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 Queen's Queen II

Released 1973

"So listen mothers everywhere
To just one mother's son
You'll get forgotten all the way
If you don't let them have their fun
Forget regrets, and just remember
It's not so long since you were young."

I've chosen to step temporarily out of the strict chronology of this blog with good reason. I chose The Dark Side Of The Moon as my first review based on the fact that, at the time, I considered it my first true encounter with prog, which started my life long love affair with the genre. It was only upon reflection that I began to acknowledge the prog credentials of several other albums which I knew and loved pre-Floyd. On that basis, I have allowed myself the license to occasionally step backwards and interrupt the natural historical flow of this blog. Therefore I feel duty bound to include a number of examples from bands like Led Zeppelin and Queen who exist very much on the fringes of the genre but whom, in my opinion, and after all it is my blog, warrant inclusion.

Like most men of a certain age, my first conscious memory of Queen was their mammoth stint at number one in the singles chart in Christmas 1975 with Bohemian Rhapsody. After buying the single and the album it came from, I started to investigate the rest of their catalogue. I can't say for certain, but I think Queen II was my first port of call.

This was probably due being drawn to the album and the cover's reproduction in the video for the aforementioned single. I'm sure that this would have confused me at the time; in fact I'm sure that there were many newly interested Queen fans in 1975/76 who would have purchased Queen II in error, thinking it was their latest release.

Looking at the cover now, the prog overtones are obvious. The black outside of the gate fold with the iconic group photograph was contrasted by a remarkably camp glossy white picture with the group resplendent in fur and jewels. The monochrome theme was continued with 'side black' and 'side white'. It may be urban legend or just the fading memory of a middle-aged closet glam rock fan, but I'm sure there was a limited edition press with a white vinyl on one side and black on the other. It would be nice if it were true.

It wouldn't be accurate to call Queen II a concept album, but it has that kind of feel. Procession has a very prog like introduction; grand and opulent, accurately portraying the feel of a medieval procession with Brian May's glorious idiosyncratic resonating pulsating guitar over a simple bass drum. If it wasn't for the early Queen trademark proclamation of "no synthesisers" adorning the sleeve, you'd swear that a keyboard opened Father to Son. Hearing the vast harmonies once more as I type this, I can't help but smile at the effectiveness of the combined three voices which is still so effective even after several hundred plays. The second half of the track leans very heavily on May and (as he still was then) Meddows-Taylor, heavily aping Page and Bonham. I particularly love the sustained distorted note Brian plays at three minutes and twenty four seconds and the clever transition from bombast to balladeering as the song comes to a close. Very accomplished for a second album.

The segue from this to White Queen is also typically prog; all moody sound effects and combined acoustic and electric guitar. Again Brian's solo at two minutes and forty seven seconds which starts acoustically before heading in the direction of Wishbone Ash is sublime.

Although not blessed with the finest set of vocal chords, Brian's performance on Some Day One Day is one of his better moments. The drifting, phasing of the guitar is beautifully restrained and gets better and better with age.

At the risk of waxing emphatically throughout the entire review, I again adore The Loser In The End. This is a classic Roger Taylor narrative with excellent underrated vocal and, as always, drawing the very best out of Brian May. I always think Roger wrote in the same vein as Ian Hunter: with tremendous humor and a strong visual style. All in all, a pretty faultless 'side white'.

If the first side was a relatively light and acoustic offering, then the second was a much more agressive affair. 'Side Black' commences with the thunderous Ogre Battle. Led Zeppelin are 'borrowed' from extensively once more with a very tight performance from all four players, moving through a variety of time signatures with ease and aplomb. The rapid pace continued with the larynx threatening gymnastics from Freddie who undertakes vocal challenges which would squeeze even Percy's lemon. This is, chronologically speaking, the first Queen track that wholly reveals the definitive sound which would dominate their peak output: excellent harmonies, the big guitar sound, strident piano etc, etc.

For many bands, a one minute eighteen track would be mere filler. How Nevermore can be such a huge, magnificent and yet delicate work of art in such a brief time span is a mystery to me. It has all the faculties of an epic side long suite but achieves it in less than ninety seconds.

The March Of The Black Queen once more highlights Freddie's unique vocal style, with shades of opera, wide screen cinema, psychedelic guitar and camp multi-tracked harmonies, swapping between Freddie and Roger. Astonishing.

Funny How Love Is works as a strong illustration of the boundaries Queen were pushing in terms of studio production. I'm no expert but I'd be surprised if this didn't feature a record number of vocal tracks all the time of its release.

I hadn't heard the original version of Seven Seas Of Rhye on their first album, so I couldn't share in the surprise and delight of hearing a new version. I was simply as over-awed by how it could be both intensely complex and delightfully hummable at the same time.

Queen went on to make bigger and better albums, but in terms of witnessing a band hitting it's stride and obviously enjoying itself in the studio, I don't think they ever improved.

Review of Robert Wyatt's Rock Bottom

Released 1974

" Seaweed tangled in our home from home
reminds me of your rocky bottom.
Please don't wait for the paperweight, err on the good side.
Touch us when we collapse.
Into the water we'll go head over heel.
We'll not grow fat inside the mammary gland.
Into the water we'll go head over heel.
A head behind me, buried deep in the sand".

Any fan of seventies rock music of any flavour, whether preferring prog, psychedelic rock, MOR or straight classic rock will, at some point almost certainly own a copy of several practically ubiquitious hugely commercially successful rock albums, which 'cross over' into the mainstream. Albums such as The Dark Side Of The Moon, Rumours, Hotel California, Bat Out Of Hell, Led Zeppelin IV and their ilk, have achieved huge success and retained their rock credentials, and, in my opinion are deserving of their iconic status. There are other albums whose quality is such that they have every right to be considered in the same breath as these aforementioned classics, but which, for a variety of reasons remain so obscure as to be all but invisible to the bulk of the record buying public. Rock Bottom is a perfect example of such an album: undeniably brilliant and profoundly important to a select few, yet nowhere near the radar of your average Rumours buyer. Something is not right.

However, let me be honest. I didn't always feel the way I do now about this album. Perhaps this lack of instant appeal - for me at least - sadly explains why it has never received the credit it deserved.

I initially purchased Rock Bottom because it was produced by Nick Mason of Pink Floyd, as simple as that. At the time, I wasn't au fait with what has come to be referred to as the 'Canterbury Scene' prog rock and Robert Wyatt's role in Soft Machine was unbeknown to me. I was simply shallow enough to want to own anything touched by the Floyd, regardless of what it might reveal. Anyone who has endured Music From The Body by Roger Waters and Ron Geesin will acknowledge that completism is not all it's cut out to be.

Thus, when I first listened to Rock Bottom, I had no idea what to expect and was primarily hoping to hear Floydian motifs. As such, in the main I was disappointed. I was confronted with Robert Wyatt's unlovely vocals, strange time signatures and was first introduced to part of the prog spectrum with which I was hardly familiar. I could hear echoes of Van Der Graaf Generator, and, at a stretch Gong, with twinkling piano and scat style verbalising. So, being completely honest, whilst it was far from being a favourite of mine back in the late eighties when I first encountered it, it was ultimately a curio, which I put to one side, waiting for enlightenment.

I have given several examples elsewhere in previous postings, detailing how the passing of many years has dramatically altered my perception of an album for the better. It was as recently as about four years ago, that I heard Rock Bottom in an entirely different way, my jaw almost hanging open in disbelief, stunned that it hadn't revealed itself to me earlier, much earlier.

Largely it's the voice. Like Peter Hammill, Robert Wyatt's vocal style has the ability to make you both recoil and weep with joy. The only way I can think to describe the moment when the recoil ceases and the weeping commences, is to compare the experience to viewing one of those drawings often used in psychology text books, where what at first glance looks like an old woman, with an unexplainable shift of perception suddenly becomes an elegant younger lady. When the vocal reveals itself in this way, the accompanying instrumentation suddenly shifts and fits the frail, awkward, almost spoken tones so perfectly as to bring a lump to the throat. A paradigm shift of the senses takes place and you realise that you are in the presence of a masterpiece.

Sea Song flutters between changing time signatures on both piano and keyboard and a wonderful plaintive refrain with female background vocals as clever and as integral as The Great Gig In the Sky. Robert's much lauded 'scatting' over the end of the track, where once it just annoyed, now brought tears to my eyes; it was so emotionally charged and bare.

A Last Straw has tinges of (what would become familiar to me) more jazzy elements of the Canterbury Scene. The scatting imitation of the 'wah-wahing' guitar will annoy almost anyone for several plays until again it seems to gel. There is so much space left in this track, complex yet uncluttered: a strange combination.

Little Red Riding Hood Hit The Road starts with full jazz horns before a Santana tinged percussiveness morphs through backward vocals, indecipherable lyrics to culminate with the inevitably odd contribution of Ivor Cutler and a long 'outro'. Beguiling, certainly weird, but unique, prog and very addictive.

Alifib begins like many a Brian Eno album; ambient and seemingly directionless. A gorgeous guitar combines with the Casio and just floats for almost seven minutes of heartbreaking beauty. Obviously a companion track, Alife is almost a continuation to begin with before taking on a more sinister theme with echoes of Gong and the second Roxy Music album. The lyrics may be largely nonsensical but creates an atmosphere which is both uncomfortable and hypnotic.

Little Red Robin Hood Hit The Road features the distinctive guitar talents of Mike Oldfield, accompanied by multiple layers of keyboards, an impossibly complex drum sound, bass playing to make Chris Squire weep before changing tack completely; drifting into a hymn like trance over which Ivor Cutler spouts absolute b*llocks in a convoluted Scottish accent. It really shouldn't work, but for an unfathomable reason it is achingly brilliant.

With every listen Rock Bottom improves and moves higher up my list of favourite albums. Ridiculously good and criminally underrated.

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 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 Meddle

Released 1971

"And no one sings me lullabyes
And no one makes me close my eyes
So I throw the windows wide
And call to you across the sky...."

One night in 1985, good old reliable BBC showed Pink Floyd Live at Pompeii. I'm pretty certain it's never enjoyed a terrestrial airing since, which is sad.

That was the first time I'd seen Pink Floyd perform any of their material, anywhere, so I was instantly fascinated and relieved that a band for which I'd built such a substantial pedestal didn't disappoint in the flesh, as it were.

The performances at Pompeii were so dramatically different in terms of the music itself, the visual presentation and the staging that any self respecting prog fan couldn't help but be impressed. When I learned that a number of the tracks performed that night were from Meddle, I wasted no time in setting out to find it.

Previously I had been reticent to go back beyond The Dark Side Of The Moon. I was aware of the success of The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn and had some idea of the music, which didn't yet appeal to me, and, obviously wrongly I assumed all the band's earlier work would be of this ilk.

I loved the abstract nature of the sleeve: having no clear 'meaning', but yet it felt somehow linked to Echoes. The four greasy gangly sour faced youths peering out from the inner spread of the gate fold sleeve made me smile; the contrast between these scruffy urchins and the big-haired, mascara-laden pretty boys in the the charts at the time in the eighties, really was amusing.

One of These Days was a wonderful way to start the album, building from a howling wind sound-effect and sinister bass line, it gathered momentum like an avalanche, culminating in Nick Mason's one spoken line, furious guitar rushes and relentless drumming. I found myself with a stupid grin on my face, so pleased that this was at least as good as any of the other later albums.

Things settled down a bit for A Pillow of Winds. David Gilmour's lilting vocal, slide and acoustic guitar producing an overall effect not unlike the general mood of Wish You Were Here. The key difference though was - and this was true for the album as a whole - there was no concept or theme as such, underpinning the lyrics. This was a collection of individual songs, penned by individual band members show-casing their musical talents, without any recourse to an over-riding focus. The lyrics were simple, uncomplicated and untainted by the mania of Roger Waters.

Fearless maintained the mellow mood, although tinged with slightly psychedelic motifs, a hypnotically slow rhythm, all capped with the gradual introduction and eventual complete takeover by a rendition of Rodgers & Hammerstein's You'll Never Walk Alone, as sung by Liverpool FC's Kop. Mad, but it worked.

San Tropez caused a literal turning of the head. What was this? Roger Waters singing a warm and friendly ditty? Surely not. Could this be the same man who would scream with truly frightening existential angst into the microphone less than a decade later. The jazzy piano and brushes on the drums was so upbeat, that I could hardly believe this was a Pink Floyd song. On the first listen, I really wasn't sure what to make of it.

Having seen Seamus performed at Pompeii, I was prepared - just about - it's unfathomable nuttiness. Yet another musical style was employed; this time a blues track accompanied by a howling dog. Yes, it was a varied album, but was it smacked of a lack of direction.

Echoes of course will be the main reason that anyone would buy Meddle. A side long epic with the most significant contribution on the record by Rick Wright. Along with numerous and more obviously Floydian keyboard stylings, his shared vocal with David Gilmour on this track is one of prog rock's greatest moments.

Because I was so familiar with TDSOTM, I was thrilled to hear strong connections with the later album.

I was struck by how clearly this was a genuine team effort. All four members appeared to work as a cohesive unit with almost equal emphasis afforded to each of their respective contributions. Whereas Roger Waters would later dominate all aspects of the bands sound and finally allow David Gilmour but three brief solos on The Final Cut, here was a band sparking off each other, producing a space-rock jam, allowing each other vast areas of space in which to experiment.

As a headphones experience, Echoes is hard to match. I'm sure I wrecked my long term hearing by exposing myself to the repeating high pitched reverberating piano note played at unhealthy volumes over and over again several times over the years.

For me, the greatest part of the track is from about sixteen and a half minutes in with the dueting between Rick Wright and Nick Mason sounding at times not unlike Tubular Bells, climaxing with David Gilmours magnificently distorted guitar.

Over the years, like most Floyd fans, I've probably skipped from One of These Days to Echoes more times than I've played the album straight through. However, in recent years, I've come to appreciate the other tracks and therefore see the album as a whole in a stronger light. Okay, maybe not Seamus.

Review of Led Zeppelin IV

Released 1971

"All last night sat on the levee and moaned, All last night sat on the levee and moaned, Thinkin' 'bout me baby and my happy home. Going, go'n' to Chicago, Go'n' to Chicago, Sorry but I can't take you. Going down, going down now, going down."

Were I in the unfortunate position that my home was in flames, and I'd managed to save all my family and the cats, the next CD I'm grab, after The Dark Side Of The Moon, would be Led Zeppelin IV.

I've had to think quite hard about whether this record warrants inclusion in a blog about prog rock albums, but ultimately I think it is such an important album, not just for me personally, but in terms of cultural iconography, that it would be petty to omit it because it may not tick all of the archetypal prog boxes. Plus, it's my blog!

I'm actually on (at least) my sixth copy of Led Zeppelin IV, having owned it on vinyl, pink vinyl, cassette and at least three CDs. My first copy was actually procured when I was fifteen or so, before TDSOTM and therefore before my prog odyssey proper began. So yes, I am screwing up my chronology, but as I've just about reached that pivotal moment in my life when I went away to 'study' at University, it seems wrong to proceed without at first looking back.

I first became aware of Led Zeppelin when a classmate in my last year of school remarked when he saw me reading a review of an AC/DC concert; "if you like Angus, you'll love Jimmy Page". After some swotting up, I noticed when handed the book list from which we had to select our school leaving present, that there was a biography about the band. The romance and glamour of the band's history had me hooked immediately. Shortly afterwards, on a holiday in France with about fifteen other contemporaries from Cornwall, there were two huge Led Zeppelin fans who further piqued my interest, largely on the back of some rather frenetic head-banging to Whole Lotta Love in the interestingly fragranced fug of a French village disco.

On my return, with my remaining holiday money I bought Highway to Hell and Led Zeppelin IV. For some odd reason, the afternoon I played both those albums for the first time is one of my clearest memories of that time. I cannot possibly justify a review of an ACDC album in a prog blog, but the exuberance and energy of that album in particular was a perfect scene setter for the wonder that is Led Zeppelin IV.

The scratchy slidey intro followed by "Hey, hey momma.." has to be the best possible start to an album. For someone reared on the NWOBHM bands whose careers relied in a not inconsiderable way to Led Zeppelin's legacy, hearing the 'real deal' caused instant goose-bumps and a literal turning of the head. The impact was absolutely instant; it was like unleashing a wild animal through the speakers. I had never heard a band play so tightly and so emotionally with astonishing fluidity. Until that point I had thought that David Coverdale and Freddie Mercury were gods, but the massiveness of Robert Plant's presence was overpowering.

Before I could recover, Rock And Roll continued the assault with drumming which made every other band I'd heard up until that point seem positively pedestrian.

While The Battle Of Evermore played I referred to the sleeve to find out who was providing the female vocal. I remembered that apparently, if you were to hold the picture from inside the gate fold sleeve length ways up against a mirror, the 'black dog' would reveal itself. The sleeve itself was very prog: no title, runes accompanying each players name and an impenetrable meaning behind the juxtaposition of the painting of the stick bearing country man and the tower blocks of Dudley.

Stairway Heaven was already known to me, of course, but when heard in context, as the band intended it to be heard against the varying styles of the other songs on the album, it seemed all the more sophisticated and not just the albatross which bestrode their career.

Misty Mountain Hop had an intoxicating hippy refrain which contributed directly to my subsequent immersion in the whole late sixties and early seventies music and cultural movement. Both Four Sticks and Going To California continued to amaze and delight me in their depth and maturity, all the time making me reconsider much of the more ridiculous aspects of my heavy metal collection.

I didn't know it at the time, but When The Levee breaks was to become one of my favourite tracks by anyone, ever. From the mouth organ intro to the gorgeous spiralling guitar, the stunning drumming and the genre defining vocal performance, it really is a phenomenal tour de force, which only gets better with each fresh hearing.

Even as a teenager, I knew that I had stumbled across one of the most important albums I would ever own.

There are very few perfect albums. Even TDSOTM has flaws; On The Run never quite worked for me, being a very mild interruption to a perfectly paced album. Looking at my music collection now, I am struggling to spot any flawless albums, other than Led Zeppelin IV. There isn't a single note, moan or drum beat I'd change. Perfect and practically prog.

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 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.

Review of Mike Oldfield's Tubular Bells

Released 1973

"Two slightly distorted guitars."

My original copy of Tubular Bells was purchased unknowingly along with a small job lot of second hand vinyl, via a student from the art block adjacent to our sixth form college. I was attracted by the very low price being offered for a 'mixed bag of seventies gold'. Hmmm. In reality, other than The Eagles 'The Long Run', Tubular Bells was the only item of note; not least of all as it was a pristine picture disc edition. That it had cost me in the region of 50p was a further bonus.

Like any music fan, I was aware of Tubular Bells in advance, but other than knowing that it was an instrumental work which had effectively launched Virgin Records (and in turn the Virgin Empire) and that a short extract was included in The Exorcist (which I always thought was horribly incongruous), I really didn't know what to expect. Amongst my peers at college, adding Tubular Bells to my record collection was greeted with nods as appreciative as those I received when The Dark Side of The Moon preceded it. It is one of those albums, like 'Bat Out of Hell' or 'Rumours' that might as well be handed out on prescription to any self respecting person interested in music in their teens. Because it lived in such a public space, I had trouble reconciling it as a 'prog' album. TDSOMT may have sold more copies and still be resolutely considered to be 'prog', probably due to the anonymity of the band, but Mike Oldfield was known to anyone (of a certain age) that had watched Blue Peter. That said, there were only two tracks of twenty five and twenty three minutes respectively.

Although I was pleased to add Tubular Bells to my shelves, I didn't rush at it; I was concerned that I might not enjoy a completely instrumental record. The prog section of my collection was still in its infancy and I still had a sustained interest in more mainstream rock music: Led Zeppelin, Deep Purple, Jimi Hendrix and Cream et al could all be described as musically adventurous, but only bordered on the fringes of prog. While all of the above had instrumental tracks on their albums, these were the exception and not the rule. All were therefore arguably more accessible. I was worried that my musical tastes, although they were broadening all the time, were not yet sophisticated enough to assimilate nearly forty nine minutes of music without lyrics.

On paper, the concept for Tubular Bells shouldn't work; a brief uncomplicated musical pattern repeatedly played by a wide variety of different instruments, either in isolation or multi-tracked in unison with others, sometimes at different tempos, all played by Mike Oldfield.

I loved side one immediately, being hypnotised by the seamless morphing from one instrument to the next, effortlessly imprinting itself from the outset. I was delighted that I was so instantly engaged. A sense of anticipation formed as I wondered how the motif would be next formed, by which instrument/s and how the piece would conclude. Although this was a simple concept, I marvelled at the epic task of transforming the finished complex whole from an idea to a fully constructed suite in the studio, by one man.

After side one, side two was (and remains) a poor relation. Whilst of itself it follows similar themes to it's predecessor and is pleasant and well formed , I felt that it suffered beyond measure by falling within it's shadow.

The album was placed back on my shelf with a degree of smugness, both that I wasn't let down and that my level of musical appreciation was perhaps more refined than I gave myself credit for.

Years later, Tubular Bells is responsible for opening several other musical doors for me: from Tangerine Dream to (mostly instrumental) Italian prog. For that, I will be eternally grateful for that 'mixed bag of seventies gold'.

Review of Pink Floyd's Wish You Were Here

Released 1975

"We're just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year,
running over the same old ground. What have you found?
The same old fears. Wish you were here."

Most of my prog rock encounters to date had been happy accidents rather than planned ventures. I was usually attracted in these early days by either recognising the name of the band, the album or the sleeve as being 'prog-like'. That wasn't the case with my next purchase.

The Dark Side of The Moon had triggered my interest in the genre and I was still utterly under it's (softly spoken magic) spell. I had read anything and everything I could about Pink Floyd and was not far short of obsessive about my desire to learn more. I wanted to be sure that I wasn't setting myself up for a fall. It would have been easy; I held TDSOMT in such high esteem that it was almost inevitable that anything else would be a let down. I wasn't sufficiently intrigued by the earlier albums at that point and I didn't have the £20+ that a new copy of The Wall would have demanded. It seemed to make sense therefore to go for the next chronological release after TDSOTM. This was even though I knew that before the ultimate concept for Wish You Were Here was agreed, the band spent six months experimenting with music made bashing and strumming kitchen utensils.

It was with some trepidation that I entered the record store. I was lucky enough to find an original black cellophane wrapped copy with hardly a crease and with the robot hand-shake sticker in perfect condition. As with my previous Pink Floyd purchase, I was immediately impressed by the sense of drama created by the unstated mystery inherent in this 12" package. On the way home, I held the bag containing the album in the same way I now hold my baby son. I invested an inappropriate amount of significance in simply buying the record, looking furtively over my shoulder lest I needed to explain my shortness of breath.

Peeling away the layers at home, I noted that more care and consideration has gone into the concept of the packaging than would often be applied to the music by other bands. All of the images implied absence and duplicity: the clear record and blank face of the top-hatted gentleman showed an absence of sincerity, there was the diver entering the lake without raising a ripple and the incongruity of the transparent red scarf blowing through a copse. The main image - of one man aflame shaking hands with another - is both pregnant with symbolism and yet devoid of any tangible meaning. In its entirety it combined to a evoke a compellingly impersonal distancing aura.

From the very first notes this was an album characterised by a unique keyboard sound which was both crystal clear and mechanical in its execution, perfectly complementing a sound which felt as though it belonged to a distant future time, cold, inhuman and industrial.

There is a huge feeling of space, of incredible emptiness across the whole record. The deliriously slow stoned pace of Shine On You Crazy Diamond is so precisely and cautiously executed that there the anticipation between each note of the lengthy guitar introduction is almost too much to bear.

Carefully and sparingly used sound effects pulled me in on the very first listen. This instantly became one of my favourite headphone albums, especially with the lead into the title track, where a radio is tuned through several stations before an acoustic guitar takes over, first in mono before exploding with clarity in stereo. The best moment for me on the album is during this intro, where the 'squeaking' sound of David Gilmour's left hand moving between chords on the fretboard is the most tangibly non-mechanical element of the piece, and is so perfectly clear in the headphones, contextualising the desperate pleading sentiment of the lyrics that follow.

I hurriedly reached for one of my many Pink Floyd books during this first listen, remembering from somewhere that Stephane Grapelli had contributed violin to the beginning of the second section of Shine On You Crazy Diamond. To this day, I have only detected the vaguest grasp of his work on that day. Ever since it has been forever lost in the rolling winds and rising keyboards. I have searched for it time and time again, always glad that I can't quite find it.