Comfortably Numb: The Inside Story of Pink Floyd (67 page)

Without fuss or fanfare, the show opened with the sound of North Carolina bluesman Blind Boy Fuller, and a backdrop of the sleevenotes to one of his albums, featuring the highlighted names of fellow bluesmen Pink Anderson and Floyd Council. When the lights came up, the Sense of Sound choir, an eighteen-voice ensemble from Liverpool, struck up an a cappella rendition of ‘Bike’, the nursery rhyme-like closing song on
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
.

The Damned’s Captain Sensible plugged in for a faithful version of ‘Flaming’ from the same album. Kevin Ayers responded with a ramshackle rendition of Syd’s ‘Here I Go’ and his own ode to Barrett, ‘Oh What a Dream’. Backing each of the individual musicians was a ‘house band’ comprising Oasis’ bass guitarist, Andy Bell, keyboard player Adam Peters and drummer Simon Finley (both mainstays of Echo and The Bunnymen) alongside singer-songwriter Beth Orton’s guitarist, Ted Barnes. The first half of the show progressed to a collage of dripping oil slides and retina-dazzling trickery from Peter Wynne-Willson beamed onto three huge screens behind the Barbican stage, a far larger canvas than anything he or Pink Floyd could have imagined in 1967. Wynne-Willson was also joined in his efforts by the Boyle Family, an artists’ collective, whose late father, Mark, had produced some of the groundbreaking light shows at the UFO club.

The performers trooped on, with their names flashed up on the screen behind them, each one performing one or two songs at most. Folk singer Kate McGarrigle helped raise the first goosebumps of the night, with a charming ‘See Emily Play’, sharing the vocals with her daughter Martha Wainwright and niece Lily Lanken.

As the lights dimmed again for the last performance of the first half, a familiar, slightly stooped figure could be spotted in the wings, instantly recognisable before the stage lights had even come back on again. Roger Waters’ arrival immediately prompted a standing ovation. Grinning nervously, he seated himself on a stool, acoustic guitar across his lap, and fussed with his microphone. To his left stood Jon Carin behind a keyboard.

‘Of course, I’m terrified,’ Waters quipped. ‘These small occasions are much more frightening than the big ones where you can hide behind all the paraphernalia. But for those of us who suffer from a sense of shame, and doom, as I’m sure any of you who know my work will know I have all my life . . . this is all quite stressful.’

Waters continued his speech, throwing a little more light on his relationship with Syd Barrett. ‘However, it would not have been stressful for Syd, because he did not suffer from those things in the same way that I do. Before the illness, he lived his life like he walked . . . he kind of . . . bounced, the whole time . . . and I think that his lack of a sense of shame enabled him to take all the risks that he did, musically, and that’s why we owe him such an enormous debt. Certainly I do personally, because without Syd, I don’t know what I’d be doing. Probably would have been a property developer or something.’

The candour was disarming, but in a frustratingly contrary move, Waters announced that he would not be playing one of Syd’s songs, or even a Pink Floyd song, but one of his own. ‘Typical Waters,’ came one grumbled quip from somewhere in the stalls. The song ‘Flickering Flame’ had become a mainstay of Waters’ recent solo performances, but to this partisan Barrett audience and in the context of the night its unfamiliarity made it a poor choice. The deeply personal lyrics were apt, but there was a palpable sense of disappointment as Waters bade his goodbyes and loped off stage at the end. Was that
it
?

‘There are holes in our psychology,’ he admitted months before. ‘There is something that makes us still want to go out there and do it.’ But for Waters, doing it now meant resurrecting
Dark Side of the Moon
at his own solo shows, with three guitarists standing where David Gilmour had once stood, attempting to do what Gilmour had once done so much better. For those that had seen the Floyd guitarist’s own performances of ‘Wish You Were Here’, ‘Breathe’ and ‘Comfortably Numb’ during his solo shows there was still the niggling hangover of Live 8. It wasn’t about who was playing the bass, it was about the fact that Roger Waters had been there that night; the man whose imagination and obsessive nature had so informed those songs. After Live 8, the alternatives were never going to be quite so exciting.

Backstage during the interval, the sight of David Gilmour’s guitar tech Phil Taylor carrying his master’s wares revealed that Waters would not be the only member of Pink Floyd, past or present, planning to make an appearance. In a closed-off dressing room, a little after 8.30 p.m., David Gilmour was photographed warming up with his guitar while Nick Mason kept time with a pair of drum sticks on a nearby armchair. The ‘great behemoth’, as the guitarist had once described Pink Floyd, was rousing itself from its torpor yet again, while having to make do with any available surface to practise on.

Out front, before an audience still playing guessing games, Roger Waters reappeared alongside Syd Barrett on the overhead screen. As mentioned earlier, the grainy, black and white footage showed the two being interviewed by Austrian musicologist Hans Keller (‘Why does it all got to be so terribly loud?’) for the BBC arts show,
Look of the Week
. Filmed in May 1967, Barrett and Waters spoke like the well-raised middle-class schoolboys they had been just a few years earlier. Barrett sounded erudite and appeared to be anything but stoned.

The music recommenced with Nick Laird-Clowes leading the Sense of Sound choir through an unearthly new arrangement of Pink Floyd’s ‘Chapter 24’, a song originally inspired by those nocturnal sessions with the Chinese
I-Ching
at Barrett’s Earlham Street flat, and revitalised by a choral accompaniment and haunting string arrangement. The Floyd’s original promo video for ‘Scarecrow’ crackled into life on the screen above, in which an impossibly youthful-looking Pink Floyd frolicked in a field, before Laird-Clowes joined folk singer Vashti Bunyan for the song itself.

Damon Albarn’s band Blur had dominated the UK charts in the 1990s with a strand of English pop partly derived from the Barrett-era Pink Floyd. Blur’s 1994 album,
Parklife
, had even deposed Floyd’s
The Division Bell
from the number 1 slot in the UK that year. Albarn wore his influences on his sleeve, dusting off ‘Word Song’ from Barrett’s
Opel
album of offcuts and out-takes, and imbuing the track with a wit and sparkle sadly absent from the original, where Syd’s freeform list of unrelated words sounded more like the verbal outpourings of a sick man than the ‘early version of rap’ Albarn claimed it to be.

Damon also coaxed Barrett’s twenty-nine-year-old nephew, Ian, on to the stage to say a few words. Knowing that the entire audience was scrutinising him for a family resemblance hardly helped his nerves. Ian offered a few appreciative words before raising his glass of beer and scuttling gratefully back into the stalls.

Chrissie Hynde had been instrumental in helping pull the show together. Her roughshod takes of ‘Dark Globe’ and ‘Late Night’, with Pretenders guitarist Adam Seymour, stayed close to the dilapidated spirit of the originals. But after the resolutely English Damon Albarn, Kevin Ayers and Captain Sensible, it was strange to hear anybody singing in an American accent.

By the time producer Joe Boyd finally strode on to announce ‘a suitable band to end the show’, sharp-eyed Floyd fans knew what was coming. Now the names of David Gilmour, Nick Mason and Richard Wright flashed up on the screen above, as they trooped on stage, the same identity parade of tucked-in shirts and worn-in jeans last visible at Live 8. Mason wore a now familiar grin, Wright looked as jittery as ever, but clearly delighted by the crowd’s standing ovation. Gilmour commandeered the centre stage, exuding a brisk, business-like air. Audience calls for Roger Waters were swiftly parried. ‘He was here, too,’ fired back the guitarist. ‘Now the rest of us.’

Except why wasn’t Waters here now? Whispers later circulated that Gilmour had invited him to join them on stage, only to be turned down. Later, Joe Boyd would claim that Waters had only confirmed that he would perform the night before the show, while explaining that he would have to leave the venue by 9 p.m. as he needed to meet his girlfriend, who was flying into London that evening. In the end, this reunion of sorts had come together after another flurry of last-minute calls. Wright had agreed first, Waters next, and Mason once Gilmour had announced his decision to play. However, the guitarist hadn’t confirmed until 2 p.m. that day.

Just as at Live 8, bassist Guy Pratt would find himself otherwise booked, playing in Bryan Ferry’s band at the Cambridge Corn Exchange that night; the venue in which Syd Barrett had made his last public performance thirty-five years earlier. Instead, Oasis’ bass player, Andy Bell, found himself on stage with Pink Floyd, a career curveball he could never have anticipated.

‘Arnold Layne’ performed by the remaining Pink Floyd seemed the only logical ending to the show. The group’s very first single, a creepy psychedelic ode to a Cambridge cross-dresser, it had been produced by Joe Boyd nearly forty years ago. The sound of Wright’s Farfisa organ was lost in the mix, with his voice sometimes following suit. But they ploughed on regardless. Jon Carin was back on stage, playing keyboards and singing backing vocals, with Gilmour also stepping into the fray when Wright’s voice faltered. At just three and a half minutes, the performance was gone in a flash. A simple pop song from a band who had made their mark and earned their millions trading on anything but simple pop.

And then the band were gone, too, back into the wings, as the lights dimmed and the stage was plunged into darkness. The audience, still on their feet, kept up their applause, a hundred barked conversations around the hall seeming to merge into one: ‘Where’s Waters?’

After several minutes, the stage lights came up, and the evening’s performers paraded back on stage: Robyn Hitchcock, Martha Wainwright, Chrissie Hynde, Nick Laird-Clowes, Kevin Ayers . . . Eventually, Richard Wright appeared, resuming his place at the keyboard. David Gilmour came next, clutching his guitar like a trusty keepsake, followed by Nick Mason, still holding a pair of drumsticks. Realising that the house band’s Simon Finley already occupied the drum kit, Nick took up his spot next to Wright’s keyboards, much like a lounge-bar singer waiting for the pianist to strike up the next song. All that was missing was a martini glass.

Jostling for space on the now cramped stage, the ad-hoc ensemble lurched into ‘Bike’, the same song that had opened the show. Nick Laird-Clowes took the first verse, before flitting around Gilmour and nudging him to take over the vocals. ‘Bike’ had been one of the songs Gilmour recalled hearing when he briefly visited Pink Floyd during the making of
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn
. Still trying to eke out a living playing in a covers band in France, Gilmour could hardly have imagined that four decades later, he would be on stage singing the same song. Mason, tapping his drumsticks on the palm of his hands, was clearly unfamiliar with the words. Instead, the gamely smiling drummer looked not dissimilar to the Queen captured on TV at the Millennium Eve celebrations, unsure of the lyrics or handshaking ritual to ‘Auld Lang Syne’.

Behind the three remaining members of Pink Floyd, the drums clattered, guitars were fitfully strummed, and a motley choir of acolytes, contemporaries and otherwise complete strangers bellowed the words to Syd Barrett’s nonsense poem. It was a witty, heartfelt, messy performance, in keeping with the spirit of the occasion. You rather hoped that Pink Floyd’s departed friend would have approved, had he still been around to witness it.

Yet one of Syd Barrett’s oldest friends was still absent. As those in the audience kept wondering, where
was
Roger Waters, the only performer missing from the grand finale? Was he really on his way to the airport? Had he been invited to join his former bandmates, but chosen not to join in? As the final chord was struck, and the house lights came up, it seemed as if the moment had passed again. Was this really the last time Pink Floyd, or most of them, would be seen together on stage? Another reunion of sorts, then. But still, not quite. How
very
Pink Floyd.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

This book wouldn’t have been possible without the help of friends and colleagues at
Mojo
and
Q
magazines, including Phil Alexander, Danny Eccleston, Gareth Grundy, Ted Kessler, Paul Rees and Stuart Williams. Further thanks to John Aizlewood, Johnny Black, Dave Brolan, Fred Dellar, Peter Doggett, Tom Doyle, Jerry Ewing, Sarah Ewing, Lora Findlay, Dawn Foley, Pat Gilbert, Ian Gittins, Ross Halfin, John Harris, Neil Jeffries, Philip Lloyd-Smee, Steve Malins, Toby Manning, Mark Paytress, Mark Sturdy, Phil Sutcliffe and Paul Trynka for phone numbers, information, interview transcripts, website expertise, encouragement and advice.

A warm handshake to Graham Coster at Aurum Press for effusive praise, tactful criticism and a nice E.M. Forster anecdote, to Rachel Leyshon for her sympathetic copy-editing, and to Matt Johns of the superlative Pink Floyd website
www.brain-damage.co.uk
for all his help and support.

Several people tolerated my frequent telephone calls and intrusions into their (past) lives. So a special thank you to Jeff Dexter, Iain ‘Emo’ Moore, Matthew Scurfield, Anthony Stern and John Watkins, who were especially gracious with their time and memories.

This book draws on my own interviews with David Gilmour, Nick Mason, Roger Waters and Richard Wright conducted between 1992 and 2006 for various magazines, including
Mojo
and
Q
. Also my own interviews with and contributions from: Nick Barraclough, Andrew Bown, Joe Boyd, Mick Brockett, Ivan Carling-Scanlon, Paul Carrack, Libby Chisman, Caroline Coon, Alice Cooper, David Crosby, Karl Dallas, John Davies, Chris Dennis, Jeff Dexter, Geoff Docherty, Harry Dodson, Bob Ezrin, Jenny Fabian, Mick Farren, Hugh Fielder, Duggie Fields, David Gale, Ron Geesin, John Gordon, Caroline Greeves, Jeff Griffin, Bob Harris, Dave ‘De’ Harris, Jeanette Holland, John ‘Hoppy’ Hopkins, Nicky Horne, Sam Hutt, Richard Jacobs, Jeff Jarratt, Nick Kent, Susan Kingsford, ‘Bob’ Rado Klose, John Leckie, Jenny Lesmoir-Gordon, Nigel Lesmoir-Gordon, Peter Jenner, Andrew King, Jonathan Meades, Tabitha Mellor, Bhaskar Menon, Clive Metcalfe, Peter Mew, Iain ‘Emo’ Moore, Seamus O’Connell, Davy O’List, Alan Parsons, Danny Peyronel, Aubrey ‘Po’ Powell, Guy Pratt, William Pryor, Stephen Pyle, Andrew Rawlinson, Alun Renshaw, Tim Renwick, Pete Revell, Mick Rock, Sheila Rock, Peter Rowan, Gerald Scarfe, Barbet Schroeder, Matthew Scurfield, Vic Singh, Christine Smith, Norman Smith, Jay Stapley, Anthony Stern, Steve Stollman, Storm Thorgerson, Clare Torry, Pete Townshend, John Watkins, Clive Welham, Peter Whitehead, John Whiteley, Andrew Whittuck, Rick Wills, Peter Wynne-Willson, John ‘Willie’ Wilson, Baron Wolman and Emily Young. Many thanks to everyone who spared the time to talk to me.