Review of Pink Floyd's The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn

Released 1967

"Across the stream with wooden shoes
With bells to tell the king the news
A thousand misty riders climb up
Higher once upon a time."

After being desparately disappointed with Ummagumma, I spent a long time neglecting the pre The Dark Side Of The Moon albums, focussing an unhealthy amount of time on The Wall in particular. Given that I spent an inordinate amount of time under my headphones, I swear for a while that I could hear Roger Water's manical screams as I went to sleep most nights. Not good.

I had read so much about Pink Floyd's first album, and was geniunely intrigued to see if all the fuss about Syd Barrett was warranted, but I was loathe to be let down once more. Everywhere I turned it was clear that it was considered to be a pivotal album. The fact that it was recorded at Abbey Road studios at the same time as Sgt. Pepper only added to the intrigue. But, and it was a big but; I hated the cover. I hated the cover because it was both a world away from the classic Hipgnosis styled seventies sleeves and because it was so 'fake' and mainstream. Where  the sleeve for The Dark Side Of The Moon was as sophisticated and cultured as the music within, I imagined that The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn would be annodine and uninspired. I knew that the photo session which produced the final sleeve image was shot on the same day the band appeared on Top Of The Pops, which in itself made me sneer in derision.

Being a cheapskate, I eventually succumbed due to the fact that I was able to snap up a new copy on Woolworth's 'Nice Price' label, complete with the yellow and black label which impossible to remove in it's entirety. Being a bargain reissue, this was a very glossy version knocked our as cheaply as possible by EMI with a plain white inner sleeve, no lyrics and no frills.

As well as being a cheapskate, I was a miserable pessimist who fully expected to be unimpressed, much as I was with Ummagumma. What I got instead was a real surprise. The spacemen sound effects at the beginning of Astronomy Domine rooted the album to the time of it's release which was at the height of the space race, capturing the zeitgeist instantaneously. I was delighted that the use of sound effects which were on later albums used as integrally as any instrument, were present at the onset of their recording career. Sound effects aside, this didn't have too much in common with anything else I had heard by the band thus far. Given my extensive reading about their early performances, I was quickly able to imagine this track being played live at The Roundhouse: along with wobbly light shows, yellow tinted glasses, velvet jackets and prolonged jangly bass driven solos. Gorgeous. I quickly felt foolish that I had somehow disregarded my obsession with the peiod over a terrible album cover and a poor reaction to Several Species Of Small Furry Animals.....

Lucifer Sam again was clearly a product of the age, showing a very different bass style from Roger. I love tthe phasing of the special effects tapes appearing seemingly at random. This was so obviously the product of a band that was - at the time, at least - in its element on stage.

Matilda Mother was in a similar vein, with added manic backing vocal and classi,c almost spoken lyric which was a common theme amongst their peers. Three tracks in and it was clear that Rick Wright's keyboard parts were as much a part of the signature early Floyd sound as Syd's lyrical and vocal styling. I couldn't distinguish Syd's vocal delivery from a dozen other singers of the age. That's not to say that I didn't appreciate it; more to point out that his real influence was in a creative sense: the central instrumental part of Flaming, for example was more prog than psychedelic space rock, and I couldn't help but think that Syd was steering them down this explorative path.

I loved Rick's jazzy keyboard and Nick's lazy drumming intro to Pow R, Torch H. When combined with Roger Water's trademark screams and some free form guitar work from Syd, this is, for me a real highlight; incredibly atmospheric, slightly scary and indoubtably extraordinarily innovative at the time.

I saw Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk as having a large Byrds influence in the guitar playing. Roger's bass playing is tremendous here also.

Interstellar Overdrive became a firm favourite of mine from the very first time I played it. It felt to me as though it was improvised in the studio, with Syd meandering over the huge filthy bass line. I used to regularily turn the volume up throughout this track to potentially dangerous levels whilst studying. It has thus become almost imprinted upon me note for note.

To be frank, The Gnome has always left me uninterested; I struggle to associate this as being a Pink Floyd track in any real sense. Again the whimsical nature of Chapter 24 is barely redeemed by the variety of keyboard styles (and a cowbell!) This was so utterly dominated by Syd's weirdness, which, to this day, I suppose I've never fully understood.

It's strange that 'Englishness' is often celebrated as a key feature of much of the best of prog. Where I will concur on this front with respect to bands like Genesis and Traffic, where the music is absolutely enhanced by the clear identity given by the band's origins, in the case of Syd Barrett era Pink Floyd, for me, it actively detracts from the appeal. However, I'm sure that I am in the minority in this regard.

That said, it is impossible not to like Bike for the very same reasons. The English eccentricity which infuses every aspect of this track makes it a fascinatingly odd and endearing piece.

Overall, this is one my of least played Floyd albums, but one I have a great affection for and wouldn't be without.
 

Review of The Beatles 'The White Album'

Released 1968

"You'd say I'm putting you on
But it's no joke, it's doing me harm.
You know i can't sleep, I can't stop my brain
You know it's three weeks, I'm going insane
You know I'd give you everything I've got
For a little peace of mind".


Of all the albums I bought during my first year of University, no memory of the actual purchase is clearer than when I stumbled across The White Album.

There was a second hand record shop in the Dowanhill region of Glasgow which, as far as I can recall, I only visited twice. I have no idea why, as, on reflection, it had possibly the most eclectic selection of late sixties and early seventies era prog rock I've every seen in one place. I only remember buying two albums from there, the first Fat Mattress album ( whose unique fold out sleeve design was the most interesting aspect of the package) and The White Album.

I don't think I had ever seen a second hand copy before, and, come to think of it, I'm not sure I ever came across another one. In fact it was highly unusual to spy any second hand records by The Beatles; other than the 'red' and 'blue' compilations, and even then, that was also rare.

Therefore I have a very clear picture in my mind of the moment when my expert album flicking finger technique stopped at an original numbered copy of one of my most sought after prizes. I, like any serious music fan was very familiar with the infamy surrounding this release. From the influence of the Maharishi to the influence on Charles Manson and 'the Family', from the heated studio arguments (and walkout by Ringo) to the legendarily obtuse Revolution 9, I had long been in awe of it's mystique. One friend of mine in particular raved (and continues to rave) endlessly about it's greatness. Holding it in my hand, it had an almost tangible power.

I wasn't put off by the fact that a previous owner had seen fit to protect all edges of the sleeve with black insulation tape. This was the real deal. It had the posters, the lyrics, the lot. I can't remember what I paid for it, but, like the fool I was, I would have paid pretty much anything.

Although I already had Sgt Peppers... and Abbey Road, I still saw The Beatles as first and foremost a pop band. Both these albums had surprised me with their obvious prog leanings, but only so far. Still, seeing the green apple spinning on the turntable, I knew I was in the presence of a culturally important work.

Back In The USSR took me by surprise. It was one of those Beatles tracks which I'd forgotten I knew and enjoyed. An uptempo Beach Boys pastiche which rocked harder than I'd remembered, it made me smile at the undoubted knack Paul McCartney had for classic pop. I knew Dear Prudence, but had temporarily forgotten that this predated The Banshees remake. Although not a favourite track of mine, I loved the segues both in and out of the preceding and following tracks. I realised very quickly that The White Album is a masterpiece of sequencing

I know that I am not the first person to state this, but I think that it is worth repeating. Both the order in which the tracks are put together and the manner by which the transitions between them is managed is sublime. The variety of musical styles on offer make this especially important. If, for example, the slower ballads had been gathered together on one of the four sides, the effect would have been less effective than the actually finished product.

This makes tracks like Ob-La-Di, Ob-La-Da almost palatable. On it's own, it is easy to see it as irritating as Octopus's Garden on Abbey Road. However, sandwiched between Glass Onion and Wild Honey Pie, it indicates the unparalleled wealth of talent which these four musicians. The mucking around during last few seconds on the outro of Ob-La-Di also move the track out of the realm of mere whimsy, to something slightly different; pushing boundaries even on a simple pop track.

The Continuing Story of Bungalow Bill , whilst hated by most Beatles fans, has more inventiveness in it's three minutes and fourteen seconds than the majority of their peers could muster in a whole album. Yes, it's got a guest appearance by that annoying Japanese woman, but listen again to just how much is going on. It's not the throw away track many would have you think it is.

Again the 'Ay-Up' segue into While My Guitar Gently Weeps is genius: serving to effectively connect songs which would otherwise be poles apart.

On my first listen, it was during Happiness Is A Warm Gun that I first had that shiver down the back of my neck when I realised how darn good this album was. I also shook my head in disbelief in amazement of how far these four mop tops had come in such a short period of time. This continued with I'm So Tired. By the time of The White Album, Lennon was clearly enjoying the emerging militant poet persona with which he was becoming adorned.

To this day I cannot understand what on earth Charles Manson heard in Piggies that inspired his actions. I love it's irreverence, simple bass line and harpsichord and I think again it's transition into Rocky Raccoon is superbly realised.

I'll admit that I was less enamoured by the last four tracks of the second side of vinyl. None of these are terrible songs; far from it, just not as inspired as the rest of the work.

The third side kicks off in wonderful style with Birthday, which sees McCartney really start to stretch out on his vocals. The best thing about this song for me is that one can almost hear a direct line leading back to their earlier days, shaking their heads together while hundreds of girls screamed in unison. Four or five years on though, this was more sophisticated, more knowing.

Yer Blues picks up where I'm So Tired leaves off: cutting humour, a strong blues influence, an excellent rhythm section which gets progressively more grungy. At two minutes and seven seconds in, the whole group steps up a gear and, despite popular myth, they appear to be having a good time. The guitar solo is typically underrated for a Beatles Track.

Mother Nature's Son is a partner piece to Blackbird in my mind. Both gorgeous. Many are quick to criticise McCartney for his pop sensibilities without listening to what else is going behind a seemingly innocuous lyric or simple song structure. Again, go back to Mother Nature's Son and listen to the many levels of instrumentation going on in the background.

The clever juxtapositions between tracks continues with the upbeat Everybody's Got Something To Hide Except For me And My Monkey. Ringo's drumming is particularly strong. It surprises me that a band so intent on imploding can still sound as though they are a fully functioning unit.

To fully appreciate Helter Skelter, it is important to contextualise it's aggressive style and polemic approach. This was released before (just before) the MC5 and The Stooges launched their trademark radicalism on the American public. Sound effects were rarely heard and a screaming Paul McCartney was certainly not on the radar. All the above and the false ending with Ringo's 'I've got blisters on my fingers!!' were all so 'un-Beatle-like'. Of course, if you put all of this to one side, it would be easy to dismiss it as tame in light of many bands trading in a similar genre since, but this was The Beatles. This was 1968 and it was groundbreaking.

Long, Long, Long is one my favourite tracks on the album. The roots of so many other later bands can be traced back to this track. From More era Pink Floyd to Dark Star era Grateful Dead this is hugely influential. The atmospheric keyboards, manic drums and wailing is very, very prog. Lovely.

Revolution 1 threw me for a minute or two. I'd forgotten that there was a slow and fast version. Either way, this was classic pop which only Lennon could produce.

Honey Pie, Savoy Truffle and Cry Baby Cry lull the listener into a false sense of security. Three simple and variously daft and beautiful tracks which of themselves are pleasant and effective but brilliantly employed to set the stage for the centrepiece of the album, Revolution 9.

Revolution 9 on first hearing is just confusing and odd. With each subsequent listen, I become more convinced that this is one of the greatest pieces by the Beatles, or, to be fair, by John Lennon. There is beauty, menace, drama, invention present in layer upon layer of wonderfully paced staging for which he was woefully misunderstood at the time. The ripples emerging from the pebble which Lennon dropped in the pool of progressive rock are still being felt today.

There is a remarkable majesty by which the incoherence of Revolution 9 fades into the orchestrations of the cinematic Good Night. Two songs were probably never greater at odds. Side by side they produce a closing to the album which is tear-jerkingly moving.

This is my favourite album by The Beatles and a top five album any day of the week. I don't see this changing.

Review of Pink Floyd's Ummagumma

Released 1969

"Lime and limpid green, a second scene
A fight between the blue you once knew.
Floating down, the sound resounds
Around the icy waters underground.
Jupiter and Saturn, Oberon, Miranda and Titania.
Neptune, Titan, Stars can frighten".

Ummagumma was my eight Pink Floyd album. Like many, I started with the well established seventies classics; The Dark Side Of The Moon, Wish You Were Here et al, before working backwards - pre- TDSOTM - through Meddle and Atom Heart Mother, until I reached Ummagumma. Thus, I was fairly confident before making this purchase, that I already owned all of their best works. Both Meddle and Atom Heart Mother had moments of genuine brilliance, charm and sufficient quality to warrant many, many repeated listens over the years, but I felt that they both paled when compared to TDSOTM, being obvious warm-ups as the band evolved to the peak.

I had heard several views regarding Ummagumma; not many of them good. Eccentric, odd, eclectic, experimental and really not very good at all were among the kindest of these views. Nevertheless, it was clear that I was destined to own the entire Pink Floyd catalogue, therefore experiencing Ummagumma was necessity, but never a duty.

I'd picked up second hand copies on numerous occasions and had loved Hipgnosis's work, the idea of the bands' tour instruments lain out on the runway and the general seventies 'vibe' as detailed by the greasy hair, loon pants and typography. Tremendous stuff which whetted my appetite greatly.

Fortunately, when it came to my first airing of Ummagumma, I choose the live record as my preferred opening option. I have since read that John Peel cited the gig where these tracks were recorded was one of his favourites. I could quickly see why.

Where I could see a common developmental thread running through Atom Heart, Meddle and The Dark Side Of The Moon, the linkage was not so immediately apparent with this more obviously psychedelic jamming.

It hadn't occurred to me that Syd Barrett's influence would cast such a substantial shadow across this work. In addition, the keyboard sound was fundamentally different to later works, really emphasising the hugely underrated part Rick Wright's playing had as the 'glue' which made the Floyd sound work. Of course, the largest contrast between the Pink Floyd which recorded Ummagumma and say, Wish You Were Here, is the paradigm shift that took place in the lyrical content, mostly, of course, with respect to Roger Waters. Lyrics are certainly of secondary importance on Ummagummma: on Astronomy Domine they are - and I mean this respectfully - no better than sixth form noodlings, which work within the context of the meandering space rock instrumentation, while on Careful With That Axe Eugene - other than the whispered words of the title - lyrics have no presence at all. I had heard and seen this latter track on the Pompeii video a year or two previously, but was still startled when I noticed the hair standing up on my arms as Roger's terrifyingly primal shrieking cut through my headphones. It came as no surprise to me to learn that they were greatly in demand for film scores around this time; incredible atmospherics.

I would loved to have witnessed a live performance of Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun, due to it's poetry and majesty; a perfect exercise in restraint and simplicity. The fourth and last live track, A Saucerful Of Secrets similarly is a model example of space rock at it's best. The careers of both Hawkwind and Nektar can surely be traced to this track: otherworldly and heavily influenced by narcotics and nonsensical repetitive rhythms wandering through the outer reaches.

So far, so good. Very different to later albums, but with some obvious strengths and demonstrating very clear prog credentials.

But then, to the studio album. What a strange, beguiling frustrating beast this is.

I was surprised to read quite recently that Ummagumma is the favourite album of Porcupine Tree's Steven Wilson. Perhaps my tastes are less cultured than Mr Wilsons: I can, from the very first listen hear brilliance and beauty through the complex structures of a Van Der Graaf Generator or Dream Theatre album, but I cannot, despite repeated attempts, hear much deserving of praise in any way shape or form within the studio tracks of Ummagumma. Sysyphus starts promisingly with epic chords and magisterial twinkling of the ivories, but descends, by the third part into what sounds uncannily like a rat being strangled inside a grand piano in the depths of a cold cavern. Amidst the peculiar percussion, there are many prog rock credentials , but, for each promising interlude, there is the death throes of a rodent and the sound of far too much freedom being given to each of the musicians to indulge themselves to an unparalleled degree.

Granchester Meadows - Roger Waters effort - continues the animal noise theme with far too prominent bird song effects played over his Cat Stevens / Leonard Cohen phrased pastoral folk tinged tune. Could this dirge really be written by the same man, who, just four years later wrote lyrics which, to this day, although I have heard them a thousand times, make me weep at the beauty and profundity of his timeless lyrics? How could this be possible? I was musing on this further as Several Species... began. This is literally five minutes of the sound of animals squeaking followed by the drunken ramblings of a Scottish person. This has to be the most awful rubbish ever committed to vinyl. Sorry Rog. Beyond repproach.

David Gilmour's The Narrow Way is almost bearable after Several Species... but not quite. Again, the first two parts are self indulgent bilge with little merit. There are glimpses of hope in the final part, with the band playing as one: the sum of the parts being so much more than the individual efforts.

The Grand Vizier's Garden Party could have been brilliant. After all, there was a great deal of focus on Nick Mason at Pompeii to which this is very contemporary, where he was very effective. But here, for the most part, he falls into the same trap as his cohorts: long, repetitive and ultimately pointless.

In subsequent years, I, like many others have spent many enjoyable hours replaying the live album, while the studio album is brought out for the occasional - 'can it really be that dreadful: surely there must be something I'm missing, it's Pink Floyd for goodness sake!!' - type airing. Sadly, for me at least, my opinion has yet to be shaken. I will persevere though. Although, as a rule, I don't include ratings as part of my reviews, on this occasion, I feel compelled to give the live tracks a commendable 8/10 and the studio tracks an execrable 3/10.

Review of Gong's Camembert Electrique

Released 1971

" Well help me help me sing this song, I wanna stay living for much too long. Now I wanna ride this big brass gong. Where am I babe? You don't know!"


I can't help but smile when I think of this album. Not only is there is a great deal of humor in the album itself, but as a student this was one of a few select records whose oddness when broadcast on the communal music centre in the hall of, brought forth looks of incredulity from the 'straights' and helped to cement the unfavourable reputation myself and my cohorts quite deliberately built up and relished.

Remarkably I can't recall which of these cohorts first purchased Camembert Electrique. I certainly acquired a vinyl copy at some point and I am now on my second CD copy. Whoever introduced the first copy to the group did us a favour. Gong are a band who are a form of musical marmite, inspiring either fervoured devotion or mild horror.

I knew nothing about Gong before Camembert Electrique, other than their associations with pixies and teapots through various other album covers spotted in the second hand bins. Clearly they were bonkers. I guessed their Frenchness contributed to this mania and eccentricity.

There's really no point trying to draw comparisons between Gong and any other mainstream prog band. Indeed it is their individuality which is so endearing.

The record starts with a brief introduction in French to the Planet Gong by a non human entity. This segues into You Can't Kill Me, heavy on sax, chemically enhanced female backgrounds, some excellent percussion and largely free form lyrics. The bursts of guitar, very low in the mix, are heavy on distortion and bent notes. It is highly repetitive with hints of jazz influence and unhealthy catchy.

I've Bin Stoned Before does exactly what it says on the tin, being a tirade of stoned monologue underpinned by gorgeous sax and grand hammond. Bonkers but brilliant.

It is difficult to pin down whether there is a theme or concept behind the album other than being the collective free form jamming of a bunch of French hippies. Not that this is a bad thing. Honest.

There are odd interludes which work very well through the headphones: Wet Cheese Delirium for example combines an indefinable sound effect with a largely incomprehensible repeated lyric. It lasts less than a minute but adds to the overall madness.

The highlight of the record is undoubtably Fohat Digs Holes In Space. It starts with mystical sound effects, weird female lyrics, a repeating percussive theme which builds in intensity with early Floydian type keyboards before culminating in hilarious drug referencing lyrics and a tremendous guitar solo.

Tried So Hard is very sedate by comparison, with a more orthodox rhythm, lyrics which invite you to sing along with a quite punky vocal style morphing through more gentle verses becoming about twelve songs in one. Listening to it again as I type, I had forgotten just how complex and deliciously effective this track can be.

Overall, it's a hugely enjoyable record with outstanding playing, massive prog credentials and long term appeal. All these years later, I can find at least as much to enjoy as I did as a student still relatively new to the world of prog.

Review of Pink Floyd's Atom Heart Mother

Released 1970

"And if you sit don't make a sound
Pick your feet up off the ground
And if you hear as the warm night falls
The silver sound from a time so strange
Sing to me, sing to me"

That this is my forty fourth review and my seventh Pink Floyd album review, will probably not surprise most seasoned prog fans. Indeed, any prog fan gradually finding his or her feet as they are introduced to the genre will inevitably, I feel, lean heavily on Pink Floyd's catalogue as a Masterclass of prog.

I've pondered in previous Floyd reviews about the odd order in which I encountered their discography, and have mused often on how my perception of each them may have differed if I had followed the chronological path, instead of starting with The Dark Side Of The Moon. Say I had encountered Ummagumma before TDSOTM; I wonder if I would have made it much further than Atom Heart Mother? Although I'm sure ultimately my curiosity would have got the better of me, I'm eternally grateful that Atom Heart Mother was my seventh Floyd album; I was better prepared for it's eccentricity and ambition. and was able to contextualise it more appropriately against their later, better received and more commercially successful mega-sellers.

It is largely because of my well established appreciation of TDSOTM, Wish You Were Here etc at the time, that I now view Atom Heart Mother as the most underrated Pink Floyd album.

Actually buying my first vinyl copy of the album was a surreal experience. I remember handing the brand new cellophane wrapped album over the counter to the shop assistant. He looked at the cow. The cow possibly looked back. The shop assistant looked at me, shook his head and muttered something that sounded cryptically close to: "Bloody Hippy".

The sleeve was (and is) plainly bonkers and utterly prog (and is the first one taken from the banner on the front page of this blog) and simply owning it made me foolishly feel as though I was a mature, intelligent and impossibly hip cool cat. Anyway, I felt honoured.

Learning that this was the first side long suite committed to vinyl by Pink Floyd and that this was, in effect, the first real conceptual work, led me to the conclusion that Atom Heart Mother was arguably their first real prog album. I suppose, strictly speaking, that is not true as Ummagumma - which predated it - is nothing if not prog. It's just...It's just impossible to listen to all the way through without narcotics. Perhaps I should just state then, that Atom Heart Mother is their first prog album that 'works'. I wish I hadn't started this paragraph, but there you go.

The orchestral opening was a bit of a surprise, but its integration after less than a minute with the band proper was just genius. The Floyd stop for a moment, theres a catalogue of sound effects including explosions, horses and motorbikes before they come back in. This sets the course for the remainder of the twenty or so minutes: spells of unaccompanied orchestra interspersed with varying degrees of Floydian noodling. This noodling takes a variety of forms, from very familiar Rick Wright led keyboard themes, very much in keeping with later albums, gorgeous slow mellow passages with female vocal free-forming a la The Great Gig In The Sky and a full on choral passages with Nick Mason signature punctuating drumming, a great bass solo, a stunning bluesy guitar and Hammond organ duet. Then there is a few minutes sound effects with little or no obvious direction. This gives way to a lush string section before finally climaxing in pretty much all of the above. I haven't a clue what on earth it is all about, but I think it works superbly well.

First time around I wasn't overly taken with the second side, seeing it as something as an anti-climax. I now view almost all of the second side very differently. That Roger Water's was capable of a simple and touching love song such as If, I found remarkable to start with.

I'm now stunned that I overlooked Summer '68 as filler. The psychedelic chorus and spacey effects applied to Rick Wright's voice is very similar to one of my favourite (and formerly reviewed) album: Spirit's Twelve Dreams Of Dr Sardonicus. Rick's playing here is utterly inspired and now sadly missed. Listening to it now, I remain stunned that it is not more highly regarded.

Fat Old Sun has recently been resurrected by David Gilmour in his live shows. Every time I hear this track, I smile at the lyric lifted deliberately from The Doors. Very clever. A simple and beautiful track which culminates with a guitar solo which again improves with every listen.

Then, oh dear. Alan's Psychedelic Breakfast. Okay, it is amusing and quite clever, and yes it does flow very neatly from the end of the previous track, but it is ultimately infantile and makes you wonder what on earth they were thinking about. I suppose that it is very much of its time, it is unique and does afford the opportunity, when offered marmalade by an aged relative to state in a slightly stoned tone: "marmalade: I like marmalade", but other than that, it is a daft way to end an otherwise excellent album.

Despite the final track, I still maintain the view that it is a fine, fine album and deserved of a reappraisal.

Review of Pink Floyd's Animals

Released 1977

"Deaf, dumb, and blind, you just keep on pretending
That everyone's expendable and no-one had a real friend
And it seems to you the thing to do would be to isolate the winner
And you believe at heart, everyone's a killer."

Animals was a requested for Christmas present along with the 12" single of The Power Of Love. I was young, I was confused.

I sometimes wish that I'd had the sense to purchase Pink Floyd's albums in the order that they'd been released. As it was, I had leaped backwards and forwards through their discography with the consequence certain albums suffered. I'm sure that if I had bought The Wall before The Final Cut I'd have appreciated the former much more. Likewise, with the benefit of hindsight I feel that Animals would now rank higher in my estimation, if it had been the next Floyd album I had bought after Wish You Were Here.

Therefore, reading between the lines, it's fair to conclude that Animals is one of my least played Pink Floyd albums. Only Ummagumma ranks lower I'm afraid.

I really can't put my finger on why it has never had the same appeal for me as it I know it has for countless others. Indeed I know many, many others who would place it firmly in their top three Floyd albums.

Due to it's high regard amongst my contemporaries, on Christmas day 1984, I was positively moist with anticipation when we returned from the lunch time Christmas pint and I had an hour to kill before dinner.

I was aware of the infamous tale of the escaping flying inflatable pig during the photo-shoot for the album cover. Holding the 12" sleeve up close I wondered why they'd bothered of going to the trouble in the first place. Neither the outside photo or those inside the gate fold sleeve held any of the mystique of the packaging of, say, Wish You Were Here. I didn't get it.

The concept behind the album was plain enough, and obviously 'borrowed' in no small measure from George Orwell. This in itself was disappointing to me, as it remains the only instance of Roger Waters' creativity being reliant on the forethought of others.

Like Wish you Were Here and The Wall, Animals is effectively bookended by a prologue and epilogue, in this case Roger solo with an acoustic guitar.

The strongest part of Animals is the dark humour of Roger's lyrics. I think he remains hugely underrated as a lyricist and a political commentator. He is plainly someone you'd avoid if you were inclined to call the Samaritans, but there are, dare I say it, flashes of Dylanesque wordsmithery which, in years to come, will no doubt be integral to a University degree course.

As I have said previously in my review of The Wall, the juxtaposition of the voices of David Gilmour and Roger Waters is an undervalued aspect of the appeal of Pink Floyd. This is evident here, with the contrast between Roger's scathing spitting of the lyrics of Pigs On The Wing and David's lush and more melodic vocal in Dogs. It is impossible to imagine Roger singing Dogs: it just wouldn't work. That for me shows that, although subsequent events may appear to contradict this fact, Roger must have, at one time had enormous faith in the talent of his colleague, in that he could write specifically for him, knowing he couldn't possibly impart the same required emotion.

Contrast this with Pigs (Three Different Ones). This song needs Roger's angst to work. On my first listen in 1984, it was this song that made me frown and think that the balance between lyric / subject matter and instrumentation was all wrong. It was the first time that it was obvious that this was becoming Rogers band. It wasn't that the instrumentation was poor; obviously it wasn't, but it was subservient to the lyric. Yes, there were still some great guitar work: the solo in this song being the best on the album, but something was missing. I can see now that Richard Wright's influence on the album was minimal and the album suffered massively for it. Go back to The Dark Side Of The Moon or Wish You Were Here and remove Richard Wright's influence and you suddenly realise that, to a large extent, he was the glue that held the whole band together. He was, in effect, the soul of the band. And therein lies my continuing problem with Animals; it has no soul.

Sheep is, in my opinion, the strongest song on the album, being much more a band effort, cleverly constructed, using innovative technology on the vocals and is not half bad. So, why do I still sound negative? One; it's all too bitter and pointless and two; I felt cheated when I later recognised the guitar motif on the run out of the song being almost entirely replicated on David Gilmour's first solo album a year later.

Reading this back, I'm struck that, overall it appears that I have very little good to say about the album. This does bother me as it currently ranks eighth on the greatest prog album chart on Prog Archives. If other like minded individuals rank it so highly, I will continue to reconsider it and, who knows, one day I might see the light. Then again.

Review of Pink Floyd's The Wall

Released1979

"Alright, I'll take care of them part of the time, but there's somebody else that needs taking care of in Washington"
"Who's that?"
"Rose Pilchitt!"
"Rose Pilchitt? Who's that?"
[Kid screams in background. Foreground: "Shut Up!"]
"36-24-36 [laughter] does that answer your question?"
[foreground: "Oi! I've got a little black book with me poems in!"]
"Who's she?"
"She was 'Miss Armoured Division' in 1961 ... "

I was thirteen when Another Brick In The Wall Part II was Christmas No.1. Like many others, I bought the album on the back of that song. This was my introduction to Pink Floyd and unfortunately, due to my tender years, I just couldn't fathom the album at all. The cassette quickly became 'accidentally' broken and I exchanged it for something else; Queen's A Day At The Races, I think.

Five years later and with The Dark Side Of The Moon, Wish You Were Here and The Final Cut all occupying my turntable on a very regular basis, I felt brave enough to spend £20+ on a new vinyl copy of The Wall. Having immersed myself to quite an obsessive degree in all things Floyd, I had a more informed view of what to expect from the album, especially in light of my particular fondness for The Final Cut. I think it's safe to say that most Floyd fans will have purchased The Wall before The Final Cut and, as a consequence, view the later as a poor relation of the former. Thus I reasoned that there was a good chance that coming to The Wall second, it should be that I would also see it as the superior of the two.

The niw iconic packaging does a sterling job of setting the scene; Gerald Scarfe's angular scrawl signifying a strong sense of mental dislocation against a stark cold background.

Whilst the mood of The Final Cut is predominantly funereal with minimal guitar, the prologue to The Wall surprised me greatly by kicking off much more aggressively with guitar riffing and drums to the fore. It was difficult to see any connection at the outset with The Final Cut in terms of either mood or subject matter.

Like each of the Pink Floyd albums already in my possession, the production values for The Wall were again in a class of their own, making this an absolutely superb headphone experience; a World War II fighter plane swoops through the left ear and crashes in the right, excerpts from TV channels, bird song, are just some of the huge library of sound effects employed in a way only Roger Waters can achieve. The whole first side was a superbly realised concept which greatly exceeded my expectations albeit that it was entirely different to style to The Final Cut.

I felt somewhat let down by the second side, which, with the exception of two highlights; the clever contrast between the humour and aggression of Young Lust and the astonishing four note guitar solo of Don't Leave Me Now - David Gilmour holds each note with superhuman sustain which is just achingly wonderful; put on the headphones and turn the volume to as high as you can bear. Gorgeous - just doesn't have the focus of the first side.

The third side has become, in time, one of my favourite most perfectly complete sides of vinyl in my whole collection. I don't think Pink Floyd ever understood and fully exploited the contrast between Waters and Gilmour's voices. On Hey You and Comfortably Numb both voices are employed to to achieve contrasting emotions in different passages within each song; in a band so renowned for it's in-fighting (especially around this album) the switches between voices within the same song is a highly successful technique which sadly was never seen again. The lyrical brilliance of The Final Cut is equalled in Nobody Home, with Waters bitter and twisted humour again on top form. Go back and listen to the range of instrumentation on this side of vinyl: along with the usual array of (electric) guitar, bass guitar, drum and keyboards, violin, acoustic guitar, a grand piano, a full orchestra, a choir and a northern brass band are engaged to create a highly cohesive side of vinyl.

As an eighteen year old hearing the album for the first time in detail, I really struggled with the fourth side, especially The Trial. Oddly, watching the film a year later actually enhanced my appreciation of what Roger Waters was trying to achieve and it became a highlight of the whole concept.

While both The Wall and it's cousin, The Final Cut, are undoubtedly Roger Waters' children, there is still a great sense of collaboration on The Wall that lends it a greater musical depth. If this collaboration could have continued on The Final Cut, I truly think that it would have been Pink Floyd's greatest achievement.

I don't listen to The Wall as much as other Floyd albums, but when I do, it's invariably through my headphones, and despite the fact that I've heard it hundreds of times, I still, all these years later, hear new things each and every time.

Review of Roger Waters' The Pros and Cons Of Hitch Hiking

Released 1984

"I nailed ducks to the wall; kept my heart in dark ruins. I built bungalows all over the hills. Dunroamin, duncarin, dunlivin Took my girl to the country, to sleep out under the moon Next thing she's going crazy".

I had owned The Final Cut for no more than three or four months before The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking was released. Compelled by the prospect of another chapter of tortured brilliance, I bought his first solo album proper (his Music from The Body with Ron Geesin, as I later learned, was made for the bargain bucket) on the day of release.

I have since seen this album listed close to the top of worst album covers of all time type polls. It really is irredeemably awful and quite surprising given the care and attention afforded to Pink Floyd album art. The other big negative is the dreadful song titles. Admittedly, the concept - a real time recounting of a dream or sequence of dreams - almost justifies it, but titles such as 4.37am (Arabs with Knives and West German Skies) all presented parenthetically struck me as unnecessarily daft.

As I was staying with my girlfriend the night I purchased the album from (another sadly defunct record shop in) Redruth, and she was of the Greenham Common, knitting her own yogurt brigade, she took umbrage at the 'degrading' photograph of the naked 'lady' hitch hiker on the cover, meaning I was not allowed to use her turntable that evening without incurring the risk of a serious strop, and the almost certain subsequent denial of certain privileges.

I crept downstairs in the early hours the following day, set on committing the cardinal sin of using her mothers ancient turntable. Spotting a set of headphones, I gleefully rejoiced that I could indulge my selfishness without disrupting the rest of the household.

As the gap between the releases of The Final Cut and this album was relatively short, and as the former album was, at the end of the day, a Roger Waters solo album in all but name, it seemed not unreasonable to expect more of the same. This time, Eric Clapton was in accompaniment along with a robust set of supporting players. I was never a big fan of Eric Clapton post Blind Faith, although as an undoubted master of his art whose style was markedly different to David Gilmour, this was an intriguing prospect.

There were several obvious parallels between this album and The Final Cut; each album had, in effect, an prologue, the main 'story', a commercial penultimate track which was issued as a single and an epilogue, the song structure of both of these epilogues was remarkably similar; both are vehicles first and foremost for the vocal, and both use sound-effects as integrally as any of the instruments. However, one feature which was wholly absent from The Final Cut, was a sense of humour, which I was surprised to find here. Admittedly it's application was usually of the warped schadenfreude affected variety, but it was there.

The album starts with a ticking clock, an explosion and the anguished cry from Roger, (no change there then) a female voice telling him that he's been dreaming, before Mr Clapton begins the slide guitar motif which varies very little for the rest of the album. Roger commences to provide a commentary of his dream about picking up female hitch hikers. The tone is hushed, liberally spiced with sexual innuendo and deliberately makes about as much sense as a dream. Female background vocals (including Cherry Vanilla?) serve to take the edge off of the pained Waters lead. It's all impeccably played, masterfully executed, and, as I'd already come to expect, magnificently produced; another perfect headphones album, but as it passed quite seamlessly from track to track, I couldn't see where it was going. Tales about nightmares are a long way removed from the themes of the three Pink Floyd albums I already owned. This was trivial and pointless as opposed to deep and meaningful, I suppose. This puzzled me.

Being dream-like, it leapt from scene to scene apparently at random, which was understandable, but because of this it had little focus.

The thinness of the music on The Final Cut reflected the funereal tone of the concept as a whole; lush orchestration wouldn't have worked. Here again, whilst often lyrically brilliant, the music itself has little imagination and, to use a non-technical term, was just too 'samey' throughout.

This was such a conundrum. My eighteen year old self was completely in awe of Roger Waters articulation and ability to conceptualise so effectively. but was frustrated by the lack of 'oomph' in the instrumentation.

Side two, for the most part, was a large improvement. The slide guitar motif continues, but there is a bit more depth in evidence. The entire arrangement for Go Fishing was beautifully realised; humour, tortured vocals, social comment, a liberal dosing of woman hating, a lilting keyboard theme, AA Milne's Winnie The Pooh being read to children whilst inhaling pot, and a great saxophone solo. What more could you want? The same can said of the title track; very well realised, ticking most of the necessary boxes.

Although throughout most of the second side I found myself enjoying the wordsmithing, admiring the cleverness of the segues between songs and the astonishing bitterness exuded by Roger, there are large meandering holes where a tune should reside.

A perplexing album this; flashes of sublime greatness interspersed with moments of utter uninspired drab ordinariness. I really wanted to love this as much The Final Cut. Unfortunately it ultimately left me wanting a great deal more.

Review of Tangerine Dream's Phaedra

Released 1974

To the budding prog rock fan, eager to be submerged further into the myriad mysteries of the genre, discovering that there was a band with the splendid name of Tangerine Dream was only going to excite, entice and encourage said fan to seek out their work. To then learn that comparisons had been drawn with Pink Floyd's sound during their 'middle period', specifically the use of similar synthesiser technology, only served to point me towards one of the the more widely stocked second hand record shops Cornwall had to offer.

It took several visits before I came across a particularly battered second hand copy of Phaedra. That the cover image was ultimately beyond description only further enhanced the sense of anticipation.

The relationship between cover art and the music it accompanies is a curious one. In the best instances, the cover art becomes so synonymous with the music and the group, that is becomes part of the their 'brand'. Hipnosis's work with Pink Floyd for example, or Roger Dean's work with Yes have become ingrained as iconic pieces of twentieth century popular culture and hugely influence how we feel about those respective bands. When Yes shifted gear, changing musical direction between Drama and 90125, it was no accident that there was a paradigm shift in the artwork as well as the quality of the music. It's also worth noting that there must be hundreds of very worthwhile albums whose awful artwork has prevented a potential new fan from parting with their cash.

Anyway, I digress. What did the cover of Phaedrus depict? I still have no idea. Personally, I've always seen it as a vaguely aquatic, cold Scandinavian sea scape. Goodness only knows why. It's interesting to note that I made this judgement before hearing the record. Learning that the musicians were, in fact German was intriguing. My foray into European prog was still evolving. I could guess that eclecticism and invention - two cornerstones of prog - would prevail and that there wouldn't be too many laughs.

Whenever I saw a release from the pre-CD age clocking in at less that forty minutes I felt somewhat cheated, as in this case. However, there were just four tracks, so I could perhaps forgive on this occasion.

I was a mite nervous when laying the stylus on the vinyl for the first time. Was I being overtly ambitious in pursuing this largely instrumental vein so early in my prog quest? ?My recent purchases of Tubular Bells and Moving Waves were certainly more challenging than many non-instrumentally biased records; they appeared to require a more intense and mature consideration. Ever the self-doubter, I was unsure I was 'qualified' to appreciate these works as they were intended. I wasn't consciously placing prog on a pedestal; the reality was that until I heard The Dark Side of The Moon, my musical predilection was largely of the loud and heavy heroic posturing and pouting metallic variety. Prog may have opened my eyes, but could also furrow my brow. Not that that's a bad thing, you understand.

A distant ethereal, cold and mechanical sweep of sound perfectly attuned to the choice of cover art washed through the headphones, being indeed extremely reminiscent of the mellow trippiness of Pink Floyd. Listening to this as an eighteen year old in 1984, in the midst of the synthesised pap pop that was the New Romantic era, it would have been easy for me to groan in naivety at the prospect of music purely created by synthesisers. But the seemingly infinite depth of emotional evocation and atmospheric ghostliness achieved on the title track was a world away from the unimaginative contemporary shallowness that was 80's pop.

Layer upon layer of textural marvel unfolded with no apparent direction or logic. It may have been odd to immerse oneself in a tapestry of sound which didn't get a toe tapping, summon a whistle or have a lyric, no matter how obscure, to attach to. At the risk of sounding outrageously pretentious, this was Zen music; non participatory music where all you had to do was be.

I didn't expect to enjoy such a dense bizarre offering so immediately. I strongly believe that were I in a different frame of mind durinmg that first airing, I perhaps would have been less receptive and more likely to have consigned it to one of the infrequently visited areas of my record collection.

It may not be the most often played album in my collection but, when the mood is right, and the moon is full, it is a very fulfilling experience.

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.