Pink FloydThirty years ago on a cold Saturday morning in early December, I bought my very first Pink Floyd record. Even though as a naive young schoolboy, the refrain of “We don’t need no education” appealed, it was the second half of “Another Brick in the Wall, Part 2” that had really touched my musical side. The wonderful Hammond work of Richard Wright, topped with the sublime guitar work by David Gilmour just blew me away. The stark video by Gerald Scarfe, with the mesmerising marching hammers, had also played a large part in my appreciation of this record.
At the time, I had no idea who Pink Floyd were (or was, for it could easily have been someone’s name), and to all intents and purposes, this was their debut single (which ironically, was not far from the truth). Little did I know then how significant a part in my life they were to become. No other artist has come close to influencing and even defining my life. Even when I first heard “The Wall”, it struck a major chord (excuse the pun) with me. The feelings of anxiety, angst and alienation all resonated with me and even now it seems to form the blueprint of my life (I’m currently about half way through). Even at school, I was so passionate about it that I even wrote, produced and directed a stage version of the album. I amazed the staff at the school with my tenacity about putting the show on (“pupils don’t do shows, the teachers do!”) And then astounded them after they had relented and allowed me to do it, that I actually saw it through. “Yet Another Brick in the Wall” saw a week of sell-out performances in February, 1982.
My interest in the band has bordered on (though many would say crossed into) obsession. If you’re ever with me and you think I’m quiet and not saying much, just ask me about the Floyd and you’ll get me talking. However, by the same token, getting me onto them means I’ll be talking for hours about them and you won’t get a word in edgeways. For there’s so much to talk about. Not just their music, the analysis of both the musicianship and writing, but also the behind-the-scenes of a band that should never have survived the departure of founding member Syd Barrett; a band who shouldn’t have been able to produce “The Dark Side Of The Moon”; their exceptional live shows and album artwork; what fame did to them and the emergence of Roger Waters as the dominant member of the band; the extraordinarily acrimonious split and Waters departure; the “fuck you Roger” post-Waters Floyd; and the three events that symbolically marked the end of Pink Floyd - the death of Syd, the live reunion with Waters at Live 8, and finally (and for me most significantly), the death of Richard Wright.
Richard’s death had a intense effect of me. Even though by then I knew that it was very unlikely there was going to be any new Pink Floyd projects, as the band had always been considered Syd’s band - when he died it was as if the spirit of Pink had died with him. The body language at Live 8 was very much one of a band playing their swansong. But when Richard died, that was it. It was the end of an era. Pink Floyd was over. A band that had been such a profound part of my life had now gone to play the great gig in the sky.
Considering how few significant albums they produced, it seems strange that I should have been able to devote so much of my listening time to them. But as I’ve grown from the naive young schoolboy into the naive old fart, the music has taken on new meanings. And though I’ve been unable to listen to much Floyd since the sad news about Richard, I know that soon I will return to their music. To hear the hauntingly beautiful keyboard work of Richard Wright, the blinding guitar work and sublime vocals of David Gilmour. Both set to the passion and drive of Roger Waters. Because slowly, since my childhood, I have become Mr. P. Floyd.
At the time, I had no idea who Pink Floyd were (or was, for it could easily have been someone’s name), and to all intents and purposes, this was their debut single (which ironically, was not far from the truth). Little did I know then how significant a part in my life they were to become. No other artist has come close to influencing and even defining my life. Even when I first heard “The Wall”, it struck a major chord (excuse the pun) with me. The feelings of anxiety, angst and alienation all resonated with me and even now it seems to form the blueprint of my life (I’m currently about half way through). Even at school, I was so passionate about it that I even wrote, produced and directed a stage version of the album. I amazed the staff at the school with my tenacity about putting the show on (“pupils don’t do shows, the teachers do!”) And then astounded them after they had relented and allowed me to do it, that I actually saw it through. “Yet Another Brick in the Wall” saw a week of sell-out performances in February, 1982.
My interest in the band has bordered on (though many would say crossed into) obsession. If you’re ever with me and you think I’m quiet and not saying much, just ask me about the Floyd and you’ll get me talking. However, by the same token, getting me onto them means I’ll be talking for hours about them and you won’t get a word in edgeways. For there’s so much to talk about. Not just their music, the analysis of both the musicianship and writing, but also the behind-the-scenes of a band that should never have survived the departure of founding member Syd Barrett; a band who shouldn’t have been able to produce “The Dark Side Of The Moon”; their exceptional live shows and album artwork; what fame did to them and the emergence of Roger Waters as the dominant member of the band; the extraordinarily acrimonious split and Waters departure; the “fuck you Roger” post-Waters Floyd; and the three events that symbolically marked the end of Pink Floyd - the death of Syd, the live reunion with Waters at Live 8, and finally (and for me most significantly), the death of Richard Wright.
Richard’s death had a intense effect of me. Even though by then I knew that it was very unlikely there was going to be any new Pink Floyd projects, as the band had always been considered Syd’s band - when he died it was as if the spirit of Pink had died with him. The body language at Live 8 was very much one of a band playing their swansong. But when Richard died, that was it. It was the end of an era. Pink Floyd was over. A band that had been such a profound part of my life had now gone to play the great gig in the sky.
Considering how few significant albums they produced, it seems strange that I should have been able to devote so much of my listening time to them. But as I’ve grown from the naive young schoolboy into the naive old fart, the music has taken on new meanings. And though I’ve been unable to listen to much Floyd since the sad news about Richard, I know that soon I will return to their music. To hear the hauntingly beautiful keyboard work of Richard Wright, the blinding guitar work and sublime vocals of David Gilmour. Both set to the passion and drive of Roger Waters. Because slowly, since my childhood, I have become Mr. P. Floyd.
