reach their fullest flowering in this grim but redemptory tour de force. By the time Waters rhetorically sneers “Who was dragged down by the stone?” it is as though his contempt has produced an exorcism of sorts, enabling him to deliver the definitive words on subjects that had preoccupied him for so long. As it turns out, he was only getting started.

Animals

Animals
Rating: 10

VII. The Thin Ice

If Animals was somewhat of a tough sell, offering three songs exceeding the ten minute mark (and two short acoustic tracks to bookend the proceedings), The Wall has no such issues. Their longest work since their last double-album, Ummagumma, The Wall actually contains only three songs longer than five minutes, and more than a handful that managed the previously unthinkable by becoming radio hits.

The Wall is regularly heralded as another masterpiece and in some circles it is considered the masterpiece in the Floyd canon. There is no denying that some of the band’s finest work is on display (“In the Flesh?”, “The Thin Ice”, “Mother”, “Hey You”, “Comfortably Numb” and the concert-ready classics “Run Like Hell”, “Young Lust” and “Another Brick in the Wall”). There is also ample evidence that Waters had long since set his ego for the heart of the sun and, on far too many tracks, the glare—at times pompous or misguided—is too much to bear. Not unlike the Beatles’ White Album, had Floyd sliced  off some of the fat this could have been a truly killer effort; also like the White Album, you would be hard-pressed to find two fans who agree which songs are filler and which are exceptional.

The Wall

The Wall
Rating: 8

Oh by the way, which one’s Pink? If your view is that Roger Waters was the genius behind the scenes (an opinion Waters would share), this—and the next—album provide ample evidence for that claim. If, on the other hand, you believe that Waters’ lyrics, vision and compositional acumen needed the finesse and artistic reliability that Wright and Gilmour lent to each previous recording, The Wall signifies the beginning of the end of Floyd’s miraculous run. Indeed, both camps sensed that things had run their course, albeit for different reasons.

The Final Cut, while in some regards is Waters’ most lyrically mature effort, probably should have been his first solo recording (something he would have been happy to accommodate). One need not invoke any albums from the ‘70s to illustrate this album’s shortcomings; its flaws are abundant and easy to itemize without comparisons. Short and not-so-sweet: way too much Waters, not enough Gilmour. On earlier works Waters, as a vocalist was most effective in small doses (see Dark Side and Wish You Were Here). Or, if Gilmour was not such a superior singer, Waters (and Wright) could have handled the task and the results would have likely been adequate. Even on The Wall there are several songs where one can imagine the improvements more vocals by Gilmour would have made; yet it’s difficult to imagine hearing (or wanting to hear) Gilmour singing about waiting for the worms and being filled with the urge to defecate.

This subject matter was intensely personal and meaningful to Waters, but he was not able—or willing—to comprehend that similar themes were explored to exceedingly richer and more varied effect on songs like “Us and Them”, “Free Four” and even the frenetic, experimental “Corporal Clegg”. This is somber material and it’s ludicrous to suggest it needed to be lightened up; rather, it needed to be fleshed out. Indeed, Gilmour has recalled listening to the demos and recognizing tracks that didn’t make the cut for The Wall, giving this album’s title a rather unfortunate prescience. It could be called an uncompromising work, but it’s also a narrow and overbearing one that comes close to suffocating on its own self-righteousness. Whether or not the band (now sans Rick Wright) should—or could—have done things differently is impossible to imagine, and largely irrelevant. Waters charged on, content to go it alone, and Gilmour, after releasing his second solo album, licked his wounds and bided his time. There was nothing left for Pink Floyd to prove, unless it was that they could soldier on without Waters and make a shitload more money.

VIII. Us and Them

There is little Pink Floyd could do to tarnish their near impeccable brand, but they certainly gave it their best shot, having one of the ugliest and most protracted divorces in the history of popular music. Practically from the moment The Final Cut dropped it seemed like a matter of time until it became official, and Waters made no bones about his desire to move on, free from the meddling and cumbersome presence of his band mates. The others mostly kept quiet; that is until the small matter of whether or not they were still entitled to be a band without their lyricist and self-proclaimed leader. Long story short: Gilmour recruited Mason, and then Wright (and a few dozen friendly session players) and set about to prove to the world (and Waters) that he could make it happen.

The Final Cut

The Final Cut
Rating: 5

“You’ll never fucking do it,” as Gilmour claims Waters told him, may be the words Waters will always regret uttering. He may also have come to realize his comments to the press, which increasingly belittled the role the others (particularly galling were the accusations that Gilmour was mostly along for the ride) played set the stage for what happened. What happened was A Momentary Lapse of Reason, the album that sailed up the charts and catapulted Pink Floyd back into the public consciousness. The subsequent tour made the already rich men wealthy beyond their most brain-damaged dreams.

So, while it seems silly to quibble over whether it’s truly a Pink Floyd album (the simple answer is yes… and no), the more important question is whether it’s a worthwhile album. The simple answer is… yes and no. It certainly sounds like Floyd, at least more so than the stark and sallow Final Cut. Opening track “Signs of Life” is practically a paint-by-numbers reproduction, in miniature, of “Shine on You Crazy Diamond”. Only it is smaller in scale, ambition and import. Waters derisively called the album “a pretty fair forgery” and there is some merit to that assessment; it is an earnest, if half-assed approximation of what the band was capable of more than a decade before. The music is back to being mostly front-and-center, which is just as well as the lyrics are, for the most part, embarrassing. But beyond that, there is something missing, and that something is Roger Waters. If it was easy to pinpoint exactly which musical elements Wright and Gilmour brought to the classic recordings, the role Waters played (his own opinion notwithstanding) was much more than bassist and lyricist. If he was an abrasive taskmaster, he was also a perfectionist, a tinkerer and an unbelievably driven artist. Hopefully it does not sound too harsh to suggest that without Waters, the band sounds like a talented football team determined (or forced) to play without its coach, calling its own plays and having fun, but ultimately not   able to execute at a high level.

A Momentary Lapse of Reason

A Momentary Lapse of Reason
Rating: 5

It was hard to begrudge Gilmour and company: they wanted to do it, they were told they couldn’t do it, and to their credit (and the credit the assorted cast of characters brought in to help), they did it. But in the end, the same complaints leveled against The Final Cut can be made here: it’s a Pink Floyd album and the world is ultimately better for it, but something significant is missing.

Bully for the boys, they were game for another go, and in 1994 they released their (as of today) swan-song, The Division Bell, and embarked on another mega-arena tour. Like the previous effort, the album (mostly) sounds like Floyd, only less so. Gilmour’s voice is still pleasant enough, his guitar still has an edge when necessary and the panache he brings to any proceedings, and Wright is more noticeable, definitely a good thing. Nevertheless, while it’s not a failure, it’s a pretty forgettable album. Very little engages the listener, and there is certainly nothing here that challenges or confronts.

The Division Bell

The Division Bell
Rating: 4

Not all of this can be attributed to the absence of Waters; it was now two decades after Wish You Were Here and the band had long since become dignified, middle-aged men. Each of them had other hobbies and passions (Mason race cars and Gilmour flying, to name two big ones) and, understandably, the single-minded fixation that is necessary to produce great and lasting art had long since left the building. On the other hand, Waters did not seem to lose any steam and his focus was still ostensibly laser-like, yet he has never come anywhere close to making an album that sounds anything remotely as impressive as the work he did with Floyd. Is it possible that at a certain age rock stars simply can’t compete with their previous work? The long (and growing) history of still-living legends who sound more comfortable, if less convincing, playing oldies instead of coming up with new material only bolsters this proposition.

Not unlike the Beatles before them, Floyd needed one another to create the idiosyncratic sounds they patented in the ‘60s and ‘70s. More, those albums (by Floyd; by everyone) needed to made during those decades, a time when progressive rock was not yet a joke and the best bands in the world took their art very seriously indeed. It’s less important to wonder if they could have recaptured (or might still rekindle) that unique magic than to acknowledge—and celebrate—the not unremarkable fact that they performed at such an astonishingly high level for as long as they did. Pink Floyd, as much as any band, consistently upped the ante and they never repeated themselves. We have the evidence to prove it, and we will never grow tired of listening until the day when there is no room upon that hill.

IX. Postscript: We Call It Riding the Gravy Train

Why Pink Floyd? That is the name of the campaign accompanying this remastering (or re-remastering or, if you really want to be technical, re-re-remastering) of the Floyd discography. Hopefully this feature has helped the undecided determine if there are indeed old albums they should revisit or check out for the first time. For those who own all or most of the catalog, the inevitable question must be addressed: is this just another cash grab by a famous band? This question comes up regularly, in part because at this point so many groups have had their catalogs revamped so many times.

On the plus side, the albums have never sounded better (especially the older albums: there is nuance and detail that was difficult to detect in previous versions). On the lame side, there is zero bonus material: no out-takes, no live cuts, no demos, nada. If this stuff simply does not exist—however unlikely that would be—then there is nothing to be done. It does seem fair to inquire, however, whether or not the band/label is waiting for yet another opportunity to soak the consumer with yet another unveiling on repackaged material, this time with “extras”. Simply put, the more than casual fan is advised to consider which, if any, discs they’d like to hear as they’ve never heard before (and the differences are not that earth-shattering), or if they are content with the versions they already own. For those who don’t yet own some of these discs, now would seem an ideal time to pick up a copy.

In terms of the bigger picture, the question could easily be why not Pink Floyd? If any band warrants the love and attention, it’s this one. Moreover, if there happen to be people out there who have not experienced Animals or even Wish You Were Here (not to mention the pre-Dark Side works), now is as good a time as any to let them hear what they’ve been missing. If this occasion, in sum, tempts someone to discover any of these albums for the first time, it’s a victory all around, and that is a much more important consideration than dollars and cents. Whatever one ultimately makes of the business rationale behind these releases, their artistic merit is unassailable. Pink Floyd is perhaps the first truly underground band that cultivated a sound that was too remarkable to remain obscure. They willed themselves to be huge, and their influence is undiminished today.

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Ten Albums That Supposedly Suck (But Do Not): #4

4. Pink Floyd, More (1969)

Here’s another one that may not be accused of sucking so much as not being acknowledged at all which, we should agree, is even worse. This is the single entry in the Pink Floyd catalog that might have fared better if it was not associated with the band. If More, incidental music for a film no one seems to have seen, was created by an obscure, one-and-done band, it would have turned up, by now, in some list as the great, lost psychedelic soundtrack. In reality, it is an egregiously overlooked gem somewhat understandably lost in the vault of treasures the group made before, and after it.

From a purely historical perspective, More is an important album as it illustrates an evolution of the “Floyd sound”. In particular, the interplay between guitarist David Gilmour and keyboardist Rick Wright, which had been perfected by the time Dark Side of the Moon, and the masterpieces that followed, were made. The elements of (take your pick) psychedelia/space-rock/trippiness, executed with mixed results on A Saucerful of Secrets and their live sets of the time, abound but are sharpened by a less guarded (less calculated?) Gilmour, who liberally sprinkles in his blues roots and a rawer, less refined sound.

The album can be broken somewhat cleanly into two parts: the slower, acoustic pieces—mostly written by Roger Waters and sung by Gilmour—and the lucid, icy grandeur of the instrumentals. The acoustic tracks are worthwhile (particularly the hallucinogenic “Cirrus Minor” and “Green is the Colour”) but ultimately don’t rank with the band’s better work. It is the dream sequences, at once evocative and mesmerizing, that make More a crucial stepping stone in the Floyd aesthetic and an indelible album in its own right. If you take the laid back confidence of “More Blues” and combine it with the aggressive, almost abrasive energy of “Ibiza Bar” you can almost predict where Meddle came from. Likewise, Rick Wright’s uncanny ability to create mood is showcased on “Quicksilver”, which anticipates “Echoes” and “Shine On You Crazy Diamond”. On “Main Theme” and “Dramatic Theme”, Gilmour and Wright lock into a groove and Waters and Nick Mason flex some rhythmic muscle.

It is possible that Floyd would never sound this human again, and if they had to move on to bigger and better things (they did), there is sufficient evidence here that Floyd could balance raw and fresh and achieve a coolness without being chilly. Of course, no one could do light and dark with the dexterity of Floyd in their prime, and they make it sound easy here, perhaps because, for them, it was.

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Pink Floyd: Meddle

Pink Floyd: Meddle (Popmatters.com Review)

Pink Floyd
Meddle: A Classic Album Under Review [DVD]
(Chrome Dreams / Music Video Distributors) Rated: N/A
US release date: 12 March 2007
UK release date: 19 March 2007

by Sean Murphy

1971’s Meddle captured the moment when Floyd finally found their sound.
Pink Floyd were hardly an inconsequential group in the late ‘60s and very early ‘70s, and yet, without 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon and the albums that followed, their status today would be decidedly diminished. Most everyone would agree that Dark Side made them who they are today, but not as many people might appreciate that, if it were not for 1971’s Meddle, there would have been no The Dark Side of the Moon.
Meddle is indeed a classic album that is not accorded the level of attention it would otherwise receive if it did not exist within the ever expanding shadow of the subsequent string of albums it helped inspire. This is not an uncommon occurrence in rock (or any genre of music for that matter): it’s likely, to take one obvious example, that The Who Sell Out would receive those accolades generally reserved for Tommy or Who’s Next, the better known albums that came just after it.
It is appropriate then that, 40 years after the release of their first album, we have a serious critical appraisal of the pivotal record that served to end one era and instigate another. Regarding that earlier era, casual fans might not realize that Pink Floyd made as many albums before Meddle than they did after it (more casual fans might not even realize that Floyd made any albums before Meddle).
For this reason alone, the first section of this DVD provides an excellent overview of not only the group, but also the London underground for which they served as de facto house band. There were, really, three different Pink Floyds: the initial one led by Syd Barrett, the one forced to soldier on after Barrett’s LSD-induced demolition (at which point he was replaced by his good friend David Gilmour), and the one that eventually made the string of masterpieces starting with The Dark Side of the Moon.
Getting from Piper to Dark Side required several years and several albums, none of which sounded especially alike—a fact that seems more remarkable with the benefit of hindsight. Each album, however, had one particular track, often an extended instrumental piece, that served as a centerpiece that at once set it apart and connected the sonic dots that burst through the pyramid in 1973: “Interstellar Overdrive” (from Piper), “Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun” (from A Saucerful Of Secrets), “Quicksilver” (from More), “The Narrow Way” (from Ummagumma) and “Atom Heart Mother Suite” (from Atom Heart Mother). As the band has indicated repeatedly over the years, there would be no “Echoes” without “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, and so on working backward.
The assembled critics interviewed for this DVD express varying opinions on the overall merits of these transitional albums (all of them generally agree that Piper is a masterpiece, although that one was Syd Barrett’s baby whereas the others were assuredly group efforts), but the consensus seems to be that while Floyd should be commended for their bold experimentation and constant evolution, the results were decidedly mixed. True, yet the participants seem to overlook how important Floyd’s live performances were in terms of reshaping and refining many older songs. The critics correctly single out “Set The Controls” as a crucial track, but none of them mention the title track of that album as a major cornerstone that Floyd built a foundation of sound upon.
The ways in which “A Saucerful Of Secrets” expanded and crystallized is documented on the live section of Ummugumma, as well as the definitive version, which they recorded live for their movie Live At Pompeii: Gilmour’s guitar and vocal contributions delineate the ways in which he was asserting himself as the major musical force within the group (a very positive development), forging an increasingly melodic and ethereal sound. The point that cannot be overemphasized is that Meddle was not so much an inspired product of its time as much as it was the realization of a sound and style the band had been inching toward, carving away at the stone with each successive effort, until the pieces finally came together (or fell apart, if you like) in the form of “Echoes”.
Ping…ping…ping. That is how it begins: the song that many still consider their definitive statement, the first track completed for the new album (like “Atom Heart Mother Suite”, it was a side-long opus; unlike the previous album, it was saved for the second side): “Echoes” unfolds deliberately, with carefully structured precision. This remains a striking departure from the previous album’s centerpiece which, in fairness, might well enjoy a better reputation, or at least seem less pretentiously impenetrable for many fans, if Floyd had stuck with its working title, “The Amazing Pudding”—quite apropos for such a gloppy, sweet, not especially easy to digest jumble.
Virtually every element Floyd had attempted to incorporate into their best songs is unified in “Echoes”, with no false notes or forced feeling: the moods and colors captured on those shorter instrumental pieces remain, stretched out to utilize the group’s considerable ambition and enthusiasm. The merging of Gilmour and Wright’s voices—a harbinger of good things to come, although on “Time” Wright sings the choruses while Gilmour handles the verses—is appropriately mesmerizing, and the two remain uncannily in synch on their respective instruments. “Echoes” also signals a minor step forward for Waters lyrically (the major step would be Dark Side of the Moon :
Strangers passing in the streetBy chance two separate glances meetAnd I am you and what I see is me…
The pace intensifies, with some extraordinary playing by Gilmour who employs an array of distortion, feedback and effects, culminating in a groove that inspired a billion jam bands. Then, the bottom drops out, spiraling into the great disintegration, an abyss of whale cries and subterranean shadows (courtesy of Wright and Gilmour, and what at the time was cutting edge use of an echo unit, which is discussed in some detail on the DVD). Out of the darkness the song slowly returns, bringing release as well as realization as the music fades into infinity.
What elevates Meddle from being a very good album to a great album is the fact that most of the remaining songs are quite memorable. The opening track signals the artistic leap forward Floyd had taken in only one year: “One of These Days” features contributions from the entire band, creating a sound that, like “Echoes”, manages to be abrupt yet unrestrained. The song materializes out of a sonic fog, like a laser closing in from a great distance, with Waters’ bass and Mason’s drums offering thudding contrast to Wright’s icy keyboards, then—after Mason’s singular, and amusing, vocal contribution: “One of these days I’m going to cut you into little pieces!”—Gilmour torches the track with a slide guitar assault, the most powerful soloing he’d put on record to this point.
The future is now; Pink Floyd have found their sound. Gilmour, having already assumed primary vocal duties on the recent albums, is now firmly established at the forefront, his guitar truly (finally?) a lead instrument. Like the album itself, this is more a culmination than a revelation: on the less self-consciously psychedelic soundtrack More, Gilmour smokes on several tunes (listen to “Main Theme”, “More Blues”, “Ibiza Bar” and “Dramatic Theme” for hints at what was to come, and how overdue this unfettered sound, either overly refined or actively suppressed, really was).
The next song encapsulates much of what Floyd had attempted, but not quite mastered, on songs such as “If” and “Grantchester Meadows”. “A Pillow of Winds” is a fuller, more realized take on the Pink Floyd pastoral song, variations of it having appeared on each album after Piper. Again, Gilmour figures prominently; where his vocals had been, at times, tentative and even frail, there is a warmth and authority here that suggests augmented confidence and comfort with the superior material.
Two elements solidly established (the guitar sound and the vocals), a final one—Roger Waters’ increasingly mature and topical lyrics—comes to fruition on the third track, “Fearless”. This tune, which could be viewed as a poignant nod to Syd Barrett, is definitely an early installment of a growing Waters obsession: namely the alienated and isolated protagonist railing against (or reeling from) a mechanized, soulless machine called society. Another distinctly Floydian touch is the decision to insert a recording of fans at Liverpool’s football stadium chanting “You’ll Never Walk Alone”, which concludes the song on a hopeful and human note. This tactic also serves as an early blueprint for the sound effects and ironic employment of actual voices used on later albums, specifically The Dark Side of the Moon.
The next two tracks are considered less than essential by most fans (and certainly the critics assembled on the DVD), but “San Tropez” is not without its charms. Despite pleasant enough vocals from Waters, this one might have worked rather nicely as an instrumental (no doubt to Waters’ considerable chagrin), as it once again features some incandescent guitar work from Gilmour. The song that closes the first side, “Seamus” is a throwaway…and yet. The idea of incorporating a dog howling alongside the band in a lighthearted call and response literally anticipates Animals, but indirectly, and importantly, reveals a band doing everything they can to avoid and obliterate cliché.
So, it can fairly be asked: who would want to watch a bunch of British music critics talking about a semi-obscure Pink Floyd album? The usual suspects, obviously: the hardcore fans and the curious novices. Neither will be disappointed. Of course, it must be reiterated that no members of the group participate which, while not shocking, is still disappointing. The collected writers know their stuff, but their remarks are similar and mostly surface-level, making the absence of input from the artists more glaring.
One delightful exception is the presence of Norman Smith, whose gentlemanly observations on producing the first three Floyd albums are charming and heartwarming. Heartbreaking, too, when he discusses the challenges (to put it kindly) he faced while trying to record the Salvation Army band Syd Barrett dragged into the studio for the track that eventually became “Jugband Blues”, Syd’s last song with the band.
The somewhat paltry extras include “The Hardest Interactive Pink Floyd Trivia Quiz In The World Ever” which is ridiculously challenging. There are screen shot bios of the participating commentators and a short but sweet special feature entitled “The Remarkable Syd Barrett”. This 10-minute bonus examines, in some depth, Syd Barrett and his fleeting trajectory, including another interview with Norman Smith who, it’s fair to say, was Pink Floyd’s George Martin—which brings things somewhat full circle as he worked as an engineer on the early Beatles’ albums.

— 1 June 2007

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