In summary the album is probably worth a listen for a fan of all the different facets of the band’s work and to pay tribute to an understated but unique talent with the ivories, but Gilmour’s On An Island or Wright’s Broken China are stronger overall statements than this.
14) Obscured By Clouds. 1972. Produced by Pink Floyd
This selection, written for the French movie La Vallee, is hardly short on quality in its moments, yet is also arguably one of the less distinctive records the band ever released. This colourlessness even extends to the blurry, out-of-focus cover.
There’s a feeling the band had found its mid-tempo, more accessible niche by now, mostly eschewing the bizarre experiments of earlier records such as A Saucerful Of Secrets or Ummagumma, though there’s an unexpected foray into world music on the closing Absolutely Curtains, pre-empting the likes of Peter Gabriel and Sting by at least a decade.. As with the other soundtrack records the band produced there’s a feeling of a slight lack of material: the opening two numbers are virtually variations on the same instrumental If the record has a fault, and it’s a major one, it’s the pacing – it isn’t until the straightforward Gilmour-led rocker The Gold It’s In The… that it picks up. Perhaps the most significant track, though, is Free Four, where the cheerfully singalong strummed acoustics don’t disguise Waters’ venom towards the music business, and hints at the kind of approach that would become far more regular on later records.
For all the pretty acoustic work by David Gilmour Obscured By Clouds is uncharacteristically modest and lends itself more to cherry picking than buying the full album, but the group’s maturity was starting to become clear and would soon yield major dividends.
13) A Saucerful Of Secrets. 1968. Produced by Norman Smith
The circumstances for the group were hardly ideal when recording this sophomore effort, so it’s unsurprising it’s a disjointed affair. Frontman and creative force Syd Barrett, despite being weaned off hallucinogenic drugs, was declining mentally after a disastrous American tour left him struggling to mime or answer questions in interviews, let alone play: however the record that was released isn’t entirely devoid of the unique charm that the debut held and showcases the others’ personalities in a way that Piper didn’t.
Part of that is down to one David Gilmour, who took a sensible risk agreeing to join the group as his covers band Jokers Wild weren’t exactly getting their breakthrough, and substitutes well for Syd Barrett in a musical if not a creative sense. The album’s best moment is the one occasion originally believed to be the one time that all five members performed together on tape, though Nick Mason has subsequently admitted he did not drum on the track – the wonderfully wistful Wright composition Remember A Day, perhaps the keyboardist’s finest song, displaying a more grounded, brooding quality than Barratt’s more fantastical and mischievous numbers previously.
Elsewhere though there’s mixed rather than clear success: the instrumental title track is considerably darker than its equivalent number on the debut and it’s not comfortable listening; Corporal Clegg lyrically displays Waters’ concerns over the effects of war for the first time (though its kazoo chorus gives it an unintentionally silly feel) and the closing number, the haunting Jugband Blues, gives the band’s onetime leader the chance to wave goodbye in his inimitable, chaotic way. Given something of a critical re-evaluation by the band – Mason has recently named it his favourite studio recording – the record is still probably best approached with prior knowledge of the band’s eras and stylistic changes.
12) More. 1969. Produced by Pink Floyd
Pink Floyd’s earliest attempt at a soundtrack, and a very solid one too. By this point David Gilmour felt more comfortable within the band, adding suitably lugubrious vocals to the muggy, trippy opener Cirrus Minor, before it breaks into birdsong underpinned by Wright’s haunting organ: indeed Gilmour handles all the lead singing on this record, with Roger Waters apparently uncertain about his own abilities in that area, and David does a particularly fine job on the jaunty and romantic Green Is The Colour.
The record has far more dynamic (and startling) mood changes compared to the likes of the more mellow Obscured By Clouds, for example: note the way the dreamy Cirrus Minor is followed by the crashing The Nile Song before easing off again for the gentle Crying Song, and can be split into two halves: the largely vocal-based first side (written largely by Waters alone) and the mostly instrumental second half (nearly all full band compositions). This dichotomy between Waters’ need to voice his concerns – note the mention of “rolling away the stone” on Crying Song, which would reappear dramatically on Animals and the negative mentions of the press and management on Cymbaline which would feature on The Wall – typifies the issue that would boost the band to success and ultimately threaten to tear it apart: the battle between the outfit being a dictatorship or a democracy.
It’s a solid enough addition to the oft-maligned genre of ‘soundtrack music’, though by the end of the second side it’s clear the band were starting to lack fresh material and its origins become clear. Ibiza Bar is virtually identical to The Nile Song, for example, albeit with a slightly less complex chord structure and a marginally more restrained vocal from Gilmour. Yet it’s still worth checking out to see the emerging elements that would make the band superstars.
11) Ummagumma. 1969. Produced by Pink Floyd and Norman Smith
Despite Syd Barratt having long-since left Pink Floyd’s freakiness was actually becoming more pronounced rather than less so by the time this release rolled around. It’s effectively a ‘double double’ LP which on top of the live side gives each of the band members a side each to create original material in the studio without input from the others, and it’s a curate’s egg, as even a prog rock-lover would admit about the more excessive statements from the era.
The live side contains a solid version of Astronomy Domine: for so long the track had been difficult for the Roger Waters-led Floyd to disassociate from its writer Syd Barratt, and there’s also a particularly dramatic take on the non-album Waters number Careful With That Axe Eugene (benefitting from a truly terrifying scream from its author). The extended pieces from A Saucerful Of Secrets, however, are less distinctive, and it wasn’t completely clear whether this was the direction the band wished to continue going in or one it was trying to leave behind from the non-live tracks on this wild and untamed record – more recently the surviving members have been far more dismissive of the work than the press of the time were.
The studio album’s best cuts belong to Waters and Gilmour: Waters’ acoustic pleasures on Grantchester Meadows segue nicely into Several Small Species: a bizarre but incredibly forward-thinking acapella track where Waters uses loops and effects on his voice to mimic animals, even culminating in Scottish-accented poetry. Gilmour’s three-part number The Narrow Way is also a classic, despite his modesty at his songwriting abilities – going from the distorted guitar twangs and synth squeaks of the opening, through the moody riffing of part 2 to the measured yet ominous vocals on part 3, sounding quite unlike anything else they’d recorded. Wright’s frightening keyboard experiments and Mason’s flute and drum piece are strictly for the more adventurous, as frankly is much of the studio side. Lovers of the mellotron made famous by the likes of Genesis and King Crimson would find interest in its use by the band here, but overall Ummagumma is an acquired taste.
10) A Momentary Lapse Of Reason. 1987. Produced by Bob Ezrin and David Gilmour
David Gilmour’s decision to reform Pink Floyd with Nick Mason in the mid-1980s came as a nasty shock to Roger Waters, and in the circumstances it’s a pretty reasonable effort. The record was hindered by Mason’s relatively limited involvement and Wright’s low confidence, but Gilmour does a good job at updating the band’s trademark sound rather than trying to replace the group’s departed creative force.
The touches that Waters had used on The Final Cut and his own solo albums, such as the warm female vocals (which dated back to Dark Side) are in evidence here, to fine effect on One Slip, perhaps the record’s finest moment. The first half is generally pretty strong, with the smooth use of segueing and the polished production providing shine to tracks such as the opening instrumental Signs Of Life and its uplifting follow-up Learning To Fly, whilst On The Turning Away is a folky singalong in the spirit of a band like The Levellers or The Waterboys, minus the fiddles.
The second half is a little more pedestrian – Yet Another Movie is forgettable, the brief A New Machine pieces don’t really fit with the track they bookend – a rather plodding piano-led number called Terminal Frost that might have benefited from the vocals that were originally to be added. However the closing number, the moody Sorrow, benefits from the super-amplified soloing from Gilmour in the intro, and hints at the guitarist’s more serious concerns that would be more clearly articulated on The Division Bell. This album is not in the same league as that one, but is still worth the occasional listen.
9) Atom Heart Mother. 1970. Produced by Pink Floyd. Executive producer: Norman Smith
Largely forgotten among Pink Floyd’s large collection of classic works is this curious record, which kicks off with an orchestral first half and a collection of songs and a montage on side two. The first half proved less than popular with the band themselves, who felt that it never quite came together and wanted it re-recorded, with Ron Geesin, a friend of Waters, falling foul of the legendary difficulties when rock bans work with classical musicians – to some extent this strange anecdote of the album’s creation is more famous than the music itself.
Yet Atom Heart Mother’s first side is not as forbidding as other 20+ minute works in the prog rock cannon (such as King Crimson’s Lizard or Van Der Graaf Generator’s A Plague Of Lighthouse Keepers), and culminates in a rousing section with the John Alldis Choir. The second half, meanwhile, contains some of the band’s more underrated songs: Water’s thoughtful and fragile acoustic number If is one of his finest melodies and more accessible to those allergic to his self-indulgent tendencies on later records; Gilmour’s Fat Old Sun is a Kinks-like rocker and the closing number, Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast, somehow typifies the more pastoral nature of the record with the titular roadie’s mutterings over his petit dejeuner being interspersed with snippets of unreleased, major key riffs and song fragments.
Whilst some band members have always had reservations about the album as a whole Atom Heart Mother is an enjoyable record which displays an occasionally sunnier and less forbidding side to the band that would be apparent in their pomp. It’s a side they would increasingly discard as the decade rolled on and fame and fortune took their mental toll, so it’s well worth the occasional spin.
8) Meddle. 1971. Produced by Pink Floyd
Meddle was seen by the group as a major step forward, and effectively it inverts the formula of its predecessor – the shorter numbers take side one and the side-long sprawler now takes up the second half. However what gives this album the edge over Atom Heart Mother is the extra polish of the production and the cohesiveness on the extended piece, which like the menacing and pounding opening number One Of These Days would become a slightly unlikely concert favourite.
Again, as on Relics, there’s evidence of Waters’ jazzy side on San Tropez, another surprisingly easy-going number; there’s the uplifting, rising riff of Fearless (culminating in the recording of You’ll Never Walk Alone), Gilmour’s bluegrass guitar work on the literal shaggy dog story Seamus where Steve Marriot’s dog is credited on vocals: all highly enjoyable, even if the latter is unlikely to be remembered as the band’s peak. Yet the highlights of the record are undoubtedly live favourite One Of These Days, which pulses and builds in classic Floyd fashion and the behemoth Echoes, which from its sonar ping to its final haunting coda captivates the listener. The recording shows further use of the development of the band’s style of building progressively through different movements (Waters and Mason were architects and used this in their style of composition as neither read music) and each hits the spot, whether it’s the slurred, pessimistic verses, the ominous fall and rise of the wordless chorus, a funk-out section or the trippy, eerie ambient section afterwards. It’s also curious for how different this era of the band’s worldview is from the cheerful escapism of the Piper-era Floyd: “no one flies around the sun” is the mournful verdict here.
For many bands Meddle would be a crowning high-point, yet for Floyd the true stardom – and success – awaited. Yet it shouldn’t be overlooked as it’s within touching distance of many of their finest works, quality-wise – it could be considered the start of their classic period.
7) The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn. 1967. Produced by Norman Smith
Totally different to anything else the band recorded, even its follow-up, Piper is largely dominated by Syd Barratt’s utterly distinctive writing and is one of the most unique records in the psychedelic era. It was deemed to be a big influence on Sergeant Pepper with Paul McCartney apparently dropping in on the band incognito, yet it has its own influences too, and as with much of the prog rock movement the band would go on to typify and influence it’s as much literary as musical.
Astronomy Domine, with Peter Jenner calling out names of planetary bodies through a loudhailer at the beginning in startling style, is one of the band’s most memorable recordings, its eerie, descending wail being one of rock music’s most haunting refrains. There’s plenty of fun elsewhere too: Lucifer Sam celebrates Barratt’s cat over a dark, ‘gangster’-like riff, Interstellar Overdrive is a remarkably well-accomplished freak-out, with all the musicians able to make their mark through its rapid twists and turns and re-recorded twice to get the right mix, whilst Scarecrow and The Gnome delve into the most charming areas of English folklore. The band would later look back on the record with certain reservations: Waters was never over-fond of his first solo writing credit, the throwaway thrashout Take Up Thy Stethoscope And Walk, but even this acts as a reasonable interval, if nothing else.
Overall Piper is a wild debut by a band who were never afraid to take risks and on headphones sounds remarkable 50 years on. It fully deserves its reputation as a psychedelic classic and it’s to the rest of the group’s (and Gilmour’s) credit they were able to patiently move on from it to equally creative ground of their own, rather than being stuck in it.
6) The Division Bell. 1994. Produced by Bob Ezrin and David Gilmour
The last Pink Floyd studio album released while all of its original band members were with us, The Division Bell expands on the sonic palette in the last release and is generally a much stronger album.
Here, unlike on A Momentary Lapse Of Reason, Wright is fully-integrated and the affect is immediately apparent – the slowly building swishes and gurgles of Cluster One bear his hallmark. Its grace and poise typify the record.
Highlights include Gilmour’s lusty singing and six-string screams on the ‘argument’ track What Do You Want From Me, the U2-like sweeping stadium rock of Take It Back, the pulsing call and response vocals of Keep Talking (featuring the late Steven Hawking), which epitomises the record’s theme of lack of communication and finest of all the superb, world-weary closer High Hopes, which moodily reflects on lost opportunities and lessons learnt the hard way, amid a monotonously tolling bell: with its Spanish guitar break and haunting piano refrain it’s a wonderful way for the band to largely bow out – only the live album Pulse would be released in the next two decades.
Roger Waters, who among his criticisms had a little grudging praise for its predecessor, had nothing but contempt for this record, but nonetheless it stands as a consistent, if safe, statement from the band under Gilmour’s stewardship. It occasionally references the group’s 1970s stylistic quirks and production touches (note the interludes in Poles Apart or the Waters-themed Lost For Words) but seems comfortable in the more autumnal style on display here.
5) The Final Cut. 1983. Produced by Roger Waters, James Guthrie and Michael Kamen
Inter-member band relationships (at least for those who remained) were under enormous strain in this record, Roger Waters’ final release with the group. With Rick Wright gone the sound of the recording developed even further away from the wig-outs of the band’s 60s and ambient atmospherics of the 70s works and yet more towards the orchestral elegance of The Wall.
Yet the grace of the arrangements is not matched by the fury of its sole composer – Roger Waters, now totally-dominant, turns his acerbic eye on the area closest to his heart, the terrible treatment of men in wartime and subsequently. Lyrically he’s at a peak here – with depictions of the collapse of the protagonist on the title track, verbal lacerations of world leaders on The Fletcher Memorial Home or drawing a grim picture of the apocalypse on Two Suns In The Sunset, and musically, whilst the accompaniment is more sparse than we’d expect on a Floyd record, Michael Kamen does a fine job in providing military style strings and sombre brass band rumbles to proceedings.
The most powerful moment on the record is the one that was initially left off – the slowly surging tale of Roger’s father’s death at Anzio. Although not confident of his own singing style his vocalising here has an almost unparalleled emotion and anger to it, making clear his theatrics are underpinned by a very vulnerable human quality. Elsewhere Gilmour adds his soloing to the occasional number, even if he is virtually reduced to the session of guest musician – the haunting title track benefits from his sparse but effective input, whilst Raphael Ravenscroft also adds a brilliant sax break to The Gunners’ Dream and to the close of Two Suns In The Sunset.
The album suffers from the tales of Waters’ increasing frustrations and is generally written off a Roger solo album in all but name, whilst it’s also fair to state that spare-sounding tracks like Southampton Dock or Get Your Filthy Hands Off My Desert might not fit into many people’s idea of what the classic Pink Floyd sound is. Yet the record, despite the occasional foray into dated terrain (the swipes at the Japanese shipbuilding industry and the Falklands), is a lot better than it’s given credit for, and might just rank as the group’s most daring statement of all.
4) The Wall. 1979. Produced by Bob Ezrin, David Gilmour, James Guthrie & Roger Waters
Roger Waters took the germ of an idea and mined it for gold on this remarkable, if deeply flawed, concept album. A double record of great ambition and high self-indulgence, Waters tells the bleak tale of a flawed rock star who suffers a breakdown before a gig and fantasises about being at a fascist convention, all the while taking swipes at the music industry, overbearing mothers, the military for failing to bring the boys home and most famously the educational system for allowing teachers to bully the pupils.
Two things to bear in mind was the situation the band was in when this gloomy, theatrical and self-absorbed record was released: Pink Floyd were incredibly facing bankruptcy after a bad investment plan, whilst the punk movement of the era had them as number one enemy. To that end the combative Waters had the ultimate left-wing response to the frequently ‘dog-whistle’ themes of the safety-pins and leather brigade – Another Brick In The Wall Part 2 defied the punks and became the last number 1 single of the 1970s. This was all the more remarkable from a band that had a penchant for tracks that lasted over 10 minutes and were hardly known for prodigious single chart activity.
The record can basically be split into two distinct halves, with the first documenting Pink’s decline into self-imposed isolation and the building of the wall which keeps him apart from the threats of society. The second sees him start to doubt what he has done and look for a way to escape his self-imposed isolation, with the dramatic battering down of the wall as its climax after an imaginary ‘trial’. It’s undoubtedly excessive, humourless and has a distinctly unhealthy feel to it at times, not least in the lashing out of its author throughout – both Gilmour and Mason felt uncomfortable with Waters’ behaviour and material, whilst the bassist’s fallout with the barely-involved Wright led to the latter’s departure. However the stage show remains legendary for its daring concept and excellent execution, and whilst Dark Side Of The Moon is largely seen as Pink Floyd’s year zero, The Wall is largely seen as Waters’.
3) Dark Side Of The Moon. 1973. Produced by Pink Floyd
Perhaps the band’s most universal album DSOTM’s legendary status would generally place it as their most accomplished work. There’s a unity to the record, with either spoken segues in between songs or no breaks at all, making the whole a wonderfully cohesive album which daringly comments on all areas of human existence – madness, ageing, mortality, money – and yet somehow remains an enticing listen throughout. It’s well ahead of its time – listen to On The Run, for example, and you can hear the likes of The Orb and trance/ambient music in general being brought into being.
By now Waters was established as the most accomplished and willing wordsmith and produces excellent work throughout – if you aren’t put off by his tendency to again ‘write a list’ on the closing number, of course – while the group make full use of their accomplished tackling of different styles, from the funk of Any Colour You Like to the soft-rock of Us And Them. Gilmour once again tackles many of the lead vocals here, Waters just sings the two closing numbers, yet the finest vocalese here is of course the soaring Clare Torry on The Great Gig In The Sky, who has recently had a writing credit added for her legendary soulful addition to the track.
Certainly by the end of the record it’s clear it’s a timeless masterpiece and one without an ounce of the filling or noodling often associated with progressive rock, though it’s not the band at their most experimental, conceptually daring or original (and the group themselves became frustrated at the media and the audience’s obsession with the work) it’s a fine album indeed. Chances are that anyone reading this article will have heard this album at least once, perhaps hundreds of times, but if you haven’t it’s not an original thought to recommend giving this legendary disc a spin.
2) Wish You Were Here. 1975. Produced by Pink Floyd
For all the clever imagery of the cover this is one of Floyd’s most warm, sentimental works, Wish You Were Here is the band’s tribute to their long-departed frontman, the original Crazy Diamond Syd Barratt. His genuine reappearance to greet his old friends and bandmates greatly shocked them, his physical and mental decline all too clear, and this regret is writ large through the record, which by all accounts was more difficult to make in the wake of its predecessor’s massive acclaim and success.
Yet the results, as ever with the pain of Pink Floyd’s creative forces, works wonders – the sheer build-up of tension in the opening parts of Shine On You Crazy Diamond is almost unsurpassed: when Gilmour’s four note riff echoes out across the soundscape it’s a stunning moment, whilst Waters’ vocal performance – querying, uncertain – also hits the spot perfectly. Though the reprise of the track to close the record contains a more typical mid-1970s sound on the instrumental passages Wright’s synth additions to the breezy, wistful chord progression in the coda round the song off nicely. The title song, sung by Gilmour over his simple acoustic riffing, is a more universal lament, but again became a live standard and favourite, with its brief, reflective lyrics striking a chord with millions.
However the two songs which point the way to a more baleful future are the acoustic spite of Welcome To The Machine (complete with slightly dated 1970s sci-fi sounds), which points the finger more angrily at the music industry, and the Roy Harper-sung Have A Cigar, which equally irritably fixes a death-stare on the empty rhetoric and crass commercialism of the music industry – unsurprisingly anathema to the left-wing Waters. Wish You Were Here is a remarkably accomplished follow-up to a record many thought would be impossible to top.
1) Animals. 1977. Produced by Pink Floyd
1977 was something of a crunch year for the Floyd, though the band were still riding high after the massive success of Dark Side Of The Moon and the highly-acclaimed Wish You Were Here. This album, as can be judged by the ominous title artwork, is a much different work to either – much darker in its take on human nature, and the more pastoral nature of the group’s collaborative efforts gave way to Waters’ own increasingly sour, if brilliantly-observed, world view.
Borrowing from George Orwell, notably Animal Farm, Waters links humans to one of three animals – dogs (the self-centred, ruthless capitalist go-getters), pigs (the busybodies who think they can run other people’s lives, like the then-prominent Mary Whitehouse who gets a less than flattering namecheck here) and Sheep (the people who blindly follow orders without questioning and remain downtrodden, unless provoked to rebel). The three main tracks on the album, daring by the late 1970s with punk rockers making their distaste for Floyd in particular very clear, cover three different styles: the ever-changing mid-tempo Dogs, which veers through Wright-dominated uneasy stretches and bluesy Gilmour solos in seamless, fantastic fashion and makes good use of Gilmour as co-lead vocalist (all the other songs feature Waters on his own, a sign of how the dynamics in the band were evolving). Pigs is funkier, with great use of the vocoder in the instrumental interval to create highly memorable ‘pig grunts and squeals’ and a truly blistering bit of shredding from the normally tasteful GIlmour, whilst the final track, Sheep, is a fast-paced, pounding rocker with a menacing bass line and an in-your-face instrumental coda that matches the anger of most of the punk rock contingent.
The fact all this cynicism and bile is bookended by two brief variations on a sweet love song from Roger to his then-wife doesn’t lessen the record’s impact, and like the pig that floats above Battersea power station on the front cover it merely provides a hint of optimism amid the bleakness, which has always been central to Roger’s work. Daring, dynamic, dramatic and yet easily identifiable, Animals is the hidden gem in the band’s work, and for me at least is their finest achievement.
THE END.
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