The band was never on the cover of Rolling Stone until a piece about the breakup … which was published in , years after it all happened. Who the hell cared that someone named Roger Waters left Pink Floyd? Pink Floyd had to hire outside drummers to play drums for its drummer. Gilmour also brought in outside songwriters, a motley crew that extended even to former Madonna collaborator Patrick Leonard. And the record company still rejected the album! Back to the drawing board. The ultimate result was as lame a work as you can imagine.
Bad guys! I saw it.
It was awesome. Is he a dog? What this song is really about, however, is songwriting royalties. Waters probably took home 3 cents per album sold for each track he wrote, so he would have made a total of 6 cents per album just for these two basically identical little ditties. That would have given Gilmour about a penny and a half per album sold.
Waters, of course, might have argued and no doubt did that it was his songs that drove the record sales that kept the rest of the band in English manor houses. After all the bombast comes this soft little ditty. In the film it runs over the credits and its import is lost. An interminable instrumental, almost devoid of ideas, unless you count letting some out-of-tune kids make funny noises for the last several minutes of this six-minute track an idea. The Second World War was a terrible event in world history, and took a devastating toll.
This song is an acknowledgment that there were reasons for the war. But all of its victims deserve much better than this labored, clotted, and overwrought assault on the finer sensibilities of just about anyone who might actually listen to it. Confidential to Roger W. This one comprises a comparatively restrained three parts, and includes the sounds of an actual breakfast being made, complete with dripping faucet, which turns out to be kinda irritating.
Gilmour noodles guitars in the middle, with a poorly recorded bass interfering. The third part is mostly keyboard, mixed horribly. The band actually used to play this nonsense live. The argument for this junk, I suppose, is that the band, despite its space-rock leanings, was much more down to earth and organic, as opposed to the flights of high electronic fantasy offered by your King Crimsons and the other, more energetic progressive-rock outfits of the time.
The backing vocals are a parody of themselves. Doo-wop vocals, synthesized drum rolls, and melodramatic lyrics. Why did Pink let anyone take his soul? Boy, was he going to be surprised! If this were a scene in This Is Spinal Tap , the band would be assembling in a room to give Waters the bad news when … the phone would ring, informing the members that — due to incoherently planned and overambitious tours, a lack of tax planning, bad investments, and inadequate oversight of their accountants — they were basically broke.
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At which point the members were all ears to hear what their resident genius had on tap for them next. Sounds intriguing! No other album close to that rarefied air has so many songwriting credits from one person. Again, given his stature, he should have been netting 3 cents per song, or about 75 cents in total, per record sold.
Foreign rates vary, of course, but he probably got more than that at least in Europe, where songwriters get 10 percent of the wholesale price. This feels aimless and uninventive. You might think it was unlikely that there were better tracks that were somehow overlooked; you would be right. I liked how Waters wrested the symbol away and tried to make a statement about personal isolation.
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Anyway, here, Pink gets a groupie and proceeds to get a little weird. In the film it ends with the highly cinematic scene of Bob Geldof shaving his chest. He was portly and quiet, with his pants belted high over his stomach, his head and eyebrows shaved. It took a while before his crushed friends recognized their former bandmate.
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Lots — way lots — of cutesy percussion, which passed for experimental back in those days. Syd Barrett grew up in Cambridge, which was relatively protected from the damage the war did to England. He knew both Gilmour and Waters from a young age. His disarming off-kilter creativity early on was evidenced in things like a handcrafted book he titled Fart Enjoy. This is one of his second-tier songs. All of his tricks are here; the lines stuffed full of words, the uneven rhythms and gay little asides, the marveling at the wondrous world around us.
And then the pompous synthesized horns kick in. Repeat, for almost seven minutes. He was a pianist, and a keyboardist, there can be no doubt. But the difference between knowing how to play piano, even well, and crafting a minute solo work worth listening to and making people pay for is a very big leap.
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You can laugh at Rick Wakeman or Keith Emerson, or even Tony Banks, from Genesis; but they were patently heavy, significant, even spectacular players. But he had no business writing minute on-record epics. And one of the Cambridge boys in the band should have told him how to spell Sisyphus. Way too much echo on his voice.
We can see from the start this will be a much less subtle! On record, though, it comes across just as six minutes of meandering. They were right there at the forefront of such stuff, so they deserve to get credit for the innovation. It is perfect, however, in one regard. It gets really irritating when the song takes on a sort of prancing rhythm.
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I hate that. This was the only unreleased track on it. One of the most distinctive things about Floyd at the time was how haphazard their sound was. In fairness, though, a lot of the experimental bands at the time would put out albums with oddly disparate tracks on them. Well-produced track, but its lackluster and sometimes overly literal melody and dopey and sometimes overly literal lyrics sink it. Length: Again, we have the droney sounds with some Gilmourian ruminations up top, again going on for minutes.
Docked ten notches for its excessively dreary !! These guys and their suites. Part two has some intoned vocalizings. Part three is a passable rock instrumental. Nothing holds these three horrid-to-mediocre pieces of music together. Waters would write a lot, in subsequent years, about the dehumanizing nature of the record industry, and persuasively so. And in any case any such attempt would be fraud, because it was not that band anymore, as the outside songwriters attested. Most people will remember only the overdone echoes on the word closer. More was the first of two Barbet Schroeder films the band contributed a soundtrack to.
The kind thing to say is that the band was still trying to find its voice. A percussion-y tack of incidental sounds. More was the first film by Schroeder, a minor player in the French New Wave.
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He gets into some wild stuff and then runs off to Ibiza with a female friend. Schroeder went on to direct some U. This is basically just a Gilmour solo song on a Pink Floyd album. His co-writer contributed just lyrics. He did what he could with it for a long time, but at a certain point he just decided to go with its screechy essential nature. Around this point in The Wall , listeners could be forgiven for finding it trying. Minus the four-octave range and ability to pitch.
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