THE TRUMVIRATE THAT IS PINK Floyd sits knee to knee in a corner of the lounge at
a discreet private club patronized by Soho's media gentlefolk. Below, the
murmurous street occasionally raises its voice, rattling a sash window. Within,
the deco bespeaks that fusty English exclusivity lately rediscovered by the newer
crowd. Gilmour, perhaps inevitably, occupies a faintly thronelike armchair from
which he must needs incline his head to address Wright and Mason.
Yet, together, they present an appealing picture, one every Pink Floyd admirer
would surely enjoy and like to believe in. Three old friends in conversation,
talking quietly, laughing temperately. The accents not posh, but modern BBC, the
English that comes from nowhere at all, neither regionally nor socially. They're
reminiscing. For a purpose, though: Mason has begun to write the story of the band
and he wants to check some facts. Back in 1968, where was it that they first
played as a five-piece -- Gilmour newly recruited and Syd Barrett gone
interplanetary? Aston University, Gilmour asserts. Wright says he doesn't
remember, shakes his head, and they all smile knowingly.
They run over the legend of Barrett's sacking. On their way to a show,
outlandish in a Bentley, turning into Syd's street in Holland Park, someone says it:
"Er, do we really want to pick him up then?" Roger Waters is the one who
answers, "Naaah!" So they didn't and Syd was gone (except for all the songs they
wrote about him and still write about him). "That was it, nothing planned," says
Gilmour. They all nod agreement re-rehearsed. That must have been how it was.
It's the version that's in all the books.
Of course, these three men, drifting with some grace into the bedenimed middle
age of their generation, have convened for more than nostalgic chat. They're really
not buddies. If they come together it's to take care of business. In this instance,
they're talking it up on behalf of their new live album, P.U.L.S.E. The product of
last year's The Division Bell Tour, which sold 5.3 million tickets in 77 cities and
grossed around £100m from 110 shows, it's a double CD (triple vinyl coming up
soon), proudly overdub-free, spiffily presented in state-of-the-art Q Sound, and
bearing the first ever (official) full concert recording of The Dark Side Of The
Moon. It should take them comfortably past the 150 million mark in worldwide
album sales, which may be a comforting thought on a windy night.
They chat together, then, but they can't do interviews together. It's been tried,
it failed. An aide vouchsafes that the collective interview soon stumbles into an
overpolite mire of mutual deference and reserve. So, a plan is evolved. Pink Floyd
live being the theme of the day, in successive sessions Nick Mason will cover the
'60s plus, Rick Wright the '70s (despite the jocularly raised eyebrows of his
associates) and Gilmour the rest. It just might work.
NICK MASON Drums, born January 27, 1945, Birmingham.
Mason is the only one who's been there on every gig since a yet to be carbon- dated night late in 1965 at the Countdown Club, Palace Gate, Knightsbridge, when -- having discarded such momentary monikers as Sigma 6, T-Set/Tea Set (the spelling is controversial), The Meggadeaths and The (sometimes Screaming or Architectural) Abdabs -- Pink Floyd first stepped up to lurch through a few 12- bar standards. He remains, in spite of it all (or possibly, has become because of it all) the Pink Floyd you'd love to have living next door -- providing, that is, he found somewhere else to park his fleet of vintage cars. Cherubic of cheek, a wattle of flesh bulging beneath his chin, the waistline of a non-jogger unashamed, he sports the air of a man on cruise-control, doing a briskly relaxed 70 up hill and down dale no matter what. When it's his turn to talk, a sharp glance at his guitar-playing colleague notes that the Gilmour phase of the interview overran into his schedule by 15 minutes or so. But then he lets the charm flow. Before he settles to it, someone asks him what he's doing for the rest of the day. "Talking. What else do I do?" His tone is of relish rather than complaint.
Why have you got a little red flashing light on your new album? Essentially, it's a device which we thought was entertaining. It's an idea of Storm Thorgerson's [Hipgnosis mastermind and regular Floyd visual imagineer] which related to Dark Side and the pulse, and it's a live album so the box is "alive". After that, in terms of seriously deep meanings, one might be struggling a bit.
Why a live LP, having done one of the previous tour too? Someone said, "Why not just call it The Inevitable Live Album and be done with it?" One reason for it was that we did like Dark Side as an entity. It takes on a slightly different quality when it's played through as a continuous piece rather than recorded track by track in the studio. When we were recording it in 1972 I don't think we were conscious of the fact that the tempo remains so constant throughout. Live, you perhaps alter the dynamics a bit to get away with it. In the studio you go for the perfect take. The other reason for it was that, to forestall bootlegs, we should do our own version and make a better job of it.
Did anyone say to you, "You're milking it?" Yes, but I think we'll have to live with that. If you think it's milking it, don't buy it. It's for people who would like a souvenir of the show, who are interested in the nuances of Dark Side, who think it's got something to say.
Are these live albums a matter of a band wanting to erect monuments to itself? That's overstating it. But we're bitterly disappointed that we didn't make a proper record of Dark Side Of The Moon at Earls Court in '73 or The Wall show. "Monument" sounds too much. It's partly a reference, partly a milestone. Seeing where we've got to.
Looking at where you came from, it's quite a distance from the huge machine that
is Pink Floyd on the road now back to the '60s: The Spontaneous Underground, UFO,
Happenings.
The thing that's hard to get to grips with now is the general view of the '60s
combined with the specific view of this band. We weren't loyal supporters of the
underground. Even then, we were occupied with being a band, going the route. The
underground was a launch pad. Yes, there was UFO, but for every UFO there were
20 gigs up the motorway at the Top Rank Ballroom, Dunstable, or whatever.
Essentially, the underground was a London event. By the time it moved out to the
provinces it was much more a commercial enterprise, much more to do with the
music than, perhaps, the intellectual aspirations. But for us, the buzz of being
involved was enormously helpful. Timing is very important to any band.
You were dead lucky.
Yeah. Enormously talented and good-looking too, of course.
Was it that Syd was the man of the times and the rest of you tagged along? I don't think even Syd was a man of the times. He didn't slot in with the intellectual likes of John Hopkins and Joe Boyd [UFO co-founders], Miles [International Times co-founder], Peter Jenner [Pink Floyd's co-manager], the London Free School people. Probably being middle-class we could talk our way through, make ourselves sound as though we were part of it.
Bullshitting.
That's possibly the word I was searching for, Doctor. But Syd was a great
figurehead. He was part of acid culture.
The rest of you really didn't do drugs?
No. Well, possibly a tiny bit of dope smoking but certainly not tripping on the
same scale as... as the management certainly were!
What do you make of this now? It's an advert for the Spontaneous Underground. It
says that for 3/- you get "costume, mask, ethnic, space, Edwardian, Victorian,
and hipness generally, face and body makeup certainly".
Yeees. There were elements of the underground that we did tune into. The main
one was mixed media. We may not have been into acid but we certainly understood
the idea of a Happening. We supplied the music while people did creative dance,
painted their faces, or bathed in the giant jelly. If it had been 30 years earlier
Rick would have come out of the floor in front of the cinema screen playing the
organ.
Some people recall the 14-Hour Technicolor Dream as a magical Pink Floyd
moment of spiritual discovery. You were playing as the dawn came up over
Alexandra Palace.
The significance for me was we'd played a gig in Holland that same night and we
didn't get to Alexandra Palace till three in the morning.
No epiphany then?
No. More like, "Someone take me home now, please."
Apparently, when you played with Soft Machine, you got #2/10s a night more than
them because you had your own light show.
It was worth all of that. We couldn't afford a "lighting designer" then. At first our
manager operated it, then it was the bloke who doubled as our truck driver.
Legend has it that at UFO, where you were the house band, The Beatles were
regulars.
The four lovable moptops, grooving about, sitting cross-legged on the floor,
watching our every move. Uh, no, that's all complete crap. Paul McCartney did
come down once (chortle). But, if you'd prefer, I am prepared to lie through my
teeth and tell you that the place was absolutely crammed with celebrities, The
Beatles loved the Floyd and we taught them everything they knew.
Did you think of yourselves as hippies?
Absolutely not. I was a middle-class student until we turned professional and
then the business of the day-to-day running of a band, it's a bit like running a
corner shop. It's not a hippie exercise.
You were playing pop songs like See Emily Play and free-form freak-outs like
Interstellar Overdrive in the same set. Did they fit? Did audiences understand?
We thought they fitted, but audiences quite often turned hostile, about 20 to 30
minutes into the set. Sometimes it was expressed by the throwing of objects,
sometimes by their leaving the facility. Therefore, the conclusion must be that
either they didn't fit or the audience didn't understand. But we were not
demoralized. It was very curious. If the public treated us like that now we'd
retire hurt immediately.
What was your confidence based on then?
I suppose lust to succeed. We were rejuvenated every time we came back to
London and got that fix of finding that there was an audience for us.
It sounds almost as if you felt you were carrying out an act of musical war on the
provinces.
That's right. (Wags finger at imaginary front row) One more word out of you and
we play Interstellar Overdrive!
The International Times knocked one of your gigs because "there was no searching for the brain alpha rhythms by chopping the focus of the images". Might that have been a justified criticism?
(Deadpan) I think it was. I remember that night and I never could quite put my finger on where we went wrong. Looking back, I blame the lighting man.
The Record Mirror said you were "excellent and extremely exciting", but "couldn't
help thinking how dangerous this sort of free-form thing could be in the hands of
not such good musicians".
You can fool most of the people most of the time. I am fascinated by how often
people thought we were accomplished musicians. We must have been quite
convincing. It's funny to look back on, but it is also to do with the fact that if you
find an interesting idea then the technique is not that important.
A Financial Times concert review said, "when you add in the irrepressible Pink
Floyd and a free authentic daffodil to take home, your cup of experience
overflows".
Ah. Talking about the Queen Elizabeth Hall in 1967, says Leslie Welch the memory
man. [It was on May 12, to be pedantic, the show called Games For May -- Ed] Very
important show. It wasn't a Top Rank. It was the beginning of the concept that we
ended up spending the next 20-odd years doing.
So you were moving into a new phase, but it was a few months after that when
you did a big package tour with Hendrix, The Move, The Nice and several other
bands.
The only one we ever did. A 17-minute set limit which was terrific because we
were pretty frazzled at the time, towards the end of the Syd Barrett period. What
was great was that we actually met some other musicians. We'd led a pretty
solitairy life as a band until then and suddenly we were hanging out with Hendrix.
It was an opportunity to wallow in a bit of all-musos-together. I think it was the
last big tour of that time. After that everyone wanted to go out on their own with
just a support act.
At the end of Syd's time, Pink Floyd must have encountered the experience of
being out of control in front of an audience.
Yeah. I'm not someone who likes being out of control in any way. Not many people
would like the sensation of being on a runaway bus with a drunk at the wheel.
You're quite cross at the same time as being frightened. Then, after Syd, Dave was
the difference between light and dark. He was absolutely into form and shape and
he introduced that into the wilder numbers we'd created. We became far less
difficult to enjoy, I think. And that made it more fun to play because you want to
entertain, get some rapport going rather than antagonize. To annoy the audience
beyond all reason is not my idea of a good night out.
Were the Hyde Park concerts of '68 and '70 very different affairs?
The one in '68 was wonderful because it was much more a picnic in the park than
a mini-Woodstock. A lovely day. It was important for us too because it reminded
us of our, uh, roots -- whether spurious or not. They were our roots -- not
personally, but as an enterprise. We were the house band.
And Hyde Park '70?
By then we had begun real work, consolidating our position. It led on from there to
our current global scorched-earth policy. Though I think we were underground
until Dark Side Of The Moon put the nail in that coffin.
Looking at Dark Side Of The Moon and its place in the development of your art, if I
may use that word...
Oh, use it! Use it! I'd feel very self-conscious maintaining anything I'd done was
art. But if pressed, and I'll take it that you are pressing me, I think things like
Saucerful Of Secrets were naive art. I mean, 30 years later it would be difficult
to do it very much better.
Was there any particular innovation in your stage show which you saw as a
landmark? The circular screen, say?
Before that: sensurround sound in 1967. The Azimuth Converter. Because of the
way it involved the audience, gathered them in. The other important development
would be when we started creating our own films in '73. Before Dark Side we had
run light shows, slides and so on, but we'd had fuck-all to do with them. Once we
started using film and linking it to the music, then it was our input. Basically we
did a lot of drawings almost like critical paths, graphs of what was needed at
different points in the music -- the aftermath of our architectural training at
Regent Street Polytechnic where Roger, Rick and I met. We could see almost
immediately where the rather dead periods were going to be in terms of what was
happening on the stage.
What was the feeling for you playing inside that show? It was so different for
the audience, spending a good part of the evening watching films and other
effects while the band played on in the shadows.
We were early MTV really. You can't even sense what it looks like to the audience.
The film is just a fuzzy image behind you. What you're doing is looking for clicks,
looking for timing. In a funny way it's like being backstage. That's at the technical
level. Having said that, you are interacting with the audience and with your
comrades or colleagues. And hopefully getting off on it. I mean, that's the big
buzz. But in terms of the technical business, you're much more a stage manager
than a performer, you're not enjoying the overall effect of it because you're too
busy making it work.
Was Dark Side Of The Moon an emotional piece of music to play?
In a way we didn't play it enough the first time 'round. We only did the whole
thing for a year. I found it more powerfully emotional on the last tour. Perhaps
because we've got better at running the show. Now it reminds me of our history,
the way we were then, all of that.
It transformed your career commercially.
We reached a new plateau. And immediately suffered for it through not knowing
what to do next. Probably, the band disagreements which never existed before
started then.
The shows got bigger, the venues got bigger. What's your perspective on the Spinal
Tap versus Art question in regard to crashing Spitfires onstage, giant inflatable
pigs and so on?
I very rarely regretted any staging that we've tried. Only when it didn't work. Like
the giant pyramid. (splutters) We had it in America for about five shows in the
mid-'70s. It was okay in winds of up to about 25 miles an hour. When it got up to
40 it exploded. A disaster. But it's inevitable that some things prove to be not
feasible. However, as to whether they're art or, uh...
Bollocks?
Yes. I'm not worried about that. I mean, I do know that there is no way a big
inflatable pig can be mentioned in the same breath as Van Gogh's yellow chair. I
wish to make that quite clear. (chortle) I'm worried about whether it enhances
the show. Does it focus people's attention on the music and the event onstage? I
think, in stadiums, the more the merrier, the sound surrounding you, fireworks,
anything that stops them playing frisbee at the back is A Good Thing.
The whole show is about attracting people's attention then?
Maybe it's a way of going (claps his hands together). "Oi! Over here! This is a
special occasion." That feels right to me. Though I know there's always this
conundrum about how film can devalue music because it doesn't allow people's
imagination full freedom. The classic example is The Sorcerer's Apprentice where
you can't hear that music without seeing those bloody silly brooms carrying their
buckets. I don't have an answer.
Do you have any view on how the audience respond to your music?
Oh. I want them to be moved by it, to come away saying, "That was the best evening of my life". It's curious now because, although there are new songs, the fact of the matter is that to some extent we are dealing in nostalgia, so, in a way, it becomes more powerful. We were talking yesterday about how the Italian audience reacted to Wish You Were Here, singing along. It was a wonderful sound, they knew all the words. Without wishing to sound too philosophical about it, that is the nature of pop music, it's love songs, it's particular girls, Cheryl or Laura or whatever, they're intimate moments that we share with... a million people. There is something special about these big gigs. You're all there because you feel something for the band. You're like-minded people.
You like the "sharing" idea, but onstage you've always traded in anonymity, removing yourselves from view.
Originally, it was down to a basic shyness in us, which we then realized had enabled us to create a powerful formula. I'd like to think it's self-effacing, but I fear it's cowardice.
RICK WRIGHT
Keyboards, born July 28, 1945, London.
Wright was a founding member of Pink Floyd, but missing from the end of The
Wall tour in 1981 until the post-Waters recording of A Momentary Lapse Of
Reason six years later. Don't ask him about dates, though, because he's the one
with the bad memory. It's a band in-joke that even strangers are invited to share.
He laughs about it himself, as a troubled creasing of the brow and the phrase,
"You'd better check with Nick on that one" become the punctuation and refrain of
his replies. Stick-slim, he wears a set of interesting facial wrinkles and hollows
that suggest a boxer drained down to the last ounce to make the weight. But,
aside from absent-minded professorial moments when straining after a zephyr of
recollection forever just out of reach, this is Rick Wright in the pink (so to
speak).
Are you game to do the '70s?
The '70s? Mm, yes, why not? The later the better, I think. (laughs)
There's an old quote from Nick about the transition period when Dave Gilmour was
establishing himself in the band. He said, "And for the next 12 years, it was
Dave's desire to make music versus Roger's desire to make a show"...
I think there's a lot of truth in that. I was with Dave. He was much more of a
straight blues guitarist than Syd, of course. And very good. That changed the
direction. Although he did try to reproduce Syd's style live -- in fact, it was a lot
of fun playing Astronomy Domine on this last tour because Dave was trying to
play it the way Syd would have done.
Did it work?
It worked. I loved doing it. But back then... I think Roger would freely admit now
he wasn't the world's greatest bass player. He was much more interested in the
grand plan if you like. He did have vision and, right from the beginning when we
just had strobes and oil lights, all of us were pushing for that. From the earliest
days, when we used oil slides projected onto the band which hid us, we were
always faceless musicians, and that idea developed and developed. But, yes,
mainly because of Roger each tour we did the show got bigger.
Around 1970 Pink Floyd was waving goodbye to all the hippiness, the freedom and
the freak-outs.
I think so. I'd say the transition was between Ummagumma and Atom Heart
Mother. Like a lot of bands, we got interested in the concept album. At the time I
thought we were making the most incredible music in the world, but looking back
it wasn't so good. Now we have become a lot more professional and we don't take
risks like we used to. For me, one day I'd like to go full circle. However, back then
we formulated a sound and we stuck to it, because of the way Nick, me and Dave
play together.
And that formulation was taking place in the early '70s?
Yes. The big influence when we formed the band was Syd's writing, but I'd also put
a word in for my keyboards and Nick's drumming -- he was fanatical about Ginger
Baker and his style was nothing like today's heavy kick drum and tight snare, it
was all very free and rolling, much more jazz influenced. We did get better as
musicians. If we hadn't gone through our experimental phase we wouldn't be here
today, though. I'm so glad we did it.
At that stage, building up to Dark Side Of The Moon, was Pink Floyd starting to get
walled off as an artistic entity very separate from its fans?
Pink Floyd is bigger than the three of us and it was bigger than the four of us.
Back in the '70s people came to hear the music and see the show, not to see Dave
or me as personalities jumping around onstage. Even in UFO days they came for
the experience, the lights plus the music. We were happy not to be in the
limelight. But, I mean, today we could put a show on, pretend we were there and
not be and probably no one would know.
What was your experience of playing Dark Side Of The Moon live?
Now it's comfortable, then it was a bit scary. We'd have lots of problems with
cue-tracks to keep in synch with the film. We were one of the first bands to do
that, click-tracks they call them now. It was a massive headache because the
equipment was pretty unreliable. The film would snap or the projector would
break down or the click would suddenly come blasting out of the PA in the middle
of the piece because someone had turned the wrong knob. There was a lot of
missing cues and trying to get back in time, whereas today with everything
digital it works like clockwork.
The technology problems must have created a lot of strain onstage. Were you all
pals together still?
We were snappy sometimes. Not like it became later, though. I mean I had a
personality clash with Roger ever since we met in Regent Street Polytech. The
two of us didn't really get on. Being the kind of person he is, Roger would try to...
rile you, if you like, try to make you crack. Definitely mental things going on
between us and big political disagreements. Him being an armchair socialist. Not
that I was right-wing at all. After Dark Side Of The Moon we had a bit of money
and I bought a house in the country -- I had two young children. Roger sat down
and said to me, "I can't believe you've done this, you've sold out, I think it's
disgusting." Six months later he went and bought a much bigger house in the
country. I said, "Remember what you said?" He said, "Ah yes, but that's because
my wife wanted it, not me." Absolute bullshit. I found him rather hypocritical.
That's what angered me about him.
Did that conflict come out onstage?
Never. The only time I'd get angry with Roger onstage was when he'd be playing
out of tune; we'd be in D and he was still banging away in E because he couldn't
hear it. I had to tune his bass onstage, you know. In those days there were no
strobe tuners, so after every number he'd stick the head of his bass guitar over
my keyboards and I'd tune it up for him.
Did you ever feel the show was a distraction from the music?
Not at all. I sometimes felt we were taking on more than we could handle, but
that was all. Glad we did it. I was never against it. Oh, except one time, and then I
was proved wrong. That was following Roger's Toronto incident where somebody
in the front row was screaming and shouting and it drove Roger crazy and he spat
at him. He came to us afterwards and said he wanted to start the set with us
playing as normal, then build a wall across in front of us. I completely disagreed.
I said I couldn't believe it would work, people would hate it. Which I think was
part of the idea, he wanted people to hate it. I have to say it only worked in the
end because the wall became not just a wall to block off the audience, it was a
very exciting part of the show with all the projections, holes appearing in it, the
hotel room scene and the wall tumbling down. Then, it was brilliant.
Was that Toronto incident the start of the phase when your relationship with
Roger went critical?
Animals: for me it started to come to a head then. Roger was changing, he really
did believe that he was the leader of the band, really did believe that it was only
because of him that the band was still going. And, obviously, when he started
developing his ego trips, the person he would have his conflicts with would be me.
Plus I was going through... my personal life wasn't that happy, my marriage was
breaking up. Recording Animals he started rejecting what I came up with. But it
was partly my fault, I can see that now, because I didn't push my material. Or I
was too lazy to write anything. I suppose he thought, what was the point of
having this man in the band? In fact, that was the time I was threatening to leave
too; I remember flying off, saying I didn't want any more of it. On the Animals
tour that was, and Steve O'Rourke [Pink Floyd's manager, then and now] said, "You
can't, you mustn't."
But, when we were recording The Wall, it all came down to Roger's bluff or
threat where, because he'd written the material and he had the right to say the
album couldn't be recorded or released, he said, "If you don't leave the band then
we won't release an album." Which was serious because we were nearly bankrupt
at the time [investment managers Norton Warburg having misspent millions on
their behalf]. I think Dave and Nick felt really bad about all this, but because of
their terrible financial predicament his bluff worked. I said, "OK, I'm leaving."
However, I was angry and upset about it and I said I wanted full royalties on the
album and I wanted to carry on playing live.
I liked playing live. I was quite prepared to swallow my pride to go out and play
with Dave and Nick. And, strangely enough, there wasn't any animosity onstage. I
think it's the nature of my character. I accept what's happened and make the best
of it. Maybe it's one of my faults too. My therapist might tell you that, you know.
(laughs) Don't just go along with it, fight back! Well, the good thing about playing
The Wall tour was I made money and the others lost, ha-ha.
Really?
I was on a wage. The Wall cost a fortune to put on and I wasn't involved in the
risk.
Was it an enjoyable experience, playing The Wall live?
Amazing. I loved the idea of the other band appearing in masks and not being us.
You go to see a show, you think, Oh there's Pink Floyd onstage, there's Dave,
there's Rick, there's Roger. Then a curtain opens and there's another Pink Floyd
behind them. I think it was a very good concept once he had decided to make the
wall a feature of the show rather than just a statement to the audience, Fuck you,
I don't want to know about you. On the other hand, it wasn't much fun to play
because we were hidden half the time. While you were playing, you had lots of
roadies running around, putting things up, taking things down. Very impersonal.
What do you make of Pink Floyd's relationship with concert audiences?
I like it. I always try to make contact with people in the front row. It's nice to
see people with big grins on their faces. I look at them and if I see a person
looking miserable it affects me.
DAVE GILMOUR
Guitar/vocals, born March 6, 1947, Cambridge.
The story of Pink Floyd's survival and renaissance since Roger Waters's
departure would seem to express, above all, the juggernaut willpower of Dave
Gilmour. He was chiefly responsible for pulling Pink Floyd back together to record
and tour A Momentary Lapse of Reason. He defended the group name against their
former leader's strenuous attempts to kill off the band both legally and via a
media onslaught of moralistic denunciation. He, along with Mason, invested (at
least) hundreds of thousands of his own money to relaunch the band as a concert
phenomenon in the style to which their followers had become accustomed. Lately,
not the least of his contributions has been to involve his second wife, former
Jonathan Cape {publishing house} publicist and Sunday Times journalist Polly
Samson, in writing lyrics. Suddenly, in the band's late middle age, Pink Floyd's
songs have acquired appreciably greater clarity of expression, and perhaps a more
personal, emotional openness to offset the earlier paeans to separation,
alienation, madness and all-round awfulness. Now -- this only days after the
birth of his first child with Ms. Samson, admittedly -- quite often he does look
like the cat who got the cream. Smooth of aspect, his expression in repose sleek,
the signs of wear largely deferred by that degree of overweight which can prove
cosmetic at a certain age. Always of monolithic build, impressively tall and
broad, he now has a solid dome of belly. He can carry it off, as they say. But if
this suggests a degree of complacency, his interview manner qualifies that
impression.
Initially, he fences like a diplomat, parrying, feinting, retreating. In his lap, his
hands constantly knot and tangle. Frequently, he offers set answers to questions
which are not quite the ones that have been asked, as if he thinks he has nothing
to hide, yet, at the same time, that if he gave anything away it might all go
horribly wrong. Eventually there's a sense of getting somewhere. When an aide
looks in to say it's time to stop, he says carry on, finish this, perhaps hoping that
even if no startling revelations emerge, at least something substantial might be
set down.
How does The Wall's symbolism reflect on Pink Floyd's relationship with its
fans?
The meaning of it was Roger's story. He was the one who strongly felt that wall
between himself and our audience. I have never entirely gone along with that.
Obviously, one knows one is in a pop group and the audience are down there
listening. But hopefully you are sharing a lot of the emotions as you go along and I
don't really... I was doing my best to help Roger fulfill his vision.
Although it was Roger's idea, it asked basic questions for all of you, didn't it?
Absolutely. "Are you truly relating to your audience?"
What was your answer?
I think I relate to the audience a lot more than Roger thinks he does. That's the
accurate way to put it.
Your show says you are these little anonymous people in the midst of all this
hugeness. How do you experience that relationship?
I obviously experience it as part of the band that's performing. But I sense an
empathy.
Can you see them?
Oh yes, you can see the first 50 rows or so. But you're concentrating on what
you're doing. Your eyes wander across people, but you're not really seeing them.
When it came to putting a live show back together after a break of six years and
without Roger, what did you miss from his input, and what did you find you'd got
that you didn't know you had before?
Roger was a person of great drive and authority. It's always nice to have someone
like that around. You just had to pick it up as best you could. We decided on more
or less a greatest hits approach rather than a conceptual show. From then on it
was a matter of designing the show around a broader concept.
But did you find a shortfall on the visual imagination side with Roger gone?
You just have to pick a team. For months, even before we finished the album, we
were talking with experts, many of whom we'd worked with before, about visual
ideas. Not wanting to break entirely with tradition, we retained the circular
screen, but with new film for the Momentary Lapse Of Reason songs. We rehearsed
the show for about a month in Toronto and it was a nightmare. It needed half a
dozen of me to juggle everything.
And the visual side isn't even something you're particularly interested in.
I am! I was quite ready to pick up that mantle.
There's a story about the band agreeing to pay Roger Waters $800 a night to use
the inflatable pig. Is that right?
We agreed to pay him to clear us in regard to any rights he may or may not have
had in various effects including the pig and odd bits of animation by Gerald
Scarfe. Roger had gone 'round these people buying these rights and placing them
with a company he owned. However, we never agreed that he owned the rights.
Pink Floyd, all of us, had commissioned those pieces of work and paid for them. In
order to save ourselves a huge amount of extra aggravation and lawsuit
possibilities we agreed to pay him a fee for any right... that he may or may not
have had. I did not and do not believe he had a leg to stand on, and on the tour
we've just done no such money was paid to him.
The further yarn about the pig's balls, is that truth or extemporization?
Someone did suggest that if we altered the design of the pig then Roger couldn't
claim it. A pig's a pig, for Christ's sake. How do you alter its design? You add
testicles. Well, it was amusing for us.
Is it also right that you can't do The Wall under this agreement?
No, I think we can. We certainly couldn't do a film of it as Roger has the
synchronization license rights, like every writer of every song. But then we
wouldn't do it without Roger, that would be ludicrous. On the other hand we're
about to release The Dark Side Of The Moon on video which we couldn't have done
without Roger's permission. Obviously a financial deal has been struck.
What about the extraordinary venues you played on the comeback tour, Versailles
and Venice? Was that to make a big splash?
No, it's not a publicity thing. It's because we thought it would be lovely, beautiful.
Us, on the day, we'd have a grand occasion. Versailles was gorgeous. Thoroughly
enjoyed playing that.
Same with Venice. It was lovely. I was nervous. Playing live to 100 million
people. It gets to you at times. And the fact that the city council made so much
stupid adverse publicity out of it, none of which was true.
You didn't damage the place with the volume of sound?
Ludicrous -- a PA sitting a quarter of a mile out in a lake is going to damage
buildings that have been there for 700 years? Give me a break! As we finished,
the council's own firework display started and the volume was ten times anything
we put out. Mega explosions. If anything caused a problem it was that. Bass
frequencies from a huge stack on land could maybe shake things up a bit, but we
were on water and water is a very effective insulator.
Do you get municipalities chasing you as if you were the Olympics, saying, "Come
and play our city?"
Yeah. Not just municipalities. France invited us. We'd had lunch with Jack Lang,
then Minister of Culture, and he asked us to play more or less anywhere we liked.
That's when we chose Versailles.
Where would you most like to play?
What we've tried to do on this last tour and the one before is the Pyramids. We'd
love to play there. But the Egyptian government is not particularly interested, and
more recently there's been a lot of fundamentalist terrorism in that area.
The Grateful Dead got there first [in 1978].
You can't worry about whether other bands have done it before. It's about lots of
people coming away thinking they will never forget it, it'll be a joyous memory
for the rest of their lives.
On the musical level, how did the reintegration of the three of you go? You've been
quoted as saying that the Momentary Lapse Of Reason tour "brought Rick and Nick
back to being functioning musicians.
In my view they had been destroyed by Roger."
I stand by that. It was a gradual rebuilding that started the moment we went
out. You might be correct in assuming that, right at the beginning, our second
keyboard player and our percussion player were fairly essential in keeping us all
going. But within the first month, Nick and Rick took over their proper parts. In
fact, having a second keyboard player to take some of the burden off Rick's back
has enabled him to become much freer and better in his playing on our old
standards. His Hammond playing and his piano playing have been just beautiful.
Recalling Pink Floyd's origins in the '60s, and its survival into the era of Thatcher
and Reagan, with the band itself becoming a huge industrial machine, do you think
it has become part of what's been called the "Greed Tour" syndrome?
I see no reason to apologize for wanting to make music and earn money. That's
what we do. We always were intent on achieving success and everything that goes
with it. I personally think that our music is suited to larger venues. I've never
been a supporter of Reagan or of Thatcher. But I'm not so left-leaning or socialist
that I think I'm not allowed to earn money. Particularly before the 1987 post-
Roger tour, we had been through a lot of financial troubles and we did want to
earn some money. Myself and Nick had to dig very deeply into our resources to put
it on. All sorts of reasons and emotions drove us into doing it the way we did. We
did want it to be world-conquering. We wanted to leave no one in any doubts that
we meant business and we intended to carry on with our chosen careers. I don't
think there's anyone who cuts less corners than us or spends more of the
potential profits on making it as good as we could possibly get it. Our earnings
are large, but I bet you our profit margins are smaller than anyone else's.
What's your view of tour sponsorship?
We took sponsorship by Volkswagen for the first time on this last tour. I confess
to not having thought it through entirely and I was uncomfortable with it. Meeting
and greeting Volkswagen people. I was not a popular chappy with Volkswagen. I
don't want them to be able to say they have a connection with Pink Floyd, that
they're part of our success. We will not do it again. I didn't like it, and any money
I made from it went to charity. We should remain proudly independent, that's my
view, and we will in the future.
Why did you allow Great Gig In The Sky to be used in a Nurofen ad?
Rick wrote that music. He remade it for them. It's down to the writer. If my name
had been on that track too it wouldn't have happened. I wouldn't do it. But that's
Rick's business. I didn't approve of it, but I have no control over it.
On a slightly more abstruse aspect of Pink Floyd and money, is it true that you
were paid in timber for your gigs in Moscow?
I don't think so. When we played there in 1989, the Russian government did
provide us with a huge transporter plane to take our equipment from Athens, and
they gave us hotel rooms and suchlike. But they could only offer us a small fee in
dollars, so there was discussion of them paying in caviar and so on. We were
joking! We lost money, that's all. We paid for the event. We thought if we were
going to play in Russia, we would rather do it properly. We steamed in, the full
mega-show for a week. But no payment in timber. Other shows, like Venice, we
lost money. You see, when we planned the tour we knew we were going to lose
money on certain shows. Venice, Moscow, they're just part of the books. It would
be easy to dump the ones that make a loss, but we don't want to do that. Tie it all
in. Let's do the gig. Not everything is done for profit. I'm sorry to sound self-
justifying about this, but we do take a certain amount of flak in this area.
Amid all the big deals and the grand effects, when it comes down to just you,
singing, playing guitar, what are you putting into it, what are you getting out of
it?
I'm putting my life's blood into it. But Pink Floyd is not only me. I am bound by
other people's desires and choices and politics and needs. The whole thing is a
constant compromise of ideals and art all the way through. These days I have
more say than anyone else because it's a sort of meritocratic organization, if you
like, and I'm the one who produces most -- songs, music, direction. I'm the person
to whom that position has fallen. Not through choice.
OK, we know you're a team player. But can you characterize this "life's blood"
input any further? Or are you the middle-class Englishman not wanting to talk
about these things?
I don't know what you want me to tell you... it's not that I don't want to talk about
it. Maybe I'm not that verbal. My best form of expression is playing the guitar and
singing.
Back to onstage, then, the melting pot...
Well, you say so. The process in the recording studio is just as important. Or
more. That is a very... frustrating and satisfying process at different times. When
you get something and it sounds just how you heard it in your head and you think,
"That's going to get across to people." There are moments when something
happens quickly and wonderfully. High Hopes on the last record. I wrote it very
quickly, the words with my now wife Polly. I went into the studio on my own and
demoed the whole thing, played everything. Did it in a day. Came out of the studio
at the end of the day {quiet whisper} feeling fucking fantastic. That moment. That
joy, the pride at having got to that point was absolute magic. And the obverse is
when you just can't... but I'm not going to name tracks.
Then look at High Hopes in the live setting. You've described the intimacy of
creating it, but then you take it into a setting that's anything but intimate, maybe
50,000 people in a stadium."
I am aiming at intimacy believe it or not. How that gets across... we've got the
best PA system in the world, we've got wrap-around sound, but no it's not a club,
the audience isn't seeing me up close like you are now. It's not that kind of
intimacy, I know. I'm not terribly attracted to the idea of tiny venues. I find them
more frightening than huge venues. My ideal is to mix them up to quite a degree,
10,000-seaters and 100,000-seaters. On this last tour, for some reason, perhaps
me not listening because of concentration on the record, it seemed that we played
pretty much exclusively outdoor stadiums. I didn't like it. Playing in the small
intimate atmosphere of Earls Court was a great way to close it.
You're talking about Earls Court as if it were The Marquee.
For us it was, and it was terrific.
Playing High Hopes at Earls Court, a song of unusual intimacy in that it was
written with your wife to be, where were you when you were playing it?
I'm in a cocoon. Entirely locked in a cocoon. If you do it the best way you can for
yourself then it will get across to other people. But I'm not aiming it at one
person in that audience. I'm not thinking about the audience at all when I'm
singing it. I'm doing it entirely in my own head. Most of the time I shut my eyes
and concentrate on speaking the words so that they mean what they're supposed
to. It's very easy when you're on tour for months to be singing and not meaning
every word, every syllable. With songs like that -- no, when I'm singing Roger's
words too -- it seems to me that it's vitally important that I do sing every
syllable with meaning. You've got to believe it.
-=-
Transcribed by Kevin