Review Summary: One of these days, it’s going to cut you into pieces.
The Press and Journal Arena, the AECC, Scotland. May 2nd 2009. ‘The Australian Pink Floyd’ exceeds the expectations that come with the territory of their condescending tag, ‘tribute band’. An encore. A crowd of balding, middle aged men and two teenagers shriek as they identify the muted opening kick of ‘Wish you Were Here’, immediately drowning it out. The song fades into wind noises - crowd hoarse from sing-along nevertheless whoop their appreciation – teen joins in. Subconsciously, his primeval senses twitch; the breeze is shifting, brewing, becoming a storm. Though he cannot feel the wind, it shakes every nerve, deafening and roaring with no physicality. He watches as the Aussie bassist squares up to the sound, conjuror atop his stormy tower. Teen recalls a gleam of mischief in his eye – imagined? Or one of his tricks? In a timeless moment, the magician raises his hand and brings it slapping down upon his instrument; his spell is cast. Irresistible, incalculable energy explodes through towering speakers into being, into doing, erupting every particle of air into a quake, all directed at
him. Energy, so much deep and brooding power now pounced, quavers its way through him, into him, inescapable, unforgettable. Reverb. Echoes of forty-foot funk. Gone? Never. Again, the impossible detonation, the shockwave once more. And again, the wizard cries, spellbinding, uncontainable, his incantations merciless tremors, creations irrepressible, chanting, weaving his spell, heavier, heavier. An accomplice (apprentice?) joins him, keyboardist striking off piercing shimmers of high-toned waves, arrows loosed from the ever quavering bow of bass, cutting the incredible bouncing murmur but never breaking it. Two others join. One grips and tears at a similar implement, strangles the neck of his otherworldly familiar, chords of liftoff, soaring, his speeding spells tearing the fabric of the air around him. The other pounds the wardrums of doom. The cacophony of cataclysm tears at him and electrifies him. Then, a new spell. Deeper dives the hammering bass, deeper into his head. Intensity itself rings inside him. The drums sound again. Calamity is nigh. It comes. It comes at the master sorcerers words, as if he has been summoned to the stage. His transmission; “One of these days I’m going to cut you into pieces!”. The magicians enter a frenzy as they rend their world apart, each with his own feverish rigmarole in a reverie indescribable in its unrelenting sensation. Once their work is done, the Scottish teenager roars at the spectacle like he has never roared before, and may never roar again. Needless to say, I kept the ticket. To this day, every time I listen to ‘One Of These Days’ it still gives me disorderly shivers and still makes me wish I could play bass.
Despite the starkly different style of ‘A Pillow of Winds’, the transition into it is seamless. Wind sounds cushion the momentum of adrenaline and we positively slide into the opening warm, tingly acoustics, a constant in this track even as extra layers of it begin to gel together. The high pitch of it recognises and assimilates the rush of ‘One Of These Days’ still pounding inside us, avoiding jarring incongruity, and simultaneously allows the introduction of a mellow, soothing bassline, burning the aftershocks off. More obviously, the acoustic disposition inaugurates the folksy feel of the album’s next section. While it plays its role as a comedown and an instigator for new ideas flawlessly, it also stands on its own two feet as a superb track, the underplaying of electrics coupled with the lyrical fixation with the natural world (“Now wakes the owl, now sleeps the swan/Behold a dream, the dream is gone”) and those omnipotent wind sounds give it a beautifully earthy sound to offset its paranormal predecessor. The variety of elements and layers recalls all of nature contributing in some mournful way (it comes across as a lament, as many ‘Floyd numbers do), making its beauty all the more exquisite. This is a very, very clever track; moreso because we barely notice it under its own intrinsic worth.
The continuation of the folk sound that it begins and prepares us for comes with ‘Fearless’. From the first thrum, even and graceful as the strength of electrics unites with the melodious temperament of acoustics followed up by a delightful interplay of conversational detail, like footnotes to a masterpiece, the tone is set. Triumphant, glorious, yet whilst remaining unassuming and avoiding the obsequious, it wants to be
our song. It’s the anthem for anyone who has been subjected to voiced doubts of their capability from others and desires to prove them wrong, without necessarily showing them up. However, it’s not just through the lyrics that it wins that title, reflective of the theme as they may be. It is with every reiteration of the riff, a magnificent ascension of key, zipping off into a cymbal crash before the next repetition; with the reassuring richness and smoothness of sound and tone whilst cooly combating a common demon; and with every infectious supplementary strum providing the detail to revel in; that our unswerving approval is won. Straightforward, catchy and yet remarkable in its intelligence and many facets, this is an anthem that the put-down guy can champion – because it champions him back so gloriously, a song as triumphant and inspiring as the live sample of ‘You’ll Never Walk Alone’ that draws it to a close.
All too often for my liking, ‘Meddle’ goes unmentioned among the bands greatest titles. The Dark Side of the Moon, Wish You Were Here, Animals and The Wall are widely agreed upon as being the inner circle of Pink Floyd’s crème de la crème, but the common exclusion of ‘Meddle’ seems unjust. Much of the reasoning for this shunning is oft apportioned to the next two tracks, ‘San Tropez’ and ‘Seamus’. Granted, they are not as strong as the acts they follow or precede (then again, what is?), but both bristle with charm and creativity nonetheless. For starters, they’re a continuation of the Floyd’s escape of their obsession with electricity, sound machines and goodness knows what else and is stripped down to accomplishment at a more basic level of songwriting and composition. ‘San Tropez’ is the sound of the band trying something new as they kick back in a lounge bar on the southern coast of France, drinking in the collected and oh-so-cool tones of a jazzy piano and guitar combo taking the lead from the casual acoustic strum. Not awe-inspiring, but it is charismatic and shows their capability in a less agitated style. By contrast, ‘Seamus’ is plain weird. A dog howls pitifully through the sparse instrumentation of the track – what little there is sounds lethargic and bluesy, but surreal – the lyrics are about… well, the dog, howling. In short, it’s barmy. But therein lies the value of it. Is this the sound of the band struggling to coming to terms with the departure of Syd Barrett after his infamous descent into madness? It might sound crude, but this could well be their attempt at a re-imagining of some of his experience, which would surely have rubbed off on them. If so, it sheds a harrowing new light on this apparent oddball, making it unnerving in its simplicity and disinctness.
And then. A single note of striking clarity pierces the silent soundscape. There is no murky reverb; another follows after in the perfect stillness, and the ambience shimmers, awakens, perhaps illuminated. The surface is broken. ‘Echoes’ has begun. More chimes, drops into a pure white puddle. Squeaky clean guitar notes are the ripples as the ambience begins to separate from the melody. The drums graciously tumble in; everything is assembled, the voyage prepared for. A guitar weeps softly over keyboard ambience. The vocals are silky and wistful, a tip of the hat to their lyrics – “Everything is green and submarine”, a statement of truth as beautiful as the setting is describes. Momentum is gained faultlessly, as the song simply glides from one place to the next. Their harmony is a testimony to that transcendence of the moment that the song is centered around – “Strangers passing in the street/By chance two separate glances meet/And I am you and what I see is me”. That it is worthy at all is venerable; that it is more than worthy, in its serene exquisiteness, is breathtaking. Two lovebird electrics softly croon to each other over the thickening, but still flawless, ambience, until they reach a tempestuous solo that swoops into euphoria with such flow that the delicate balance is not in the least upset.
Instrumentally, in terms of execution of an idea, it’s a masterpiece. The concept it illustrates seems almost too incredible to be envisaged in the first place. And yet, here it is. Enjoy it. From this opening it skates deftly into a section (though to break it up into sections would be unjust in the face of the effortless flow) characterised by a simplistic bassline amid an ambience made ever more turbulent from quickfire keyboard breaks and ever-shredding guitars (the array and abundance of technical licks and threads is astounding, never mind their perfect composition and arrangement). The ambience shifts once more. A deathly chilling aura is perforated by inhuman screams and squeals; uncannily we are reminded of the album title and of the albums cover, featuring an embryo. The dark, confusing world of an abortee? Perhaps. It’s too distressing to comprehend, certainly not with the unrelenting stimulance that the terrifying atmosphere imparts, unsettling to the very core. It provokes terror on an animal level. The relief, then, and appreciation of the intensity of what we have just experienced, floods in as the single chimes strike up once more and the weight lifts, as if the song is starting over, now with the reverberation of experience replacing the silence of naivety at the start. Soon enough, after a gentle and expertly controlled reintroduction of the key instruments, masterfully orchestrated to build up to the moment of realisation, we are awash in a sea of mountainous guitar waves, their chords breezing against the heavens before crashing back down upon themselves, over and over, the drums match them immaculately, before the last great wave unexpectedly breaks (in both senses) into the placid tones of Wright and Gilmour. Their tranquil vocals shock the song back into a former state, but only so that they can do it again, with gusto this time. Yes, the encore that we would so desperately desire is given to us within the song! Notes and chimes of grace put spins on already familiar ideas and the drums are unrestrained proper for the grand finale. Finally, the instant of accomplishment. An ‘ahhh’ is let forth that signals the end of this journey, allowing a bluesy and wistful tone to bring it on home before an ambient sound, like that neverending wind has found it’s voice but wails on yet, lifts the song into another realm as untarnished as this creation is. The repetition of the wind sounds, and of the peals that begun these twenty-three minutes thirty-one seconds of aural perfection, is a fitting way to round off one of the single greatest tracks not only to be produced, but to be dreamed of.
Everyone has their own favourite Pink Floyd album. Usually, they have a justification for it (notable to me is rasputin’s eloquent review that fights the corner for ‘Animals’). This is mine. It might seem pointless pitting excellence against excellence – it is, undeniably, a close call – but I can’t help but feel ‘Meddle’ has a little bit
more. It’s a dark horse in the race for the title – maybe even an underdog. To many, it’s fantastic, sure, just not as fantastic as its siblings. But remember this; the underdog is waiting. I know, because it sprung at me on the Second of May, 2009. Rest assured. One of these days, it’s going to cut you into pieces.
