Pink Floyd - Ummagumma

For at least one night in my life, Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma was the greatest album in recorded history.

Before you get excited, you have to understand that my own enthusiasm was obtained through extracurricular activities. As soon as those “activities” ended, so did my unconditional love towards Ummagumma.

After all, how are you going to really love a song with a title like “Several Species of Small Furry Animals Gathered Together in a Cave and Grooving with a Pict?”

To be quite honest, even under the influence, the studio portion of Ummagumma was quickly determined to be irritating, which meant that we kept having to rewind the cassette to get back to the good stuff that evening: the live portion of the double album.

And believe me, rewinding a cassette while battling hallucinogens is a task that seemingly takes forever, particularly when your mind is contemplating the origin and root compounds of the word “rewind.”

Those live tracks are the only reason why Floydians should even seek out Ummagumma. I say this knowing that my words will ultimately reach a digital vacuum, as no amount of critical warning will make a Pink Floyd fan turn away from any portion of their catalog.

I’ve been there, and I get it.

For the rest of you sane readers, let me say that the magnetic tape from the Spring on 1969 captured Pink Floyd on fire. The live material was taken from a relatively small venue (Mothers) which closed up a few years after the fact, but not before the Floyd put the upstairs venue on the map for all time.

The small space doesn’t prevent Floyd from seeking otherworldly sounds, and there’s a great deal of nice experimentation going on, particularly for a band still trying to find their place without former leader, Syd Barrett.

If Ummagumma were released as a single, live offering, then the record would be a firm 4-star release. Instead, it’s saddled with the concept of having each member contribute a piece to the record’s studio sides. And for anyone who’s listened to any one of the Floyd’s solo records, you already know that Pink Floyd are an awesome sum that is greater than their individual parts.

You get Rick Wright fiddling with a bit of treated piano, which I remember thinking at the time, “I could do that, but I won’t, because it’s annoying.”

 Roger Waters enlists his (then) wife to fart around on her flute while he begins making the same kind of “organic” sounds he explored around the same time with Ron Geesin.  It just made me nervous, particularly the part where it sounds like Waters is saying “Come!”

There’s Nick Mason laying down a seven minute long drum solo. This is the same dude that had trouble just keeping time at various points in the band’s career, so I’m not sure a drum solo is warranted.

Finally, there’s David Gilmour, who could have provided some intriguing moments, but instead later admitted that he just threw a bunch of shit together on tape and called it good.

There will be no points in your life that you will ever say “I think I’d like to hear the studio side of Ummagumma today.” Conversely, there will be moments when nothing but the live disc will do-sober or otherwise. This, along with the fantastic packaging that holds this bi-polar oddity, will be the only reasons worth owning Ummagumma, while for me it provides a bit of personal cautionary tale that sometimes, the best way to truly appreciate a record is when you’re as clean as a whistle.

Going Underground: Paul McCartney, The Beatles and the UK Counterculture

You can keep your San Francisco.

For my time machine, London circa 1966/67 sounds like it could have been ground zero for the counterculture, and a recent documentary examines this possibility.

Going Underground: Paul McCartney, The Beatles and the UK Counterculture takes a detailed look at Swinging London and the impact that Britain's radicals had on shaking the island country out of its Victorian slumber.

Press:

In the mid-1960s the often rigid and colourless British way of life was irrevocably transformed by the emergence of a cultural underground movement. Led by a loose collective of young radicals, they introduced new social, sexual and aesthetic perspectives. Operating out of the heart of London, their various activities, from 'The International Times' - a bi-weekly journal that no hipster could be seen without - to the psychedelic nightclub UFO, promoted alternative lifestyles and values, and sparked a social revolution.

This film not only traces the history of this underground scene, but also explores its impact on the pre-eminent British group of the era, The Beatles. Although they were well established by the time the movement emerged, Paul McCartney in particular, was closely linked with several of its key players, and through his exposure to cutting edge concepts brought ideas directly from the avant-garde into the mainstream.

Featuring many new interviews with key players from the time including; IT editor and long term friend of Paul McCartney, Barry Miles; founder of IT and UFO club organiser, John 'Hoppy' Hopkins; founder of UFO and Pink Floyd producer , Joe Boyd; Soft Machine drummer, Robert Wyatt; drummer from experimental improvisational collective AMM, Eddie Prevost; proprietor of Indica, the counter-cultural gallery, John Dunbar; Underground scenester, vocalist with The Deviants and IT journalist, Mick Farren; plus author of 'Days in the Life: Voices from the English Underground 1961 - 1971', Jonathon Greene; Beatles expert, Chris Ingham and Mojo jounalist Mark Paytress. Also includesrare archive footage, photographs from private collections and music from The Pink Floyd, The Beatles, Soft Machine, AMM and others.

Nick Mason & Rick Fenn - Profiles

Navigating through the terrain of solo records from members of Pink Floyd should be a very rewarding experience, particularly given the member’s talents, their incredible consistency within the band structure, and-in some cases-incredibly lofty egos.

Well, everyone except drummer Nick Mason who, besides some fairly weak contributions in Ummagumma and some less than notable percussion work in the band, never really stands out as someone capable releasing original music that is anywhere near as compelling as his quiet contributions to the Floyd.

Yet, the powers that be within the band’s record company appeased the individual members with was appears to be the addition of solo contracts for each of them, Nick Mason included.

The funny thing about Nick Mason “solo” records, however, is how much he truly relies on the talents and generosity of others. So, in a sense, they’re not really his, even when he gets top billing on them.

In 1985, Mason teamed up with 10cc guitarist Rick Fenn to release Profiles, a collection of (mostly) instrumentals that are mired in dated production techniques, horrible guitar tones, and rudimentary electronic percussion that sounds more programmed than performed.

The instrumental tracks sound as interesting as the hold music you hear while waiting on the phone for a customer service department, but at least they’re not as the two embarrassing cuts where someone actually handles vocal duties.

David Gilmour gets hoodwinked into lending his voice to the tolerable “Eye For An Eye,” the albums only contender for single and only reason why any self respecting Floyd fan would even care about Profiles. To be polite, it sounds like it would find a great home on some forgotten soundtrack album.

Worse still is “Israel” sung by the keyboard player from UFO. It’s a pretty awful attempt at placing Mason/Fenn in the category of “rockers with political conviction” because that’s what superstars tended to do in the mid-80’s. The thing is, “Israel” doesn’t really identify what political stance Mason actually takes, but you know it has something to do with the conflict between the Jews and Arabs.  ”Goodbye good thing/Africa’s a lonely place” goes the chorus, which ultimately begs the question “Couldn’t have they just made this one an instrumental cut too?”

Profiles does nothing to showcase the talents of Mason and more importantly, it does nothing to demonstrate that the Floyd drummer was anything more in that band’s creative process other than the guy most trusted to fix the other member’s tea. 

The RAGBRAI Story: 25th Anniversary Edition

It’s been twenty-five years, so maybe the story can finally be told.

Last Thursday, my city hosted RAGBRAI, a yearly bike event where people gather and ride their bikes across the state of Iowa, from the Missouri river to the Mississippi. Thousands of bikers, both novices and serious riders, gather each year around the same time when Iowa’s temperatures reach their peak for a non-competitive, weeklong ride.

A quarter-century ago-try saying that fast ten times…you’ll still never understand how old it sounds-I participated in RAGBRAI and lived to tell about it.

The lessons I learned from that ride are with me to this day, with memories that continue to be shared with others while some remain unspoken.

The places where I stayed are the foggiest. Was it Storm Lake, or was it just a bad thunderstorm during that first night? Hartford or New Hartford, which one? There isn’t an airport in Guttenberg, is there? So how did I fly back across the state after RAGBRAI was all over?

You have to understand that RAGBRAI would literally just take over these small towns when they’d stroll in, usually mid-to-late afternoon, depending on how hard you rode from the previous town that day.

Once you arrived at your destination, a quick clean up (more on that later) and then head over to the local watering hole to get ripped.

You’ll get defenders claiming that RAGBRAI is a family oriented environment, fueled on wholesome American spirit and Midwestern values. There is a section of the massive bike camp where this is true; it’s the same section of the camp where local bike clubs or corporate participants submit their requests to the RAGBRAI organizers, paying their entry fees and having a legitimate pass to get into the event.

Then there’s the rest of the riders, teams made up of old drinking buddies or groups of adults that view the week as a chance to get lit and relive their college days, blissfully right next to a bunch of college bros that also see the ride as a chance to unwind.

I would have been part of the latter camp, securing the RAGBRAI idea from a friend across state who encouraged me to come up to his place and tag along for the event. He provided me with some vague details on who we’d be riding with, and how we would participate even without proper tickets or documentation. Then there was the fact that I didn’t even own a bike at the time.

I worked at the municipal pool during the summer, securing the necessary time off as a “vacation” and using a friend’s mountain bike for “training.” The local bluffs around the Mississippi river where I grew up provided a brutal training area.

So I decided not to train.

By the time we made it to the starting town on the Iowa border to Nebraska, my friend and I had already consumed a fair amount of hallucinogens around the Iowa Great Lakes area on the days leading up to our launch.

I learned two very important things on that first day, a seventy-five mile distance from  point A to point B. The first was that even if you haven’t properly trained, a young, resilient body would adapt. You will eventually reach a point where you break through the soreness and fatigue, finally conquering the notion that your body won’t be able to survive the entire ride.

I don't think it's the same case for a 45 year old man, and I'm not willing to find out.

We're on the road to nowhere. Literally.

The second thing that I learned is that bicycle shorts are a critical accessory to any bicyclist with testicles, particularly ones faced with daily rides of anywhere from 70 to 100 miles. The pain in my balls was so intense that on the first stop of the second day, I bought a pair of Cannondale bicycling shorts with a chamois gooch cushion at a ridiculously high price just so I could get to the next town without having to pedal the entire way standing up. Those bicycle shorts remained in close proximity with my junk for the entire trip, and I still own them to this day.

One thing that didn’t make it all the way was my Smiths Meat Is Murder concert-T that had become so encrusted with pit stains after years of continuous wear that I made the tattered remains into wife-beater jersey that complimented my dirty-blonde locks that had finally grown past my shoulders.

Wherever we ended up for the first night, it was very dark. As a storm approached the camp area, I became totally focused on the number of people sporting earrings made out of small plastic see-through containers of that glow-in-the-dark liquid they use in bracelets.

Someone gave me one of these earrings, and in my altered state I convinced myself that I needed to pierce my ear and wear my new earring so that I could be illuminated too.

You’ll notice that I said “ear” as in one ear, not the pair. You see, back in the 80’s scientists discovered that straight males did not wear earrings in both ears. After months of research and testing, these scientists noted irrefutable evidence that males that pierced only their right ear were homosexual, while straight men pierced only their left ear. I convinced one of my travel companions that he should help me with the process. He had a single earring in his left ear, so I gathered that he was somewhat familiar with the ear piercing protocol and that he wasn’t gay.

With dirty fingernails that smelled of spilled Miller Lite, he grabbed the post end of my glow-in-the-dark earring and pressed it through my fleshy earlobe. There was hardly any blood, but the popping sound that I distinctly heard as the post finally made its way through the other side of my earlobe made a massive popping noise.

Everybody else swore they never heard a popping sound, but maybe they just didn’t take enough LSD to hear it.

If the idea that some of the time during RAGBRAI was spent under the influence of hallucinogenic drugs seems weird to you, it really shouldn’t. No, the truly bizarre thing is how we ran out of acid the night before we hit Fort Dodge, Iowa and were able to secure more of it in a parking lot of this central Iowa town of 25,000 people.

Some of the towns in the stops along the way go all out in welcoming you and making you feel that you’re more than just another revenue source. As I entered one small town stop, I immediately began to scope out the community, looking first for our group’s camper, but then trying to locate shower sources, meal specials, and other points of interest, like which parking lots have the greatest potential for scoring LSD.

For this particular town, they had opened up the showers to the middle school for bikers to clean up a bit. The hot water was used up hours before, but with the heat of the July sun still a recent memory, the cool water was not much of a complaint.

And a cold shower in the local middle school was nothing to some of the other cleaning areas I saw in other towns. Like the town that let bikers use the outside faucets in the stalls of a local fairgrounds that were normally used to clean livestock. I felt uncomfortable with the obvious comparison to our farm animal brethren, and the fear that the muddy grounds directly outside of  the stalls would instantly defeat any notion of actually getting clean.

I didn’t feel like a cold shower in the local Middle school that day.

I wanted a real, warm shower.

I convinced my friend and another rider, that all we needed to do was to walk down one of the oak-lined streets in this God-fearing Iowa town and look for lawn ornaments.

There’s a certain age-bracket for anyone who considers lawn ornaments, and I reasoned that the age bracket would skew older. The idea was that an older couple would be more receptive than younger residents to let in random strangers into their home to take a shower.

All of this seems completely insane now-I mean, who would actually agree to letting strangers into their houses? But a quarter-century ago, there were towns in Iowa that would let acid-soaked bicyclists into the most private of areas of their homes, allowing them to dampen their towels and snoop around their medicine cabinets.

I say this with all certainty because the first home we saw with lawn ornaments let us use their shower for some nice, hot relief.

It was an older woman who opened the door, looking a bit surprised at my request, but sheepishly allowing us in to partake her indoor plumbing.

If anything, she seemed a little worried that her overnight guests may have used up all of her hot water. I noticed a couple of cyclists had camped out in her backyard, apparently part of the community’s hosting program which paired up cyclists with spare backyards, bedrooms, whatever kind of accommodations they could donate for one night of RAGBRAI. She must have surmised that someone from the city sent my group to her door, pleading for a chance to clean up before invading her community’s taverns.

If that event was the most redeeming story of humankind, then allow me to continue with what happened next in that same community.

The owners/renters/caretakers of the camper we were tagging with, were starting to get a bit intolerant of my friend and me for constantly retreating to the top of the camper. The concern was that our weight would cause damage to the roof of the camper, thereby ruining it and spoiling the thing for future fun.

They didn’t have so much of an issue of it when it was just the two of us sleeping up there, but we had a tendency to invite any and every passerby to join us on the roof of the camper. Particularly girls. 

Occasionally, a few more people would find their way up the ladder to the roof, admiring our stoned perspective from above, safe from the myriad of personalities that walked passed our parked campsite.

If you’re wondering why we didn’t just get inside the camper, it’s because it was a sausage fest in there. If we were going to roughneck it, we would do so outside in the elements, fearless of any unpredictable weather pattern.

That’s when another thunderstorm rolled in, waking us with the tentative rain drops that gave us fair warning for the heavier stuff that was about to hit.

My friend scrambled for the camper door, leaving me with the only open space, the passenger seat. There was no way that a passenger seat would provide me with the required rest that I needed for an 80-mile bike ride the following morning.

I spotted a dark porch across the street with no signs of awake life from inside the house. More importantly, I saw a porch swing hanging from the ceiling. I immediately recalled several times I’d fallen asleep on the porch swing just off my parent’s master bedroom back home. I scooted over to the porch across from our camper and determined that I could easily wake up before anyone inside the house noticed me the next morning.

It worked. I tip-toed off the porch just as soon as I noticed a kitchen light come on, visible from the big window that separated the porch from the living room inside. I scurried back across the street to more friendly territory where members of my group were starting to roll out of the camper.

Shortly before taking off, I noticed that someone had stolen my bicycle seat. Let me rephrase that: I noticed that someone had stolen the bicycle seat of my friend’s bicycle, the nice man who entrusted its well-being and safety explicitly to me for this week.

One of the guys in the camper decided that he was too hungover to ride that day, so he let me use his seat, making my all black mountain bike look silly with his all white seat.

We rolled into the next town where another round of LSD was passed out. Under this state, I suddenly reminded myself that I probably wouldn’t be able to borrow the seat again. We had finally arrived at the last stop of the night and nobody wants to enter the last town via a sag wagon. The roads approaching would be tough too, as RAGBRAI snaked its way through the bluffs of the Mississippi river until you reached the end of the line at the river itself.

Under the influence of a mind-altering substance, I decided I would simply steal someone else’s bike seat when the rider’s campsite had calmed down for the evening.

I didn’t account for two things: 1.) That people usually stay up very late on their last night of RAGBRAI and 2.) That it is impossible to determine the correct distance of people’s voices while tripping on LSD.

I walked past a group of bikes lying unsecured next to a camper. I quickly got in front of the camper and-swear to god-crawled underneath the camper to get back to the bicycles. I thought I was being clandestine in my efforts, even though I could clearly hear people’s conversations to what sounded to be right next to me.

I crawled out from under my victim’s camper and made my way over to the cluster of bikes. I grabbed the seat off the first quick-release bike I could find and walked back the quarter-mile or so from my own campsite.

After a bit of self-congratulations for my efforts, I could see nobody was nearly impressed with my efforts as I was, mainly because it was getting close to daylight at this point and they were all trying to sleep.

I would have, if I'd stolen the right kind of seat.

I fell asleep in my sleeping bag that I positioned on a grassy hill and got in at least a few hours of sleep before heading out on the road again, the voices of imaginary people gently whispering me to sleep.

That morning, I learned two things: 1.) Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma is the best album ever made when you’re under the influence of LSD and 2.) There are these things called “stems” in which bicycle seats are attached to and these “stems” come in different sizes.

I learned these things because we listened to Ummagumma practically every night of RAGBRAI and because the bicycle seat that I had stolen while tripping my balls off just hours prior would not fit into the frame of the bicycle I was riding.

I admitted defeat and rode in the camper during the last day of RAGBRAI.

Karma really had its way with me as we rolled into a primitive little town on the Mississippi called Guttenberg. My friend had secured a small twin propeller airplane for us through a friend of his father. While getting my gear ready, I noticed that I had lost my wallet. To make matters worse, the owners of the camper were in a rush to leave, so I gave them my address in case they found it while cleaning it out when they got home.

Our plane landed in Guttenberg’s airport, a small airfield with a grass runway that looked like there was no distance between start to finish. And at the finish was an old barn, that still looked sturdy enough that it could do some damage to a twin-propeller airplane with four occupants.

As the plane rose, I drifted off to sleep, dreaming that this would be my last RAGBRAI adventure ever.

Quick epilogue: I did get my wallet back when one of the camper dudes mailed it to the address I’d left with him.

I also got arrested the first day I got back home, evidently the result of some investigation on me while I was away on my bike trip. It was the first time I ever used the phrase “I’d like to speak to my lawyer” and, let me tell you, it’s something that I’d recommend to any of those yackers you see on Cops.

What I was arrested for is anther story, as this one has gone on for too long. I’ve never been on RAGBRAI since that time, but the funny thing is that I haven’t missed it, at least not until our city hosted the event this year and more and more people began talking about the impact to the city.

Cedar Rapids spent $250,000 on getting Counting Crows to come here, a concert that featured most riders staying away entirely, presumably because half of RAGBRAI’s participants didn’t know who Counting Crows were and the other half did, but they weren’t willing to fork over the $25 they were asking for as ticket prices.

It would have been $30 for a civilian like me.

No only that, but they put the concert a ways away from the campgrounds, leaving people with not much incentive to hop on their bikes after an already long day, just to pedal to our downtown district to hear “Round Here” or “Mr. Jones.”

Pink Floyd's got a bike...you can ride it if you'd like.

The riders complained that Cedar Rapids seemed to think that the riders were nothing but open pocketbooks, to which I’d suggest, “Absolutely!”

You see, we haven’t got too many visitors here since 2008 because of the floods, so any market that we can corner, we’ll try to get as much money from them as possible. They’re refurbishing our concrete arena for more Slipknot and Stone Sour shows and the ornate Paramount Theater that was covered in river water is not scheduled to reopen until November, when none other than Harry Connick Jr. is slated to appear for the grand re-opening festivities. Don’t laugh, I’ve heard numerous women at work who’ve already declared that they’ll be the first in line to get tickets.

I don’t question my town’s motivation for trying to swindle a buck or two, and I’d say it’s entirely up to the riders themselves if they want to pay for such offerings. I probably wouldn’t have spent $25 bucks on a ticket for a rock show either, choosing instead to spend my money on cheap domestic beer, weed and LSD.

And with those kinds of elements, the only other entertainment you need is a well-worn cassette copy of Pink Floyd’s Ummagumma.

Flaming Lips - The Dark Side Of The Moon

Have you heard about the off-Broadway performance of Romeo and Juliet that forgoes the actual work of Shakespeare in favor of a bunch of strewn together narratives, lifted from vague recollections of the play?
The Flaming Lips (along with Wayne’s nephew’s band Stardeath and the White Dwarf) have seemingly taken a similar approach to Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon and channeled that landmark effort into a vaguely reminiscent cover album. It’s a pairing that surely will grab the attention of fans of either band with supporters of the Lips’ unique blend of weirdness probably getting the award for higher tolerance.
“Why?” is perhaps the biggest question resulting from this project, but then again, why release an album that requires four separate cd players just to hear the complete songs? Why spend the good part of a decade making a charming-but-frustrating science fiction/Christmas movie? And speaking of Christmas, why release a ‘Silver Trembling Fetus” Christmas ornament?
Clearly, reasons why are an afterthought of the Lips-or specifically, Wayne Coyne’s-thought process, which is precisely why the band has remained a relevant force in today’s music. Remember all of those great ideas you came up with while you were stoned? Well, Coyne delivered on his even if some failed under the weight of their own nonsense.
“But I tried, didn’t I, Goddamn it.” as McMurphy says in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s Nest. “At least I did that.”
The Floyd Freaks are rolling in their grave, placing the original Dark Side up there like the Sistine Chapel, equating the Lips’ reworking as vandalism. They see each bit of distortion, every “off” arrangement, and each sonic “mistake” as a flaw, only recognizing the pristine beauty of Alan Parsons’ mix as a gold standard.
But what if the Lips tried to emulate such precision? I think that those cries of “Judas!” would be just as loud and even a few vocal fans of the Lips like myself would also be troubled. A few years back, the Lips did a note-perfect rendition of Queen’s “Bohemian Rhapsody” which was more notable for its facsimile than for its performance.
Not so here, the Flaming Lips treat Dark Side of the Moon like a stoned retelling in your older brother’s bedroom.
Taken in that context, the effort is actually better than it needs to be. The band(s) consider Pink Floyd’s version was in Billboard’s Hot 200 charts for like a millennium, to the point where the rag changed the rules midstream. The Lips have considered the possibility that you’ve heard the album a few times and-thankfully-ripped the thing through the shredder. “Breathe” is fueled by a two note Suicide bass and David Gilmore’s soothing slide guitar is replaced with feedback. Floyd’s primitive sequencing on “On The Run” is reduced to a Krautrock beat and a nifty guitar sequence. “Money” relies on tour-mates Black Moth Super Rainbow’s vocoder and a cheap drum machine. It isn’t until “Us and Them” where the similarities begin to reveal themselves-but only slightly. The chord patterns may sound familiar, but its clear that the Lips were on a mission to pay homage here instead of playing connect the dots.
What’s telling is how accurate the band is in getting Dark Side’s crazy quotes-monotonously recited by Henry Rollins-at precisely the same moments as the original. They replace Clare Torry’s octave-bending scales with Peaches’ distorted wails.
All of it, from the originality of the reinterpretations to the barely trying facsimiles, is a hoot. It’s a blast to hear in a social gathering and it’s a joy to examine in the confines of your inner ear headphones.
But make no bones about it, Dark Side of the Moon like its inspiration is a real attempt at taking rock to a higher ideal. This isn’t some thrown together mockery that’s as disposable as the kilobytes holding it together. Only the delivery method (an ITunes exclusive) makes the project seem half-hearted, which is somewhat disheartening.
Both efforts are genuine in their desire to challenge the listener and themselves and both of them deserved to be heard in the format that it was designed for. Since only one of them is and since one has over thirty-five years of permanently embedding itself into the dna of classic rock, the Lips have an uphill battle with those listeners content with the original.
For anyone who can try to imagine a bizarro world where Dark Side is a clean slate of endless possibilities, the Flaming Lips’ version is as challenging as the one that inspired it.

This review originally appeared in Glorious Noise.

Pink Floyd - Atom Heart Mother

The first Pink Floyd album I ever bought was Atom Heart Mother. I have no idea how or when I got it. It certainly wasn’t anything that I got since I had no clue who the band was and since the album doesn’t really contain any radio hits.
What it does have is an awesome cover.
It’s not the best Floyd album to begin with, in retrospect, probably because it’s one of the band’s least enjoyable efforts. The band was still attempting to find their own footing after the dismissal/departure of Syd Barrett and they forged ahead with democratic songwriting and wandering jams.
In fact, the title track takes up an entire side. There are moments of grandiose greatness-particularly with the introductions of a nice brass ensemble-but it just doesn’t possess the qualities that necessitate such a lengthy passage.
On the other side, each band member (except drummer Nick Mason) is given a title of their own.
Roger Waters’ entry is by far the best. “If” begins as a gentle acoustic before morphing into a slow musical exploration that’s similar to the band’s later work on Dark Side Of The Moon.
Richard Wright gives a surprisingly complex “Summer of ‘68” which, again, features a nice brass part and infectious pop melody. Lyrically, Wright is nowhere near the caliber of Waters’ but this is a vast improvement over his work on other Floyd albums.
David Gilmour’s “Fat Old Sun” is a grower, seemingly uneventful on first listen but very memorable after a few rounds.
And then there’s “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast,” a thirteen-minute long instrumental broken down in parts by a dude making breakfast and mumbling. I was pretty intriguing as a kid, but later you realize that the band is just reaching for anything and settled on recording their roadie (Alan) and a bowl of milky Rice Krispies.
Add together that milky cereal with the bovine on the cover and what do you get? Probably the soggiest effort in Pink Floyd’s catalog.

Which One's Pink?

If the Doors are a rite-of-passage for teenagers, then surely Pink Floyd should be offered similar requirements. As a matter of fact, I specifically remember seeing a helluva lot more Floyd than Doors fans at my own high school. It was also easier to buy weed than booze there, so that explains a lot.
And while The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn may not have been a traditional favorite, all of the usual suspects like Dark Side Of The Moon, The Wall, and Wish You Were Here were. Occasionally, you’d see a few fans with copies of Atom Heart Mother, Meddle, or Ummagumma, but the general consensus was the required listening would be the albums listed before.
I used to think The Wall was brilliant. Not only did I think it was Floyd’s best album, I thought it was one of the greatest albums ever made. Keep in mind; this was my middle school years, a time when I still spent cash on shit like Styx, April Wine and 38 Special albums.
When you consider those acts, it’s easier to understand why The Wall would be so highly regarded.
I’m sure the news of my favorite album being made into a movie with “punk rocker” Bob Geldoff playing the lead made me stoked. And, truth be told, I’m pretty sure that I thought the movie adaptation of The Wall was an awesome piece of work.
The more time I spent with The Wall the album, the more I started to feel that perhaps it was a tad too lofty. It may have started with discovering Floyd’s album before The Wall, Animals. With its long song times and arrangements, it sounded more like a band than The Wall did. Indeed, looking at the credits for The Wall pointed to a slew of hired guns to achieve was ultimately was Roger Waters’ singular vision.
And now I view The Wall the movie as another extension of Waters’ vision, to the point where it verges on catering more to his ego than of an artistic statement. While the concept may have been enough to tie together a double album, the movie points to several gaping holes conveniently hidden underneath cartoon vignettes and WWII imagery.
This realization happened in college, ironically around the same time I started to fancy Barrett’s work over Waters, but I think that the pretentiousness of The Wall the movie helped it along.
Twenty five years ago The Wall made its U.S. premiere to stoned fans and ambivalent critics. What may have seemed like high-art to the potheads merely remains as an extra curricular activity for a band that was already over-reaching on the album itself.

Pink Floyd - The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn

Admittedly, some Summer of Love documents sound hopelessly dated. Regardless of their quality, there’s always a sense of opening up a time capsule, looking into a period where grandiose statements seem corny (The Moody Blues Days Of Future Passed), political viewpoints seem naively silly (Country Joe & The Fish Electric Music For The Mind & Body) and groundbreaking production seems hopelessly limiting (Jefferson Airplane Surrealistic Pillow).
Pink Floyd’s The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn doesn’t sound like it was born in 1967. It sounds like it was born completely out of time. Jumping from fairytales, space travel, cats, the I Ching, gnomes, and other oddities within the span of the album’s forty two minutes, Piper is the product of Syd Barrett’s limitless imagination and pending mental illness. Norman Smith’s archaic production helps the album achieve something rare for an album of its age: an eerie sense of unease within a completely organic environment. The listener always has the sense that the songs were composed, arranged, and performed by musicians seeking to expand their own horizons without a hint of pretension.


Although it was considered to be highly “produced” during its time, the technical limitations have aged well, giving the organs a creepy vibe, the guitar some added rawness, and the bass…well, you can’t really hear the bass all that much.
No worries: Roger Waters would later run the roost, but in 1967 the rest of the members were following the lead of a certifiable crazy man who seemed intent, or oblivious, that some of his notions might lead to a certain commercial suicide.
The fact that the band were able to achieve some success with Piper in England is particularly mind-blowing and a testament to that country’s openness towards different directions. I suppose that some of the reason for its acceptance is because Piper does feel strangely European at points; while U.S. bands like the Dead and Moby Grape harnessed American elements, Floyd’s beginnings come directly from the past of the old country, mixed with a large dose of lysergic vision.
It would take several years before Floyd gained favor within the American market, but its first album not only sounds unlike anything else in the band’s overall catalog, it may be their finest moment too.

We're Getting The Band Back Together: 2007 Reunion Tours

2007 seems to be the year of reuniting, since it feels so good, and with it comes the obligatory discussion concerning the merits of said reformation.

The awful truth about reunions is that they're often the result of greed and ego: a quick lift in the player's bank accounts and self-worth. There are examples of bands coming together again for the sake of unfinished business (Celtic Frost, Dinosaur Jr., and a few others come to mind) but Father-time typically doesn't prove to be on the side of aging rockers.

Van Halen-As discussed here.

The Stooges-Look, as much as I'm excited about this, I'm also a realist. Thirty-three fucking years have past since Raw Power and none of the surviving members are spring chickens. Hell, they're not even Popeye's Fried Chicken. But this is The Stooges we're talking about; a band so mired in destruction that we're blessed that Iggy and the Ashtons are even alive. And at the end of the day, don't we owe it to them to pay tribute for being able to wake up in the morning? The Live In Detroit dvd is riddled with equal parts tear-inducing nostalgia and ear-hurting embarassment. And "My Idea Of Fun" from their upcoming The Weirdness is a decent Iggy track but nowhere near the brilliance of The Stooges past glories. We'll see if the rest of the album is better, but time and reality are certainly against them.

The Police-This will be the moneymaker of the year….And with ticket prices ranging from $60-$225 (“packages” are even higher) this tour has got me considering a financial boycott. I’m not sure of the financial status of Stewart or Andy, but I know Sting isn’t hurting for cash, even though his last few solo efforts have stiffed. Regardless, explain to me why I’m required to get fucked up the ass so that Sting doesn’t slip into obscurity? The Police have never really qualified as a “punk” band, but it would have been very punk if they’d leveraged their reunion tour with reasonable financial restraint.
I’m secretly hoping this tour absolutely fails and the blame is placed solely on the outrageous ticket prices. Serves ‘em right. I’m also secretly hoping that a pair of tickets magically appear on my doorstep because (losing credibility here perhaps) I’d really like to see this one.

Smashing Pumpkins-Note to Billy Corgan: nobody gives a shit. If the Pumpkins were your “dreams” then why did you form Zwan? I doubt that anyone would have noticed James or D’Arcy missing from the Pumpkins line-up if you chose to carry on the moniker. In Totale’s world, you released two great albums (Gish and Siamese Dream) before succumbing to a pattern of elitism and pretentiousness. Keep your ego in check, Corgan: you may sell out a few theatres but don’t expect a lot of hero worship to upgrade your reunion to the arenas.

Rage Against The Machine-Not a fan, so no real excitement here. I will say that we really could’ve used a ton more lefty-leaning rock outfits during the Bush II Evil Empire (get it?) instead of fucking Audioslave.

Genesis-My dick might get a little hard if Gabriel were in the line-up, but no, it’s Phil Fucking Collins Genesis, to which I’m reminded of some truly horrible shit from the 80’s and into the 90’s. To be honest, by 1988 I couldn’t tell what was Phil Collins solo and a Genesis track, so I’m not the dude to ask if these fuckers could fill a state fair stadium. The last Genesis album I bought was Duke and I remember liking Abacab and a few tracks from their ’83 eponymous album. None of those albums mean that I would be caught dead at a Genesis concert.

Dinosaur Jr.-I’d totally see this one. When I missed them in the original line-up tours, I heard that they were loud as fuck and very inconsistent. I’d like to believe that getting older would help out in the latter department, but would hate to see a reduction in the volume. After all, that’s part of the thing that made You’re Living All Over Me and Bug so enjoyable: Mascis’ amplifier meltings were a thing of beauty. From reviews I’ve read about the reunion so far (which includes an album), they haven’t lost much.

Sebadoh-Really? I didn’t even know they broke up. I’m willing to bet that other people didn’t know this either.

Did I get ‘em all?

Now for the list of dream reunions. These are the bands that I would definitely consider seeing if they ever decided to reunite.

Spacemen 3-I’m sure that Jason Pierce is the only thing that’s holding this one up. And I’m sure that he’s making enough from Spiritualized to not even consider re-teaming with Sonic Boom again. But if he did, and even if they only played one chord together for 45 minutes, I’d want to be at the foot of the stage paying homage to these dudes. Check it:

The Smiths-Rumor has it that they were offered millions for a one-off that was systematically rejected. Hell, I’d even salivate if Morrissey/Marr teamed up under a different moniker. A full-fledged reunion seems unlikely since bassist Andy Rourke really hosed them in court for back royalties.

Husker Du-Saw ‘em in ’87 when they were on the downward spiral, and the show was so intense that I’d gladly see ‘em again. From what I understand, Grant Hart and Bob Mould dislike each other so much that the idea of a reunion would never get off the ground. I also don’t think the band has enough notable legacy to pay them what they’re deserved. And what they deserve is a hundred times more than what fucking Genesis will make from their reunion shenanigans.

The Stone Roses-Betcha these guys could absolutely kill in their heyday. Like that quote from the movie "Shaun Of The Dead" says: Second Coming wasn’t that bad of an album. I think they only substantially toured the states in support of that album (which I missed) and time has made me miss them immensely. I guess I’m not the only one since there are two Stone Roses tribute bands currently cashing in around England: The Complete Stone Roses and The Clone Roses.

Pink Floyd-It’s cheesy, I know, but I’d totally be psyched for a reunited Waters/Gilmour thing. I saw the Floyd Water-less and it was painfully apparent that he was gone. Live 8 fueled the fire that they were on better terms, but I don’t see this happening. First of all, Waters is completely book for a solo tour throughout this summer and none of the members really need the cash. Gilmour has hinted that working with Waters is like pulling teeth and that Gilmour already has more money than a hundred dentists. Which is funny, especially if you’ve ever seen pictures of Rodger Waters’ teeth circa ’73.

Feel free to comment on what bands you’d like to see reunite.

Wouldn't You Miss Me?

A lot of this essentially repeats some of the same words I posted on a frequented music board, but I wanted to share a few stories involving Syd Barrett as news of his passing came today.
First, I suppose, there’s the introduction to this crazy diamond. The first Pink Floyd album I ever owned was “Atom Heart Mother,” a post-Syd release. Nonetheless, the music on this admitted Floydian also-ran led me to “Dark Side Of The Moon.” And then “The Wall.” And then to “Wish You Were Here.” And then to “Animals.” And then to the cassette collection of a high-school girl who had increased her Floyd collection exponentially to the point where it included the very first Pink Floyd album, “The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn.”
Since I didn’t have this release, it became a logical decision to ask the girl to borrow it. “It’s not like the other Floyd albums.” She advised. And she was right.
“Piper” is on an entirely different planet, and it was obvious that the leader of this version of Floyd was the primary spaceship captain. I read more about this founder, and how the band undertook a new direction when it was quite clear that the initial frontman was completely incapable of fronting the band. The idea that this instability was caused by hallucinogens became very intriguing; here was rock’s first acid casualty. And like a lot of people, I found humor in that story.
I swear I passed “Piper” around to a few people, and it seemed that others became attracted by the sound and the story of Syd. I went to the local Disc Jockey and asked the full-timer if they had either one of the two Barrett solo albums I’d read he released after leaving Floyd. “What’s the deal with Syd Barrett all of a sudden?” He asked. “You’re the third person to ask about him this week.” I special ordered “The Madcap Laughs” from him and the Rodger Waters/Ron Geesin soundtrack album “Music From ‘The Body.’”
I must have found something there, because suddenly the Album Oriented Rock version of Pink Floyd started to seem a tad contrite. The declaration of “We don’t need no education” gave way to “Oh where are you now/Pussy willow that smiled on this leaf?”
The latter painted something much more visual than anything starring the lead singer of The Boomtown Rats.
The Disc Jockey dude invited me over to take a listen to his Syd Barrett bootlegs. He wouldn’t allow his collection to be taken from his home, and strangely, he hadn’t invested in a tape player. But he did allow me to bring my cassette deck over if I wanted to copy these rare “artyfacts.” Regardless of the extremely low-fidelity, I now had versions of Syd Barrett radio broadcasts which sounded like they were recorded directly off of an A.M. radio.
And so it was announced that a collection of Barrett outtakes would be released. I picked up “Opel” as an import copy before it was officially released in America. This is telling as this decision was based entirely on the number of import “Opel” units sold domestically. Capitol records figured out that there was a devoted cult following of Syd Barrett fans in the states.
Upon first listen, the “Opel” collection sounded suspiciously like the bottom of the Barrett barrel. A few hits of l.s.d. demonstrated that “Opel’s” subtlety was beautifully misleading. The fact that most of the tracks are presented in a primitive state assists with this. They are a basic blueprint of something that could have been something glorious.
The more I learned, the more I understood that Syd Barrett’s demise was much more complex than just a guy who took too much acid. Sure, the claims of a crazy, balding fat guy showing up during the “Wish You Were Here” sessions fueled the mystique. As did the Disc Jockey guy’s information that a fanzine called “Terrapin” was comprised entirely of Barrett sightings. As did the rumors that he now lived a life of seclusion with his mother.
The more I learned, the more I sought out things that were “Barrett-esque.” Without him, there wouldn’t have been the discovery of Robyn Hitchcock, Julian Cope, Skip Spence, Jeff Mangum, and others who tread the fine line of losing touch with their mind. Shine on, Syd. You shone like the sun and provided some light for me to see a different side of music.