Review of Pink Floyd's The Final Cut

Released 1983

"Through the fish-eyed lens of tear stained eyes I can barely define the shape of this moment in time And far from flying high in clear blue skies I'm spiraling down to the hole in the ground where I hide."

Before I finally out grew Kerrang! magazine - our respective musical tastes were diverging rapidly - Geoff Barton's review of Pink Floyd's The Final Cut was one its last articles to influence my musical thinking. I was too young to appreciate Pink Floyd's best years as they happened, but because I was attuned and interested as their swansong (with Roger Waters at least) was released, I felt privileged.

It was only ten years since The Dark Side Of The Moon, but it was a different era; one which I revered and which was lent credence and a mystique by it's distant relative inaccessibility. I was at once delighted that I would have the opportunity to sample a new Pink Floyd album, and apprehensive that it's contemporary status might instantly negate it's qualification as a classic prog album.

Geoff Barton's review wasn't particularly complimentary, describing the album as 'obsessive', 'overbearing', 'depressing' and 'unnecessarily dark'. There were many references to the continuation of themes first present in The Wall, which unfortunately meant little to me at the time. I had a cassette copy of The Wall a few years earlier, but when the tape snapped after only a couple of listens, I found myself exchanging it for another album. It seemed angst ridden, lengthy and meandering, less 'muscial' and ultimately too complex for my young sensibilities. Now, with TDSOTM and Wish You Were Here under my belt, I felt more capable of appropriately appraising The Final Cut.

I noted the album was subtitled, ' A Requiem For The Post War Dream', and was credited in it's entirety to Roger Waters, and was dedicated to the memory of his father. Nick Mason was supplemented with another drummer, Andy Newmark; Rick Wright was omitted and a handful of other further musicians were credited. The black sleeve was in mourning, with poppies and war medals setting the scene for what appeared to be a memorial piece.

From the outset, the radio tuning effects and the vehicle sounds put in mind of the other two Pink Floyd albums in my collection, caused me to relax and temporarily put Geoff Barton's criticisms to one side. Instead of David Gilmour's (underrated) vocal, the awkward unlovely voice of Roger Waters took the lead, and was pitched somewhere between speaking and singing. Whilst the tone of TDSOTM and WYWH is, for the most part, an evolution from the laid back 'space rock' of their earlier years, here the feel was angular, angry, accusatory and confrontational, with lyrics being almost spat out in disgust at the post war mess Roger is attributing in no small measure to Margaret Thatcher's regime.

Where the subject matters of earlier albums focused on universal themes of greed, mortality and madness, The Final Cut is an inversion of these stances, being a one-man party political broadcast with very specific targets. These subject matters required a very different musical accompaniment: northern brass-bands funereal themes, sparse acoustic guitar and simple piano are all subservient to the main instrument, the vocal. Through headphones, every nuance of every word is startlingly clear. There are many layers of background vocals, more often than not being screamed versions of the lead. Sound effects are integrated to the point where they may perhaps be seen as a further instrument.

By the time I reached 'The Gunner's Dream', in which Roger recalls his mother's tears at his father's funeral, I was aghast at his willingness to expose himself so completely. The saxophone solo is designed to tear your heart apart, begging you to identify with the utter misery inflicted upon him by the misfortunes of war. It is easy to picture Roger alone in a darkened studio, eyes closed in agony, recording the vocal tortured with pain operating on the outer edges of his register, pleading for a time when 'no-one kills the children anymore'. I found myself looking towards the door of my bedroom, making sure no-one else could hear this. How could I explain the indulgence and angst I was listening to?

The signature guitar of David Gilmour is relegated to those few choice moments where, that Roger would 'allow' a contribution. Although used sparingly, the guitar solos mirror the agony of the lyric, bleeding forth.

The title track is the emotional peak, or, depending on how you choose to look at it, the trough of the album. I couldn't imagine how Roger 'sold' this to the rest of the band. When on a quest with such maniacal focus so intrinsically tied to your own identity, there could have been no room for compromise. This could never have been a collective creation and as such there would be causalities. The recording sessions must have been a horrible experience.

Despite the fact that the single-orientated pace of 'Not Now John' interrupts the tone of the album, to this day, no album has ever had such a profound effect on me upon the first listen. It may not be my favourite album, or indeed even my favourite Pink Floyd album, but it holds a unique place in my affections as the most compelling initial airing of any album to date. When Roger Waters entered the studios, I get the impression that he knew exactly what he wanted to achieve. Where most visions become compromised during the process of realisation, I felt that, on this occasion, the end product was exactly as Roger first envisioned it. This in itself is an incredible achievment.