Pink Floyd – “Welcome to the Machine” (Promo – 1975)

March 1, 2020 at 3:26 pm (Music, Pink Floyd)

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Roger Waters – “Pigs (Three Different Ones)” (Live – 2016)

October 2, 2018 at 5:18 am (Music, Pink Floyd)

Live from Zócalo Square, Mexico City, Oct. 1, 2016…

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Roger Waters – “Wait for Her” (Video – 2017)

September 10, 2018 at 5:15 am (Music, Pink Floyd)

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Pink Floyd – “Louder Than Words” (2014)

October 16, 2014 at 10:11 pm (Music, Pink Floyd)

Pink Floyd’s first new single in 20 years…

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Pink Floyd – “Jugband Blues” (Promo – 1967)

March 27, 2009 at 5:28 am (Music, Pink Floyd)

In our continuing series of Pink Floyd singles, this final Syd Barrett/Pink Floyd single (their 6th one released in the UK) comes from July 1968 – several months after Barrett had already been kicked out of the band. The clip here was filmed in December 1967. This song features the Salvation Army band and is one of Barrett’s more elaborate, not to mention, disorienting compositions.


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Pink Floyd – “Let There Be More Light” (TV – 1968)

March 26, 2009 at 7:57 pm (Music, Pink Floyd)

This Feb. 24, 1968 TV performance from the (French, I presume) show Baton Rouge, is a rendition of their 5th UK single. Sung by Rick Wright and new guitarist David Gilmour (not miked very well). The studio version of this song contains Gilmour’s first recorded guitar solo with the band.
Original leader Syd Barrett was still technically with the band at this point, but was soon to be let go permanently, due to his increasingly erratic behavior.

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Pink Floyd – “Arnold Layne” (Promo – 1967)

March 22, 2009 at 8:35 am (Music, Pink Floyd)

This promo clip of the first single by Pink Floyd (then known as The Pink Floyd) comes from 1967 and features original leader Syd Barrett, as well as keyboardist Rick Wright (both sadly now deceased).
One of the great psychedelic singles of the time… 

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Pink Floyd – “The Final Cut” (1983)

September 8, 2008 at 3:29 pm (Kurt Loder, Music, Pink Floyd, Reviews & Articles)

Written by Kurt Loder for issue #393 of Rolling Stone 


This may be art rock’s crowning masterpiece, but it is also something more. With The Final Cut, Pink Floyd caps its career in classic form, and leader Roger Waters–for whom the group has long since become little more than a pseudonym–finally steps out from behind the “Wall” where last we left him. The result is essentially a Roger Waters solo album, and it’s a superlative achievement on several levels. Not since Bob Dylan’s “Masters of War” twenty years ago has a popular artist unleashed upon the world political order a moral contempt so corrosively convincing, or a life-loving hatred so bracing and brilliantly sustained. Dismissed in the past as a mere misogynist, a ranting crank, Waters here finds his focus at last, and with it a new humanity. And with the departure of keyboardist Richard Wright and his synthesizers–and the advent of a new “holophonic” recording technique–the music has taken on deep, mahogany-hued tones, mainly provided by piano, harmonium and real strings. The effect of these internal shifts is all the more exhilarating for being totally unexpected. By comparison, in almost every way, The Wall was only a warm-up.

The Final Cut began as a modest expansion upon the soundtrack of the film version of The Wall, with a few new songs added and its release scheduled for the latter half of 1982. In the interim, however, the movie, a grotesquely misconceived collaboration between Waters and director Alan Parker, was released to a general thud of incomprehension. Around the same time, Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, irked by the unseemly antics of an Argentine despot, dispatched British troops halfway around the world to fight and die for the Falkland Islands.

That event, coming in the wake of his failed film statement, apparently stirred Waters to an artistic epiphany. Out of the jumbled obsessions of the original Wall album, he fastened on one primal and unifying obsession: the death of his father in the battle of Anzio in 1944. Thus, on The Final Cut, a child’s inability to accept the loss of the father he never knew has become the grown man’s refusal to accept the death politics that decimate each succeeding generation and threaten ever more clearly with each passing year to ultimately extinguish us all.

The album is dedicated to the memory of the long-lost Eric Fletcher Waters, and in one of its most memorable moments, his now-middle-aged son bitterly envisions a “Fletcher Memorial Home for incurable tyrants and kings,” one and all welcome, be they pompous butchers in comic-opera uniforms or smug statesmen in expensive suits. He presents a ghastly processional: “… please welcome Reagan and Haig/Mr. Begin and friend, Mrs. Thatcher and Paisley/Mr. Brezhnev and party…. And,” he coos, “now adding color, a group of anonymous Latin American meat packing glitterati.” With these “colonial wasters of life and limb” duly assembled, Waters inquires, with ominous delicacy: “Is everyone in?/Are you having a nice time?/Now the final solution can be applied.”

As fantasy, this has a certain primordial appeal. But Waters realizes that all the Neanderthals will never be blown away. What concerns him more is the inexplicable extent of fighting in the world when there seems so little left to defend. In “The Gunners Dream,” a dying airman hopes to the end that his death will be in the service of “the postwar dream,” for which the album stands as a requiem–the hope for a society that offers “a place to stay/enough to eat,” where “no one ever disappears … and maniacs don’t blow holes in bandsmen by remote control.” But Waters, looking around him more than thirty-five years after the war’s end, can only ask: “Is it for this that daddy died?”

In the past, Waters might have dismissed the gunner’s dream as an empty illusion from the outset. Instead, though, Waters insists on honoring his sacrifice: “We cannot just write off his final scene/Take heed of his dream/Take heed.” Without a commitment to some objective values, he seems to say, we sink into a brutalizing xenophobia – an “I’m all right, Jack” condition explored with considerable brilliance in the withering “Not Now John.” In that song, the deepest human truths are cast aside in a frenzy “to compete with the wily Japanese”: “There’s too many home fires burning/And not enough trees/So fuck all that/We’ve got to get on with these.”

With a Sixties-style soul-chick chorus bleating “Fuck all that!” in the background, and guitarist David Gilmour pile-driving power chords throughout, “Not Now John” qualifies as one of the most ferocious performances Pink Floyd has ever put on record. In the context of The Final Cut, it is something of an oddity; for while the music has an innate architectural power that pulls one ever deeper into the album’s conceptual design, the performances and production are generally distinguished by their restraint–even the fabled Floydian sound effects are reduced to the occasional ticking clock or whooshing bomber. Attention is mostly devoted to the music’s human textures: the gorgeous saxophone solos of Raphael Ravenscroft, Ray Cooper’s thundering percussion, shimmering string washes, the sometimes gospel-tinged piano of Michael Kamen (who coproduced the album with Waters and James Guthrie) and, on every track, the most passionate and detailed singing that Waters has ever done.

Whether this will be their last album as a group (the official word is no, but Wright is apparently gone for good, and even the faithful Nick Mason relinquishes his drum chair on one cut to session player Andy Newmark) is not as compelling a question as where Waters will go with what appears to be a new-found freedom. He plans to record a solo album for his next project, and one hopes that just the novelty of becoming a full-fledged human will be enough to keep him profitably occupied for many years to come. 


Kurt Loder

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Pink Floyd – “The Wall” (1979)

September 6, 2008 at 4:46 pm (Kurt Loder, Music, Pink Floyd, Reviews & Articles)

From issue #310 of Rolling Stone – written by Kurt Loder…


Though it in no way endangers the meisterwerk musical status of Dark Side of the Moon (still on the charts nearly seven years after its release), Pink Floyd’s twelfth album, The Wall, is the most startling rhetorical achievement in the group’s singular, thirteen-year career. Stretching his talents over four sides, Floyd bassist Roger Waters, who wrote all the words and a majority of the music here, projects a dark, multi-layered vision of post-World War II Western (and especially British) society so unremittingly dismal and acidulous that it makes contemporary gloom-mongers such as Randy Newman or, say, Nico seem like Peter Pan and Tinker Bell.

The Wall is a stunning synthesis of Waters’ by now familiar thematic obsessions: the brutal misanthropy of Pink Floyd’s last LP, Animals; Dark Side of the Moon‘s sour, middle-aged tristesse; the surprisingly shrewd perception that the music business is a microcosm of institutional oppression (Wish You Were Here); and the dread of impending psychoses that runs through all these records–plus a strongly felt antiwar animus that dates way back to 1968’s A Saucerful of Secrets. But where Animals, for instance, suffered from self-centered smugness, the even more abject The Wall leaps to life with a relentless lyrical rage that’s clearly genuine and, in its painstaking particularity, ultimately horrifying.

Fashioned as a kind of circular maze (the last words on side four begin a sentence completed by the first words on side one), The Wall offers no exit except madness from a world malevolently bent on crippling its citizens at every level of endeavor. The process–for those of Waters’ generation, at least – begins at birth with the smothering distortions of mother love. Then there are some vaguely remembered upheavals from the wartime Blitz:


Did you ever wonder

Why we had to run for shelter

When the promise of a brave new world

Unfurled beneath a clear blue sky?


In government-run schools, children are methodically tormented and humiliated by teachers whose comeuppance occurs when they go home at night and “their fat and/Psychopathic wives would thrash them/Within inches of their lives.”

As Roger Waters sees it, even the most glittering success later in life–in his case, international rock stardom–is a mockery because of mortality. The halfhearted hope of interpersonal salvation that slightly brightened Animals is gone, too: women are viewed as inscrutable sexual punching bags, and men (their immediate oppressors in a grand scheme of oppression) are inevitably left alone to flail about in increasingly unbearable frustration. This wall of conditioning finally forms a prison. And its pitiful inmate, by now practically catatonic, submits to “The Trial”–a bizarre musical cataclysm out of Gilbert and Sullivan via Brecht and Weill – in which all of his past tormentors converge for the long-awaited kill.

This is very tough stuff, and hardly the hallmark of a hit album. Whether or not The Wall succeeds commercially will probably depend on its musical virtues, of which there are many. Longtime Pink Floyd fans will find the requisite number of bone-crushing riffs and Saturn-bound guitar screams (“In the Flesh”), along with one of the loveliest ballads the band has ever recorded (“Comfortably Numb –”). And the singing throughout is–at last–truly firstrate, clear, impassioned. Listen to the vocals in the frightening “One of My Turns,” in which the deranged rock-star narrator, his shattered synapses misfiring like wet firecrackers, screams at his groupie companion: “Would you like to learn to fly?/Would you like to see me try?”

Problems do arise, however. While The Wall‘s length is certainly justified by the breadth of its thematic concerns, the music is stretched a bit thin. Heavy-metal maestro Bob Ezrin, brought in to coproduce with Roger, Waters and guitarist David Gilmour, adds a certain hard-rock consciousness to a few cuts (especially the nearfunky “Young Lust”) but has generally been unable to match the high sonic gloss that engineer Alan Parsons contributed to Dark Side of the Moon. Even Floyd-starved devotees may not be sucked into The Wall‘s relatively flat aural ambiance on first hearing. But when they finally are–and then get a good look at that forbidding lyrical landscape – they may wonder which way is out real fast.  

Kurt Loder

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Pink Floyd – “Scream Thy Last Scream” (Unreleased – 1967)

September 2, 2008 at 3:48 pm (Music, Pink Floyd, Psychedelia)

Another of the unreleased but much-bootlegged Syd Barrett tracks from his waning days in the Floyd. Great stuff though. Surprisingly, drummer Nick Mason actually does most of the singing on this song.

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