PINK FLOYD

There are some bands that, in my position, you simply have to be into. Pink Floyd are one of them. Growing up in any era since the seventies, with any interest in music, one will have become acquainted with some aspect of Pink Floyd. From the stoners and students, to the yuppie easy-listening lovers, even to the hardcore dance fanatics and street scallies, everyone listens to Pink Floyd. There probably isn't a house in the western world without a copy of Dark Side of the Moon tucked away somewhere. So what makes Pink Floyd such a universally revered band? The snob in me says because they are inoffensive. They only briefly got bogged down in the avant-garde prog scene of the early seventies before succumbing to appealing melodies and easy-on-the-ear instrumentals. They never had the intense edge that makes the transcendence of Led Zeppelin too much for some people. Being inoffensive only tells half the story, though. The reason they often get lumped in with the Beatles is because they came from such a similar position - nice middle-class lads making nice intelligent music. Both are great bands, of course, but both share the same common denominator that attracts the sort of people who close their ears as soon as they are confronted with intelligent rock music. The fact that both also offered so much more is what makes them so successful. There are few bands that can be both sung-along-to by kids at school and have academic thesises written on them and Pink Floyd are one of them. They were never too esoteric but always intelligent enough to achieve what most bands lust after, a bridge between two fundamentally opposed schools of music and, with it, a greatness that is reserved for the select few.

Essential to this success is the band's fluidity which, in turn, is central to the history of their career. Pink Floyd essentially existed in three separate stages. The first was the most short-lived, from 1966 to 1968. Despite the immense and all-encompassing nature of Floyd's popularity many fans, perhaps a majority, do not even know who the band's founder actually was - the madcap Syd Barrett. Before the nice middle-class lads got their inoffensive act together, they were led a merry dance by an insane, acid-fried genius. The band's debut, Piper at the Gates of Dawn, was a flag-ship for the psychedelic movement and absolutely nothing like the subsequent million-selling albums that gave them their fame and fortune. Syd was literally mad, though, and after his increasingly erratic behaviour forced him out of the band, old chum David Gilmour replaced him as vocalist and guitarist and the band, after flirting with avant-garde prog rock, eventually settled into the groove of producing highly polished and professional, commercial but still deeply intelligent, mainstream rock music. The second stage of the band could not be in greater contrast to the first, though, as the quartet approached music from an inherently professional point of view, ensuring every album was as commercially viable as it was artistically successful. As I said above, though, the fact that they invariably achieved both aims is what makes them a great band, not just a rich one (cf. U2). As the seventies went on, Roger Waters, as main songwriter, began to seize control of the band and erase out the contributions of the rest of the band (which was particularly frustrating, given Gilmour was a far superior vocalist). After The Wall secured their legendary status the band imploded, with Rick Wright getting sacked and then re-employed as a Roger Waters employee, before the other three eventually wrested control of the band away from Waters through legal proceedings (thereby showing just how much so-called artists still recognised the importance of the brand name). The third stage of the band (now without its two founder members - Barrett and Waters) soldiered on for two decades, releasing a couple of studio albums, but mainly existing solely as a lucrative cash cow (as opposed to inflatable pig) for Gilmour and co. There is some debate as to the merits of Floyd Mk I v. Floyd Mk II, hardcore fans (should that be snobs?) claim they never did anything worthwhile after Syd left whilst some just dismiss the debut as childish, unlistenable crap. (You won't find anyone lauding Mk III highest and these reviews stop at the end of Mk II.) I am an open-minded sort so I appreciate both incarnations for their own merits. That said, although superficially one could say Pink Floyd are responsible for two era-defining albums the similarities really do not stretch much beyond name only.

From: Ali Rios

Jack, I recently came upon your review of Pink Floyd's albums and I was quite disgusted by the way you badmouthed Roger Waters, I mean Roger might not be as good as Gilmour when it comes to singing but still, the man's a fuckin' genius. He wrote The Wall for God's sake!!! Don't tell me that you like Momentary Lapse of Reason [I haven't heard it - JF] that album proves that Pink Floyd is not Pink Floyd without Waters. I have to agree with you on one thing, Syd Barrett was the greatest songwriter of the late sixties. Well thanks for your time.....

From: Simon Brigham

Don't even START to say Roger Waters is a wanker or any other bad and rude name. He's not! He's a misunderstood creative genius! So WHAT if he can't sing. Can Lou Reed sing? No, but he's a great lyricist and musician. His voice is what makes him unique. On the other hand, Freddie Mercury (from Queen) was the greatest singer in the world (no doubt about that. He was wonderful, fabulous etc.), but he wasn't the greatest songwriter.

[The reason I criticised Waters is not because he is a bad singer (although he is) but because he had a good singer in the band (Gilmour) and refused to let him sing the songs on the later albums - JF]

From: IAmPeck@aol.com

I was reading the Pink Floyd section and I think you do a good job of rating the albums. My only disagreement being I place Floyd above Zeppelin...the layering and mastery of their musical arrangements is more sophisticated and impressive to me than pre-metal. In fact I place Pink Floyd right barely beneath the Beatles.

From: David Deem

I agree with your comment on Floyd being inoffensive - there couldnt be a better way to explain their wide appeal. Ever since getting my first Floyd album when I was 13 (Dark Side of the Moon), I have loved and then liked them, and then loved them, and then been undecided on my feelings. The thing is, while Dark Side of the Moon is surely a great album, and one of my favorites ever probably, it doesn't have that very personal aspect, that extra something, that an album like OK Computer has- it feels like a very universally known album, which of course it is, which sometimes takes away from its greatness. It's amazing, just maybe a little too wishy-washy, is what I'm getting at. That said, sometimes I prefer Animals, because it's rougher around the edges yet still contains all that is great about Waters-era Floyd. Though I do still hold a place in my heart for the band, their occasionally overblown and pretentious moments (The Wall), and vague lyrics (various songs throughout their career) make me want to put on some Hendrix- there's no mystique or pretention there, just great great music. And overall, it must be admitted that the Beatles were in many ways a much better band than Pink Floyd.

With some rare understatement I will begin by saying 1967 was quite a big year for rock music. The mid-sixties had seen pop music produce its first true masterpieces, and therefore become a branch of the arts in its own right, with Revolver, Pet Sounds, and Bob Dylan's legendary trio all redefining music as we know it. Surely not by coincidence, 1967 was the year that artists first starting appearing that hit the ground running. It is no secret that most of the forerunners needed to build up a head of steam before reaching artistic maturity, with the Beatles, Dylan, Stones, Kinks, etc., all initially finding their feet with some middling to mediocre, if nonetheless influential, albums. Once they had set the wheels in motion, though, some other genuises of the era needed little invitation to follow. Two of the great genuises of the time, particularly in relation to their revolutionary use of the guitar, graced the scene with two already immaculately formed debut albums; one being Jimi Hendrix's mind-blowing Are You Experienced? and the other being this album. Not only do both albums share the accolade of being two of the most groundbreaking debuts at the time, they remain two of the best debut albums in musical history. With the musical hype machine whirring into action Syd Barrett was already a legend before Pink Floyd had barely qualified from their Cambridge art schools. Two initial singles, "Arnold Layne" and "See Emily Play" (compiled on Relics), brought the band sufficient buzz with their demented psychedelic pop setting new standards in the so-called summer of love and when the band booked into the studio to record their debut long-player they found themselves neighbours to the Beatles, at the time recording some unknown relic known as Sgt. Pepper. Where the Beatles' psychedelia was still pretty safe, though, Syd Barrett's was absolutely off the wall. Pink Floyd might have become a nice middle-class band like the Beatles soon enough but to begin with they were led by a man far further down the line than any amount of acid could take the Beatles. The resulting album is not just a window into the rather anachronistic world of LSD, it is also a harrowing glimpse of insanity. Syd's lyrics may be quaint rather than disturbing, but in the musical space of "Astronomy Domine" and "Interstellar Overdrive" lies a chasm from which his mind would never return. Like Are You Experienced? stereo recording is really taken advantage of for the first time with the sonic carnage veering from speaker to speaker and, similarly, Syd's obsession with feedback sees him create dimensions to music that simply were not there before. Certainly, in the moments of greatest abandon, Syd's obsession with the jazz pioneers of the time becomes overwhelmingly conspicuous. Like Hendrix again, and in contrast to the studied methodology of the Beatles, Syd was pioneering a new approach to rock music that did away with the strict structure of pop songs and found inspiration instead in the chaotic visions of free jazz and bebop. Conversely, however, the indominitable strength of this album does not just lie in the transcendent awe of the likes of "Interstellar Overdrive" but also in the unhinged pop songs that Barrett was overflowing with at the time. "Lucifer Sam" is a garage rock masterpiece that celebrates his cat, "Matilda Mother" and "Flaming" are psychedelic fairy tales, "The Gnome" and "Scarecrow" are uncomfortably childish odes to, well, gnomes and scarecrows, and the closing "Bike" is an utterly unhinged rampage about absolute sheer nonsense. Coming from some people you might think them rather smug piss-takes, coming from Barrett they take on a far darker, more distressing element. Not that this release is as uncomfortable and embarrassing as what he went on to produce, albeit briefly, as it represents an artist still just walking the ever-diminishing line that separates genius from madness. He was quick to fall off, of course, but he was thankfully on just long enough to provide us with one of the great albums, never mind debuts, of the era. And, if nothing else, this album should be regarded as one of the great guitar albums of the twentieth century.

Unfortunately, like the most incompetent of performance artists, Syd did not succeed in treading the tightrope for very long. Piper was, of course, a domestic success but as the band's stock went up, Syd's sanity went awol, and his tenure as frontman effectively ended with an aborted tour of the U.S. when he ran off stage believing his head to be melting. Old friend David Gilmour (if I may name-drop, also an associate of my mother's, who grew up in Cambridge at the same time) was drafted in, initially to cover for Syd's erraticism on stage but ended up as Syd's replacement, as the latter was ditched from the group and left to make his looney tunes on his own solo albums; two of which appeared before Syd vanished from music forever. (In a rather unfortunate comic misjudgement Pink Floyd's initial management team followed Syd, instead of the group, believing them to be finished without their star man.) Syd did stick around long enough to contribute one song to this album, the closing "Jugband Blues", although it has far more in common with his solo material than other band compositions on here. In effect, this album consists of six Pink Floyd Mk II songs and a Barrett solo composition tacked onto the end. Indeed, one could almost think of this as a second debut from the band. Roger Waters had yet to assert himself as principle songwriter, with Richard Wright contributing two tracks, and the band are obviously searching for their own style. They still stick primarily to Syd Barrett's space-rock but, stripped of his insanity, they deliver such astral wanderings with a far steadier and more deliberate approach. Like Piper the album's centre-piece is a ten minute space-rock instrumental but actual similarities to "Interstellar Overdrive" are scarce. Instead of Syd's unhinged mayhem driving the song into uncharted territory, "A Saucerful of Secrets" is restrained and methodical all of the way through. In essence, it resembles more of a sound collage than an acid-inspired free jazz workout. Apparently, it represents a space battle and the stages and dynamics do seem to present some kind of obscure narrative. The highlight of the piece is undoubtedly the climax, though, with its angelic harmonies documenting the victorious aftermath and the holy penitence paid by the losers. The rest of the material is generally more down-to-earth, certainly in terms of structure if not theme, and although the melodies are unintrusive they are far from unimpressive. Like many of their albums, it is not exactly a ball-grabber, but the instrumental textures and thoughtful songwriting do enough to elevate it above the subsequent quasi-prog-rock the band experimented with in their search to find their own sound with their modified line-up. Album opener "Let There Be More Light" offers the most instantly memorable melody, underpinned by a simple yet effective bass line from Waters, and "Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun" slinks by almost unnoticed, with its whispered mantra resembling more a hymn than a rock song. No song really deserves particular criticism, although "Corporal Clegg", with its stinging guitars but clumsy chorus, does seem a little out of place and it is amusing to compare it to Waters's far more literate and pompous anti-war tirades on The Final Cut, all those years later. Wright's compositions, "Remember a Day" and "See-Saw", are both pleasant enough attempts to copy Barrett's childish nursery-rhymes but their comparative sanity is writ large when Syd's frail "Jugband Blues" finally draws the album to a close with uncomfortable fragility. It is a nice tune but, like his solo albums, he sounds miles away when singing and the jugband he recruited to play on it seem almost frightened. After they've finished, as a coda, Syd drifts back into the speakers to offer his epitaph to the band - "what exactly is a dream?/and what exactly is a joke?". The band went on to struggle somewhat to establish their new identity and by the time they did so Syd had long retreated into hiding, never to be seen again. As such, this album represents both a new beginning and a tragic ending although, thankfully, the actual quality means this is far from a historical curiosity.

Although Pink Floyd continued to find their feet in their new incarnation really up until 1971's Meddle one trademark of the band's career was at least initiated with this album, being an album-lengthed soundtrack to some hippy art-house film that about three people ever saw. 1973's Obscured by Clouds is a similar (albeit superior) project and they also contributed material to the actually reasonably well-known 'Zabriskie Point'. The film 'More' apparently concerned hippies dying from smack addiction (hence the title) but any theme of the film has nothing in common with the music on this album and only the proliference of instrumentals on the second side suggests this is anything other than a normal third album by the band. As such, though, it presents a band lacking in both direction and inspiration. With Syd gone for good, the band seem unconcerned with continuing in the space-rock direction and, as such, this album does at least represent a break from A Saucerful of Secrets. Unfortunately, it is not entirely clear precisely where the band are breaking to. Curiously, two straight-up hard rock songs make an appearance, "The Nile Song" and "Ibiza Bar", and whilst they succeed in at least wresting the listener from the slumber induced by much of this material it is clear why Pink Floyd did not decide to follow in the steps of the brainless hard rock that was gathering momentum in the late sixties. Other than the two unrepresentative rockers the rest of the songs aim for an almost invisible wallpaper effect, like a sort of proto-ambient psychedelia. I find it hard to believe anyone would be particularly excited by such a description and certainly a vast chunk of this album is simply inherently and inevitably forgettable. The only song on the entire album that suggests an active attempt at real songwriting is the sinister "Cymbaline", which grants us the only really memorable hook on the entire album, and at least has a pleasant psychedelic texture to it. Similarly, the gradual opener "Cirrus Minor", whilst not suggesting an exciting album, at least presents an interesting opening, with its bird effects gently seguing into a glimpse of a song, before the layered instruments gradually build up and are eventually shattered by the explosive opening of the following "The Nile Song" - probably the best moment on the entire album. After "Cymbaline" the entire second side descends into instrumental territory (bar the brief rock reprise of "Ibiza Bar"). The overall effect is far from offensive, of course, and some are actually pretty good (the ethnicised "Main Theme" in particular) but attention does start to wander and some tracks are nothing more than pointless brief excerpts. In effect, as long as the band struggled to find their own style their albums continued to be cursed by mis-steps or tedious experiments but, even at their lowest point (as Mk II), they had enough talent and artistic integrity to ensure no album was truly poor. It is little surprise they struggled to build up much of a fanbase at this point, though.

With progressive rock unfortunately finding a vast amount of favour and good will amongst people who really should have known better Pink Floyd, understandably given their musical prowess and intellectual pretension, saw it as a suitable bandwagon to jump upon and, as a result, this double album represents the most avant-garde they ever got, with the second CD made up mainly of esoteric instrumentals, with each band member getting a quarter of the album with which to show off their pretentiousness. Thankfully, though, the first CD (or LP, originally) showcases a contemporary live performance consisting of four lengthy interpretations of previous material - Barrett's "Astronomy Domine", "Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun" and the title track from A Saucerful of Secrets, and "Careful with that Axe, Eugene" from the 'Zabriskie Point' soundtrack. Of course, a live album has no divine right of success but, fortunately, the band make a reassuringly good fist of it. Even without a solid direction outlined for them, their musical ability ensures the lengthy workouts are impressive without resorting to directionless noodling. Indeed, they return more to the space-rock textures of A Saucerful of Secrets in spinning the material out into intriguing psychedelic meanderings. "A Saucerful of Secrets" does lose a little of its power without the perfection of studio equipment, as Gilmour conspicuously struggles to get his vocals from the angelic harmonies section in key. "Set the Controls" fails to distinguish itself much from the studio version, apart from being about twice as long, but it remains a pleasant enough piece. The true highlights, though, are the remaining two tracks. Gilmour sings eerily like the dearly departed Barrett on "Astromony Domine" and although his guitar playing is fundamentally different from Barrett's, it remains equally as impressive, and the song stretches out in an intriguing manner. "Careful with that Axe, Eugene" is more carefully structured, with its gradual build-up drawing the listener in before the song violently explodes, precipitated by Waters's piercing cry. The way the song slowly calms down and drifts back out again, as an anti-climax, is essentially as intelligent as its initial climax. Unfortunately, the second CD has far less to recommend to it. Sections of Wright's "Sysyphus" are palatable enough but it often gets bogged down in pointless avant-garde noodling. Similarly, Mason's electronically treated drum solo, "The Grand Vizier's Garden Party", definitively shows the band were only really intelligent when they put such arty touches within the limits of real songs. Thankfully, Waters and Gilmour contribute one real song each, with Waters's acoustic "Grantchester Meadows" being the only popularly respected song on the entire CD. That said, Gilmour's third part of "The Narrow Way" is quite nice, in a sort of proto-Dark Side of the Moon way. The latter's two guitar instrumentals are forgettable, though, and Waters's sound-effects collage "Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict" is as pointless as the title is long. Unsurprisingly, then, there is little to recommend on the second CD. Conversely, though, the first CD contains their best material pre-Meddle. In that way, this album contains both the best and worst material Pink Floyd recorded in their wilderness years. If you can find this rather lavish package cheap then the first CD is definitely worth owning but, as with before, I find myself recommending that one skip over the band's output from this period.

If the second CD of Ummagumma represented the extreme extent of their avant-garde leanings then this album almost certainly represents their most blatant flirtation with progressive rock. I gather this is actually quite a well respected album within prog circles but to a more discerning listener such as myself it merely ushers in the far superior stage of the band from Meddle onwards. It would be wrong, of course, to distinguish this too far from Meddle as both contain side-long suites but the actual comparisons between "Atom Heart Mother" on here and the subsequent "Echoes" reveal the earlier effort to be well below par. That is not to say it does not have its moments but it is certainly not something I would want to be deemed a highlight of Pink Floyd's career. It gets worse, too, as after the three decent to mediocre acoustic tracks in the middle the album rounds off with another sound collage - "Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast" - which is indefensibly devoid of merit. Set against the sound of a roadie making breakfast the band make random sound effects for thirteen excruciating minutes. For a band that prided themselves on their professionalism and quality control it is not just inexplicable, it is unforgiveable. Thankfully, the majority of the twenty five minute title track is far from as pointless and unlistenable. Although the length of it mirrors "Echoes" it actually has more in common with "A Saucerful of Secrets" given it is all instrumental and progresses in stages. Unfortunately echoing ELP's pomposity the band co-wrote it with a classical composer, Ron Geesin, and although it is quite grandiose and epic in scope it still sounds very much like a Pink Floyd piece. Obviously, over twenty five minutes there are highlights and lowlights and, unsurprisingly, the former tend to arrive when Gilmour tinkers on his guitar and the latter rear their head when it all gets a little too pretentious and avant-garde, even for a side-long instrumental suite. It does show a band growing in confidence, I suppose, but I for one am glad they went for more commercial targets in the years that followed. The three acoustic songs sandwiched in the middle of the album are nice enough but stand somewhere between More and Meddle in quality. Unsurprisingly, Roger Waters delivers the most rounded composition - "If" - as Wright ("Summer '68") and Gilmour ("Fat Old Sun") exhibit why Waters was taking control of the songwriting aspect of the band. They're all inoffensive enough but that has never been much of a recommendation. Thankfully, after a few years edging their way through murky terrain the band were finally ready to start their real journey and become one of the true giants of twentieth century music. It it just a shame it took them three mediocre albums to get there.

It is not clear whether the band actually realised their career was taking an up-turn - and the jump in style and quality from Atom Heart Mother to Meddle suggests not - but in a rather fitting move their first compilation was released just as their artistic fortunes began to dramatically improve. Perhaps sensing a change was gonna come this release rather arbitrarily selects various choice cuts ('highlights' would be a rather generous term) from the inception of Pink Floyd's career to the dawn of the seventies (ie. Mk I and the mediocre part of Mk II). I would not care to venture whether it was a genuine attempt to take stock, a stop-gap release, or a chance to make some more cash but, even so, this remains a curious compilation, falling half-way between a premature Greatest Hits and a useful collection of non-album material. The main reason to purchase comes with the inclusion of the band's first two singles, the superb duo "Arnold Layne" and "See Emily Play", which expertly capture Barrett's brilliance before his brain started to take on a mind of its own. Their melodies are undoubtedly stronger than much of the (already excellent) Piper material and the arrangements are surprisingly tight, considering the free jazz chaos that reigned on the debut album. Of course, the fact that they were written and recorded before Barrett went on his never-ending trip presumably account for their comparative normality. They certainly put the pop into psychedelia as much as the Beatles ever did. Curiously, though, this compilation also includes two of the most well-known tracks from Piper - "Interstellar Overdrive" and "Bike". One can only assume they were keen to turn any newly acquired fans (although I'd fear for anyone dedicated to a band on the basis of the likes of More) onto the genius of their original incarnation. Still, though, one cannot help but wish they had instead included some of the Barrett rarities from that era instead, such as "Apples and Oranges" and "Candy and a Currant Bun". That said, however, we are treated to four songs that did not appear on Pink Floyd's official album releases up until this point. "Paintbox" is another of Rick Wright's gentle lullabies and Waters ends up apeing him with the child-like ambience of "Julia Dream". Neither set the pulses racing, though, and are neatly indicative of the general uninspiring nature of Mk II's early work. The jazzy "Biding My Time" is better, with echoes of Meddle, and a scorching extended guitar solo from Gilmour that shows that boy could sure wail if the mood so took him. Finally, the studio version of "Careful with that Axe, Eugene" makes an appearance and although it lacks the power of the live version it remains a pretty intriguing listen. Three already-familiar album tracks make a rather pointless appearance. Although More was pretty non-descripit selecting "Cirrus Minor" and "The Nile Song" as the representatives, ahead of "Cymbaline", seems rather ill-conceived, although it may be just to retain the almighty crash from one t'other. Finally, we get the nice "Remember a Day" from A Saucerful of Secrets which fills me with utter indifference. It is a pleasant little song but it hardly screams compilation material. But, thank God, such uninvolving anonymity was at an end as Pink Floyd finally came to realise what makes a great rock band. Long guitar solos.

You can usually tell pretty quickly when a band finally start hitting their peak and it is only a matter of minutes into this release that one realises the penny has finally started to drop. Although this album is not savagely removed from the previous few releases, with the emphasis still on dreamy acoustic pieces and extended instrumentals, the confidence with which the band rip through proceedings immediately elevates the quality of music way above the mediocre noodlings of the past few years. The driving, propulsive "One of These Days" comes screaming out of the speakers, immediately showcasing far more focus and tightness than their previous instrumental efforts. In an engulfing whirlwind of a performance the dust and doubts that had been accumulating during their period in the wilderness are emphatically blown away and suddenly the stellar achievements of Dark Side of the Moon and Wish You Were Here no longer seem so far away. The REAL star on this release, though, is the dainty little ditty that closes it - the twenty three minute epic suite "Echoes". Unlike "Atom Heart Mother" the track actually contains within it a real song, and a top class one at that, but it also slips and slides through the gears, with jazz-flavoured guitar solos morphing into funky riffing before descending into a layered sound effect collage, with the instruments unnervingly imitating the cries of strange creatures. Eventually the song rises again from its prehistoric swamp, gradually re-building the arrangement and the tension until it finally returns to life in the form of the actual song. It would take a man of greater ability than myself to fully do justice to the flow and dynamics of such an extraordinary piece of music but I can at least hold it up as the perfect culmination of everything the band were experimenting with previously on their other epics of varying success (from "Saucerful" and "Euguene" downwards). It also, of course, somewhat set the template for their future global montrosities, even if their ambition was more constrained by commercial considerations in the future. In any event, such is the awesome nature of the song and, of course, its very length I feel little fear in basing much of the overall album's mark on just one composition. The rest is not bad, of course, and still represents an improvement over much of what has gone before but it is mostly the first and last tracks on here that present a break from the past into a much more successful future. "Fearless" is undoubtedly the best of the bunch, with its gentle ambience echoing Cambridge's other most famous resident musician, Nick Drake. As an Evertonian, though, having to sit through the Red Shite singing their Godawful anthem "You'll Never Walk Alone" at the end is akin to the sort of experience that sends my blood running to freezing point. Not a comfortable experience. "San Tropez" and "Seamus" are both pretty knockabout, with the first a loose jazz shuffle and the latter a laidback blues with Seamus the dog actually contributing backing vocals. Off the cuff they may be but they do help lighten the balance, given the almighty weight of the last track. Of course, enjoyable enough though the acoustic material is this is one of the few albums where it is almost entirely worth owning it on the basis of just one song. From a historical point of view, it also represents the first confident step in a direction that would make them one of the biggest bands on the planet.

Before the beast was fully awakened, though, Pink Floyd took one more baby step towards greatness with this release - an entertaining and rather curious blend of their art-house past and their all-conquering future. Indeed, in concept terms this is an almost carbon copy of More. It forms the soundtrack to some arty film no-one has ever seen, the French film 'La Vallee', and therefore presents half an album of 'real' songs, interspersed with short instrumental pieces. One way in which this effort is superior to More, however, is in the fact the instrumentals are jumbled up more, meaning the album does not drop so drastically after half-way. Indeed, one might even like to point out that the way the album flows from song to song, with structured instrumentals, is more similar than not to the release that immediately followed. The second way in which this album is superior lies mainly in the fact they have become a better band. The songs-with-words are better and the instrumentals are certainly not as pointless, even if I'd struggle to particularly recommend them. Again, the focus on melody and intelligent but decidedly uncontroversial arrangements does rather provide a forewarning of what was to come next in their career. Unfortunately, however, the overall lack of quality means this cannot compare with Floyd Mk II at their very greatest. It does contain one great song in the form of the downbeat ballad "Wot's... Uh the Deal" (bloody Waters and his bloody stupid song titles). It is probably one of the first songs released thus far in their career that shows them to be great songwriters as well as being clever arrangers and, again, it points towards the commercial peak that was to follow soon after. Similarly, the sinister "Childhood's End" provides a proto-type for DSOTM's winning combination of textured arrangements, negative undertones and appealing melody. There are, however, clear signs of the band's past with the off-the-cuff "Free Four" echoing the lounge jazz of Meddle's "San Tropez", with a searing guitar solo matching that of "Biding My Time". My third highlight on the album, though, behind the DSOTM precursors, is the guilty pleasure "The Gold it's in the...". Returning briefly to the unpopular stabs at straight-up rock'n'roll on More Gilmour romps his way through a song that is almost shamefully straight-forward for a band that are supposed to be the standard-bearers of intelligent rock music. I love "Echoes" and all but hearing such a poppy rock'n'roller tucked away in the recesses of Pink Floyd's career is still an enjoyable experience. On a similar basis, it is hard to recommend this album as anything other than inessential. That does not mean it is not an enjoyably modest little listen, though, and light relief from the likes of The Wall. Indeed, it essentially represents the last laugh Pink Floyd had as a band before things started to get a whole lot more serious.

Not for the first time in my life, dear reader, I am a man to be pitied. Oscar Wilde once wrote that it is the job of the critic to match the quality of his subject through his own artistry. For something like More that does not represent a great difficulty. For this album, it represents not so much a challenge as an outrage, a velvet glove thrust in my face, a gauntlet thrown at my feet. Part of the difficulty lies not just in the fact this album is one of the great works of art produced in the last century but it is also, alas, one of the most popular. I do not have the figures to hand but most households in the western world probably own a copy of this album. I am amazed it is still stocked so heathily in the shops, as that means there are still some people, somewhere, that have yet to buy it. One can lyrically wax the leading lights in other fields safe in the knowledge that only a few people have ever ventured to the end of 'A la Recherche du Temps Perdu' or 'Ulysses', or consumed Shakespeare's masterpieces as anything other than a disgruntled schoolboy, forced into the mire of his prose when all one really wants to do is watch the football (I missed Everton's last venture into Europe a decade ago to sit through 'The Tempest' and I've never been in the Royal Shakespeare's company since). Of course, within the considerable overlap between this album's quality and its popularity lies the very essence of popular music. No other art-form shares such an unlikely and uneasy bond between what the critic in his ivory tower demands and what the man in the street wants. Of course, there are great albums that will probably never be popular (Trout Mask Replica springs rather obviously to mind) but a lot of the great albums of the twentieth century are also some of the most popular, certainly within the bounds of people who actually listen to music, rather than watch MTV. As I said in the introduction, Pink Floyd share with the Beatles the convenient honour of being not just revered as intelligent artists but transformed into a product that is a nice unit-shifter for the rich men in their expensive suits. How, then, did Pink Floyd get in this position? It would be perhaps a little too generous to suggest they stumbled across a radical new way to improve their art. Nothing on this album really blows away what they had attempted on previous albums through startling or unique innovation. In truth, they merely took all the best bits of the intelligent prog-lite art-rock they had been fiddling with, polished up the production and arrangements, and - at the core of all this furore - wrote a lot of brilliant pop melodies. The five much-played hits on the album - "Breathe", "Time", "Money", "Us and Them" and "Brain Damage" - are distinguishable from previous songs mostly by the fact they all feature instantly appealing and hard to forget melodies. The instrumentation also combines intelligence with a commercially minded palatability, ensuring the pop listener never indulges his notoriously short attention span and goes looking elsewhere. Indeed, such is the appeal of this album I believe it was a quarter of a century after its release before anyone looked elsewhere, with this album remaining on America's Billboard chart for the longest period in its existence. This is, of course, a concept album and the flow of it is admirably irrestible. The only time it ever drags is during the instrumental "Any Colour You Like", which is supposed to provide a gap from the epic "Us and Them" to the album's almighty climax of "Brain Damage" and the apocalyptic coda "Eclipse". Delivering such a work was not without its casualties, though, as the band generally agree this album and its success represented the moment they ceased to be friends and existed only as individuals engaged in an artistic and commercial enterprise. They ceased recording together and Roger Waters was left to seize complete artistic control until the Pink Floyd brand name was legally snatched from him. At the heart of it, a cynic may claim that the mountain of money that arises from this album leads one to erroneously proclaim this an artistic masterpiece when it is merely an immaculately polished trophy collection of pop songs. A shallow exercise in gold-digging masquerading as high art. I would venture to disagree. There are many multi-million selling albums kicking around. This is one of the very few of them that will still be hailed as a milestone in twentieth century art long after the notes and coins that paid for it have been reduced to dust in the wind.

Having sailed to the moon Pink Floyd were disheartened to discover that it really is all dark. Therefore, as well as representing their zenith as artists it also represented the beginning of the end for their adventure as a band. They stopped speaking to each other in anything other than a professional capacity and from that point on came into the studio individually to record their parts, rather than play together as a band. Furthermore, this album effectively signalled the end of Pink Floyd Mk II as a collaborative effort, with the next three releases being completely dominated by Roger Waters alone. Waters's increased influence also saw the band's material adopt a far more negative vibe, with his personal gripes being unceremoniously aired through tirades at, inter alia, the blood-sucking record industry (naturally), Nazi witch Margaret Thatcher (understandably), war, violence, pestilence, plagues, the lack of decent parking in central London, airline food, and the declining quality of the Carry On films. If The Final Cut deals mainly with war, and Animals with society in general then this release concentrates most of Waters's bile towards the record industry which, of course, had suddenly become the band's new best buddies when the avalanches of cash started rolling in from the sales of Dark Side of the Moon. I know it seems like a prime example of both having a cake and eating it when rock stars whine about how evil the record industry is whilst racing fast cars round their mansions with the profits made from their albums but I do have a little sympathy for Waters and co. They were intelligent, sensible human beings and to be suddenly confronted by such a shower of complete corporate bullshit, particularly after spending a few years in the anonymous comfort of avant-garde art-rock, must be pretty soul-destroying. That said, David Gilmour was famously so unimpressed by the lyrics to Waters's cynical hissy-fit "Have a Cigar" that he refused to sing them and semi-celebrity Roy Harper was paid to provide the vocals instead. At some point after this release, though, Waters obviously decided that he could do a better job than Gilmour anyway and became the principle vocalist, with Gilmour limited to taking time out from racing his sports car round his mansion to contribute the odd guitar solo. Thankfully, though, Gilmour's influence is stamped authoratively all over this album (his favourite, he tells me) and in that way this is really the last MK II release to have much in common with their previous works. In a nice touch, as well as forming a rant against the record industry, this album also reflects back on the history of the band up to this point with a touching eulogy to founder member Syd Barrett and the painful acknowledgment that their art-house past had been obliterated by the monstrosity that is Dark Side of the Moon. Syd Barrett was not actually dead, of course, and apparently actually turned up at the studio whilst the band were recording this album. I gather his sanity failed to accompany him, though, and he spent most of the time cleaning his teeth with an old toothbrush. The aching title track does explicitly deal with the band's sadness at not just losing a talented band member but losing a best friend, particularly in light of the success he could have shared with them had his mental health not deserted him. It is not the most challenging of compositions but it is a rare display of the band succeeding with emotion above intelligence and its genuine sadness is undeniable affecting. By contrast, though, the other real highpoint of this album is effectively a thirty minute composition split in two - "Shine on You Crazy Diamond". Although as a song it is again a tribute to Barrett (the initials can be seen as spelling out 'SoYcD') the majority of the composition is, in effect, a very long guitar solo. This being Pink Floyd, though, the intelligence of the gradual climax and layered arrangement cannot help but impress with the opening Part One and closing Part Two representing perhaps the finest suite of music in their entire career. This album is perhaps less commercial than DSOTM but the public still lapped it up and Pink Floyd were well and truly established as one of the biggest names in rock. You would think as a result Roger Waters would be rather pleased. Hell no.

Upon Waters assuming almost sole creative control of the band he decided his first move would be to pen his own take on Orwell's classic tale of four legs good, two legs bad. I am afraid I don't possess the requisite level of worthiness to entertain his artistic adaptatiom in any serious form but I gather he has divided society up into pigs, sheep and dogs (with each species getting their own denunciation in song form). The pigs are at the top (following both Orwell's novel and the common portrayal of greedy capitalists and sleazy policitians), with the ruthless dogs enforcing the rule of their pork-based masters with mindless and violent subservience against the unquestioning sheep which, I guess, represents the majority of the TV watching, tabloid reading, workaday drones. It is just as well for them that a man as perceptive and as intelligent as Waters is here to challenge such a reprehensible state of order. In fairness, I should not be too hard on Waters. I used to regard the concept of this album, regardless of the music (which I will probably get on to at some stage), as rather risible but I suppose as my own misanthropy and contempt for humanity has grown so has my sympathy with Roger Waters's similarly skewed views. I am still consistent in wishing Gilmour had remained the lead singer in the later period of MK II's existence but I think Roger and I would get along better these days. As I just pointed out, though, this album does mark a significant change in the dynamics of the band with Waters (a decade after his humorously naive "Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk") deciding his vocal talents are far preferable to that bloody Dave Gilmour's anyway. He is wrong, of course, but due to his dominating role in writing this album it is unlikely either party wanted Gilmour singing Waters's songs. Gilmour does sing half of one song, "Dogs", which he conveniently also wrote half of. Perhaps as a result, it is also the single most impressive composition on the album. It goes on for not an insignificant amount of time (seventeen misanthropic minutes) and as well as the predictably impressive 'song' part it echoes, erm, "Echoes" by diving in and out of an ambient sound collage, driven along by some excellent guitar playing by Gilmour, particularly the effects treatment and production. "Pigs", as Waters's first proper effort as a lead vocalist, I am less enamoured with. It is a reasonable enough song, and again the instrumental section is typically intriguing, but given it forms almost a third of the album it does somewhat mar the overall success. "Sheep" is a storming little rocker, though, again with its ten minute odd length providing enough room for the band to produce an interesting collage of instruments and effects. Indeed, it is worth noting that the quality of this album remained unaffected by the coming of the punk movement and, despite Johnny Rotten's protestations, Pink Floyd remained as excellent (if perhaps not as relevant) as ever. Although the bulk of the album is represented by the three main animal songs, in an inverse reflection of Wish You Were Here, it begins and ends with the same song but one that is a mere 90 seconds in length - the downbeat acoustic verse of "Pigs in the Wind" (the album cover famously shows a giant inflatable pig floating over Battersea power station). As just mentioned, despite coming out in the face of the punk onslaught this album actually succeeded in reinforcing Pink Floyd's artistic and commercial dominance at a time when most of their peers were losing face in at least one of those fields. It may also represent the increased schism between the band members, with Roger Waters attempting to turn the band into his own solo project, but, regardless, the old boy still had plenty left in the tank.

I should begin by explaining that my poor mother had a rather torrid time working out what CDs I wanted for Christmas a few years back and therefore I ended up with this recording of The Wall, taken from the gargantuan stage shows that followed the original album's release, rather than the actual studio album. I have the original on vinyl and therefore I can safely testify that this version is almost identical, sound effects and all, but with a bit of extra crowd noise. I cannot really understand why a faithful live recording of an album from a show that relied primarily on visual trickery was thought to be a useful CD release (DVD is another matter, of course) but far be it for me to criticise the record companies and their ingenious methods of making more money. 1979's The Wall was, of course, the last great hurrah of Pink Floyd Mk II and another smash hit to rank alongside that of Dark Side of the Moon. Again it is worth stressing that although the punks snorted at Roger Waters's pompous, self-indulgent rock opera spread over four sides of vinyl, everyone else lapped it up, making this yet another massive seller and effectively securing the band's status as one of the true giants of the twentieth century. Although this album does get a little more snobbish disdain from the critics, by and large, it does rank as up there with the Floyd's finest. Of course, the sheer conceit of it is overwhelming with Waters penning the semi-autobiographical tale of a rock star who becomes isolated and disillusioned with the impossible success of his band, eventually turning against society as a whole and becoming a fascist dictator before eventually wising up, or something. To tell the truth the whole fascist part has me a little confused and given it is by far the weakest section of the album (in essence, the fourth side) I pay it little attention. Given the panoramic scope of such a venture Waters does not shy away from detailing every gripe and vendetta he has acquired over the course of his life with pretty much everyone who has even looked at him funny left feeling the wrath of his pen, particularly his stuffy old school masters ("The Happiest Days of Our Lives"), his mother ("Mother"), sinister pensioner Dame Vera Lynn ("Vera"), and, of course, anyone involved in the second world war and who was thereby indirectly responsible for his father's death. The latter theme, of course, played heavily on his scarred psyche and the following album, Waters's last with the band, concentrated almost solely on that one issue. In musical terms, the most interesting thing to note is that despite the fact this is Pink Floyd's grandest album in terms of scale and ambition it is actually one of their most comformist, if not THE most comformist, in terms of actual songs. Richard Wright was no longer a creative member of the group (although he soldiered on during the tours in a purely musical role) and perhaps as a result - although perhaps not - there are scant epic instrumental passages. Essentially, the album mainly consists of fairly conventional songs, albeit some that are deliberately brief and therefore exist only to smooth the narrative along. That said, despite the song-based structure, it is as a cohesive whole that this album impresses most. There are not that many greatest hits, but the two hour plus experience remains a compelling listen. Waters has effectively become the lead singer of the group but Gilmour does contribute now and again and when he does it invariably improves proceedings (the intro to "The Thin Ice" and "Comfortably Numb"'s chorus). Indeed, one bona fide Greatest Hit is thankfully on here in the form of the magnificent "Comfortably Numb". Standing as the last real combination of Waters and Gilmour it brilliantly contrasts Waters's cynical verses to Gilmour's stellar chorus and David even gets a chance to wail once more, providing us with the longest instrumental passage on the album. The biggest hit in terms of popularity, though, was of course the anti-authoritarian "Another Brick in the Wall Part II" with the cockney kiddie choir singing the immortal contradiction "we don't need no education". The opening "In The Flesh?" kicks things off with a bang and "Mother" is a prominent acoustic ballad but the most consistent spell of material is on the third side with, in addition to "Comfortably Numb", the excellent tension-building "Hey You" and the gorgeous piano ballad "Nobody Home". As already said, though, the album severely and disappointingly drops away at the end with "Run Like Hell", "Waiting for the Worms" and the ghastly "The Trial" seeing Waters's concept album fall into the vaudeville hell of musical theatre. Having provided up until that point an ingeniously clever rock opera, the whole experience is rather tainted by wrapping up the narrative in a way usually reserved for the very worst plays on London's West End. Still, I am a sucker for big ideas, so I'll allow my eye to be blinded by the climax of the show and stick to my general view of this as an excellent rock opera, a clever combination of interesting narrative and solid material. In terms of studio vs live, I can't see any great reason to get the live album ahead of the original but neither can I see the point in taking it back to the shop if one's parent is foolish enough to buy the wrong Goddamn CD.

From: Mart K. Kuhn

Top 5 songs with a bell effect is sorely missing Pink Floyd's "The Trial". Yes, it's certainly not the best (or even one of the best) songs on The Wall, but that's more of a compliment to the album than an indictment of the song. Your review calls the song 'ghastly,' and I must concur -- coming as it does after nearly 90 minutes of Roger Waters' preaching, the sheer horror of the song provides a perfect catharsis, which is only aided by its over-the-top theatrical nature. A friend of mine called The Wall an "emotional enema" and I think "The Trial" provides the vast majority of the release... Besides, you need something more proggy on the list to counterbalance all the metal on there.

[I'm unconcerned with emotional release, I mean ghastly in the sense that it is a truly awful song. The un-Godly summation of Waters' bizarre Andrew Lloyd-Webber fetish - JF]

After the Wall had fallen for the final time Richard Wright was officially given notice and the band shrunk into a trio. Truth be told, however, this album, the last with Waters, represents a solo album in all but name. The entire album was written by Roger with classical charlatan Michael Kamen (who later went on to collaborate with Metallica on the ludicrously pointless S&M) actually having more input on proceedings than Gilmour or Mason. Although I will happily assume the drums are indeed Mason's, the guitar is so anonymous that I doubt Gilmour made any real contribution at all. Predictably, of course, Gilmour takes leave of the mic stand for good with Waters singing every word. Strangely, though, I actually do not think he makes that bad a fist of it. I guess his confidence has improved after two full albums worth of his vocal 'talent' but, also, the sincerity with which he sings such highly personal and emotive lyrics is genuinely affecting. I could live without the theatrical wailing on "The Gunner's Dream", for instance, but I'll happily overlook it given the beauty of much of the arrangement and the emotional anguish Waters delivers with his tale of a war widow paying her final respects to her husband, gunned down at an age when he had hardly had a chance to begin life, let alone end it. In essence, the reason this album mostly succeeds is because it is not really a Pink Floyd album at all. It should really stand as the first release of Roger Waters's solo career and in doing so would represent a solid start by the old crank. As Waters reached maturity so did his lyrics and, as is often pointed out, this album impresses as much as a collection of poetry as it does as a rock album. Indeed, it is interesting to note that once Roger assumed sole control the focus of the band went sharply from musical experimentation to in-depth lyrical ruminations. Unlike Animals and The Wall this album is far more modest in its scope and that much more powerful as a result. Instead of lashing out at society as a whole, Waters concerns himself solely with war, contrasting the tragedy of the second world war which killed his father with the contemporary (as it was then) war-mongering on either side of the Iron Curtain, with Margaret Thatcher coming in for particularly deserving criticism. Although the song itself is a little cheesey, "The Fletcher Memorial Home" makes the insightful and perceptive point that sadists, murderers, and tyrants like Thatcher, Pinochet, Reagan, Breznev, et al expect to be feted and glorified for their remaining time on this earth simply because they were greedy enough, power-hungry enough, and vain enough to seize power in the first place. All the while, of course, innocent citizens are sent off to their death to satisfy their leaders' blood-lust. One of whom was Eric Fletcher Waters and his tragic ghost haunts the entire album, with his son bitterly but somewhat futilely raging against a world order that produces such unjust results. Perhaps the saddest aspect of Waters's dialogue with a father he never knew is that at the time he wrote this album he had actually grown older than his own father was when he died. Such a realisation, combined with the fact no real lessons had been learned and the world was still in the same position forty years on, forms the central theme of the album. Musically, it is rather less grand but Waters is actually restrained enough to ensure it is arguably a more consistent record than The Wall. "Paranoid Eyes", "Your Possible Pasts" and "The Final Cut" are delightfully downbeat ballads, with subtle and at times sparse arrangements, whilst "The Hero's Return" echos more the onimous rock of Animals and is equally successful in that regard. One would be hard pushed to really take much out of this album if they did not engage themselves with the concept to some extent but if one does one is left with a subtle and interesting listen. Despite the fact Pink Floyd as artists were coming to their creative close Waters does manage one last hurrah, even if it is more for his own personal benefit than the band as a whole. It ain't much like when they began but, in its own way, it is almost equally as impressive.

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