Top 100 Albums - #9: The Division Bell (1994)

At number 9 on our chart is The Division Bell, the final album by art rockers Pink Floyd and their sixth of eight entries.

After the release of A Momentary Lapse Of Reason (1987, #62), the three surviving members of Pink Floyd went on a world tour to re-establish their reputation. This tour, the first since The Wall Tour in 1980-81, saw the band competing with Roger Waters for arena space, as Waters struggled to promote his second solo album, Radio K.A.O.S. (1987). Following the release of the live album Delicate Sound Of Thunder (1988), the Floyd took the remainder of the 1980s off, only regrouping to participate in the trans-America motor race La Carrera Panamericana, and to record instrumentals for the film of the same name. An accident during the race - which left both David Gilmour and manager Steve O'Rourke badly injured - helped to convince the band to record again. As Waters' third (and best) solo album, Amused To Death (1992), brought him back into the public eye, Messrs. Gilmour, Mason and Wright once more returned to the studio for what would be their last album.

The Division Bell begins with 'Cluster One', a 6-minute instrumental track. Like 'Sounds Of Life' off the previous album, this crackles and creeps its way into the mix, emerging from the musical equivalent of your peripheral vision. The mood, however, is very different. While 'Sounds Of Life' was ominous and brooding, and quite unsure of itself, the overwhelming mood of 'Cluster One' is contentment, being at peace with oneself without being self-satisfied. This sense of contentment is beautifully conveyed by a series of sweet and languid chords from Gilmour's guitar, complimented by Rick Wright's simple but effortless touches on the keyboards. While not being a masterpiece, it's the perfect scene-setter for the album as a whole, as well as standing entirely on its own two feet.

Having broken you in gently, the next track may come as a surprise. 'What Do You Want From Me' finds Gilmour in anger mode - or at least midly irate, for this is much closer to 'The Dogs Of War' off Momentary Lapse than 'Young Lust' from The Wall (1979, #14). This song is a double-edged sword, being on the one hand about a man's naive desire to make the impossible happen for his love, and on the other hand being an angry outburst at the demands of such a woman. The suppressed rage which simmers throughout this piece is matched elegantly by the great guitar parts, while the backing vocals of Sam Brown steadily build the tension before the title crests at the end of the chorus. It's a very well-proportioned track, with no part overstaying its welcome.

'Poles Apart', meanwhile, can best be described as a mild disappointment. It's not appalling by any possible stretch of the imagination - it just feels too downbeat and obvious to be a proper Floyd song. The subject matter, namely Syd and Roger - has been explored before in better and more subtle ways, the former on most of Wish You Were Here, the latter to a limited extent on Momentary Lapse. Gilmour's lyrics are drawn out and feel a bit lost amid the long, slow instrumental section in the middle of the track.

No matter, though, for 'Marooned' is on hand to restore both the album's balance and its quality. This is a gorgeous instrumental which encapsulates the mood of the album effortlessly. After a few teasing seconds, Gilmour's Stratocaster begins ringing out those long yearning chords that transport you to the shore of your own desert island. Gilmour's delicate, immaculate playing gives every note a bittersweet beauty which is hard to pin down into words but which is just to die for. Throughout Wright is on hand on keyboards, tying Gilmour's heartfelt wailings down through a series of chords which are both simple and sublime. And unlike on Echoes (2001, #31), where the track only runs to 2:03 before fading out, here this great track is presently completely unexpurgated, allowing you to bathe in its fragile beauty without a care in the world.

One work of genius is gently followed by another. 'A Great Day For Freedom' is the shortest track on the album, weighing in at only 4:18, but don't think it's a lightweight. The lyrics, as ever with the Floyd, are ambiguous: On the day the wall came down/ The ship of fools had finally run aground refers both to the fall of the Berlin Wall and to the band's relationship with Waters (through Gilmour has denied this interpretation, it's certainly a plausible way to read it).¹ Like much of the first half of the album, this track has a great sense of sadness and mourning at its centre, a feeling of doubt about the present coupled with some kind of contentment about the future. It's a strange combination of feelings, but Gilmour is not flustered, stretching his vocal range to bring out the most in the way of emotion. This is the ultimate Floyd grower.

'Wearing The Inside Out' is an interesting piece, being the first track on which Wright sings lead vocals since 'Time' from The Dark Side Of The Moon (1973, #23). The first thing that anyone will notice is that his voice hasn't aged nearly as well as Gilmour's; where Gilmour can still sail the high registers with an ethereal grace, Wright's is ragged and breaking. In a way, however, this helps the track and the album as a whole, bringing an understated grace into the mix to dismiss any accusations that the latter-day Floyd are all big sounds and no substance. Wright's voice whispers across the soundscape created by his keyboards, forcing you to listen intently but rewarding you at almost every turn.

Up until this point, one criticism which could be laid against this Pink Floyd record is the lack of a knock-out single. But these accusations are safely laid to rest with 'Take It Back'. While the term 'knock-out' is hardly appropriate for the long and graceful introduction, once Mason begins to pound the snare you're certain that you have a hit on your hands. Having previously addressed the Berlin Wall and a decaying relationship, Gilmour now turns his attention to the environment, delivering a great set of lyrics which depict a relationship between Man and Mother Nature, a relationship of abuse and neglect which will eventually lead Nature to take it back someday. Not only is Gilmour in fine voice, but his guitar work is superb, combining a jangly solo with a razor-sharp backing part. Mason also appears to have come out of his shell, providing some of his classic tom-tom fills which made the band's earlier records just that little bit more interesting. A great track if ever there was one.

'Coming Back To Life' interpolates out of the previous track, beginning with a graceful, shimmering C-chord from Wright. But once again the song belongs to Gilmour, as he provides yet another sweet solo which lifts the spirits and warms the heart. It's a song of redemption and renewal, in both the band's life and in Gilmour's, through his marriage to Polly Samson during the Pulse tour. Mason's drumming provides a steady, contemplative beat over which Gilmour can serenade and thank his lover, allowing you to simply sit back and enjoy the show.

Having jumped heavily into the personal on the previous track, 'Keep Talking' brings us back to the bigger picture and the album's central themes of communication and relationships. Once again it's a slow starter, taking its time to build through various interwoven riffs and tape loops. Eventually Stephen Hawking comes in and begins the 'lyrics' through segments culled from his BT adverts in the 1980s. But soon all product placement is pushed aside when Gilmour thunders into view. Having led us in slowly, his lyrics and delivery steadily become more heady and claustrophobic, dragging you back to the paranoid centre of the band under Waters. This is a fantastic piece, an honest and genuine song about the desperation of being alone and the human desire for contact (no wonder this album has been nicknamed the 'anti-Wall').² The band are playing meticulously tight but there is still plenty of room for flair, for both Mason and Wright. And at the end of the final desperate chorus, Gilmour straps on his talkbox and beats Peter Frampton at his own game (see my review of Frampton Comes Alive! (1976, #66). Great stuff.

Of all the songs on The Division Bell, 'Lost For Words' is the most obvious allegory to the band's relationship with Roger. For all Gilmour's denials and ambiguities, the lyrics are among the clearest on the album in terms of the parallels they draw. Musically, it begins liltingly, with Gilmour switching to a great-sounding acoustic, and Mason demonstrating that drumming can be an understated art as well as an overstated one. But the second the lyrics come in, the little grey cells click into action. No-one can fail to spot the clues in the final verses:

Can you see your days blighted by darkness?

Is it true you beat your fists on the floor?

Stuck in a world of isolation

While the ivy grows over the door

So I open the door to my enemies

And I ask could we wipe the slate clean

But they tell me to please go and fuck myself

You know you just can't win

Even if you don't buy the resemblance, this is still a charming song which once again finds the three remaining members in solid form and with little to prove.

The album concludes with 'High Hopes', which arrives to the sound of church bells and bees and signals the final departure of Pink Floyd. Wright's poignant piano perfectly counterpoints the tolling bell, creating a melancholy mood which descends over the whole experience. But rather than being a simple song of doom and gloom, this finds the Floyd reflecting on all that has passed in nearly 30 years in the music business. And while they may conclude that the grass was greener and the light was brighter, there is never any sign of them falling apart at the seams; they still sound as immaculate as they did all those years ago, an observation which is both a relief and a cause for sadness. Gilmour's delivery and playing are absolutely first-rate, infecting every note with a breathy wisdom and bittersweet weariness which encapsulate the band so well. It's the best possible eulogy to the greatest rock band of them all, and as the band retreat into the ether, one cannot help but miss them.

While popular with the fans, The Division Bell was slated upon its release, with critics describing it as tired and formulaic. Tom Graves of Rolling Stone remarked that "the album... gives off the uncomfortable whiff of middle-age... Gilmour... seems bored or dispirited."³ Once again, they couldn't be more wrong. This album sees the renewal of the spirit of Pink Floyd that was somewhat tarnished on the previous album. While Momentary Lapse had to compete with Waters and prove that the band could carry on, this is more laid-back, more content and more immaculate as a result. While Gilmour's lyrics will never match the savagery of Waters', here he has crafted some beautiful sets of verse, tackling subjects with a subtlety and artistic flair which is the very essence of his musicianship. The album achieves that rare thing of being both tightly focussed and relaxed with itself, allowing the songs' quality to come through without fear of being rushed. It's a beautiful, ethereal piece of work, requiring a great deal of patience on first listen, but thoroughly rewarding in the end.

4.18 out of 5

References

¹ G. Fuller, 'The Color of Floyd', http://www.pinkfloyd-co.com/band/interviews/djg/djg94.html. Accessed on July 6 2009.

² 'Pink Floyd: After Roger Waters', http://web.adminsites.com/4482U7T2/web/pinkfloyd/afterwaters.asp. Accessed on July 6 2009.

³ Tom Graves, 'Pink Floyd: The Division Bell' (June 16 1994), http://www.rollingstone.com/artists/pinkfloyd/albums/album/219753/review/5943409/the_division_bellAccessed on July 6 2009.

Top 100 Albums - #13: The Road To Hell (1989)

Chris Rea makes his third and final chart appearance with The Road To Hell, widely considered to be his masterpiece.
After first tasting success with Shamrock Diaries (1985, #91), Rea composed a series of albums which brought him success both critically and commercially. The immediate follow-up, On The Beach (1986), consolidated the chilled-out sound and added a brighter, more continental flavour. Rea's guitar playing was steadily improving, becoming smoother and silkier while retaining something in the way of its blues roots. This new style reared its head on Dancing With Strangers (1987), which produced no real hit singles but continued Rea's run of acclaim. After winding up the tour to support Dancing With Strangers, Rea was quiet through most of 1988, save for the release of a singles compilation, New Light Through Old Windows, and a Christmas single, 'Driving Home For Christmas', which peaked at #53 on the UK chart.

'The Road To Hell (Part 1)' is a complete unknown compared to its brother, but don't think that it's a bad track as a result. For the first 90 seconds or so, your head is filled with the sounds of a long, dreary motorway journey home: the rhythmic screech of the wipers on the windscreen, the pelt of the rain onto the glass and roof, the dark clouds rumbling in the distance, and the radio blaring out more bad news. The piano sat underneath it winds whimsically along, making the situation all the more frustrating. Then, all of a sudden, this mood music is replaced by dark synthesiser chords courtesy of Kevin Leach, and Rea rumbles his opening lines like a jealous God, mourning His lost people in such a manner that it sends shivers down your spine.

After such an atmospheric start, 'The Road To Hell (Part 2)' seems like pure pop. It's a lot more catchy, for certain, and the bluesy riffs tumbling out of Rea's guitar do walk the line between crass and cultured very gingerly. But in all, this is deservedly recognised as one of his finest songs. It may have be written about the M25 (which isn't exactly glamourous), but like all the best songs you can read so much more into it than that. From another angle it's a pathos-ridden, burning commentary on 1980s materialism, or an Everyman-esque religious allegory. It's presented in a language and form that is readily understandable, but which also rewards deeper study. And while it has been hopelessly overplayed since its release, it remains a snappy little charmer to get your grey cells going as much as your feet.

The religious (or at least moral) element of Rea's work is continued in 'You Must Be Evil'. If you weren't convinced of the previous song's credentials, this is more openly savage. It narrows the focus from a general indictment of modern man to a well-aimed strike against the cynical nature of television. Don't think, however, that it's a list of prudish criticisms from a member of The Mary Whitehouse League. Rea is attacking the sensationalist nature of the medium, rather than specific events. Again, it's not the most in-depth stuff at first glance, but like a lot of Rea's songs there is a hidden, bluesy depth to them that can only be discovered after a long car journey with them playing on a loop. Musically, look out for a lovelye bit of bass in the final chorus from Eoghan O'Neill.

'Texas' shifts the focus from drizzle-filled Britain to America - or at least, it seems to. The lyrics are a fond exposition of the Lone Star State from a guy longing to escape there, longing to experience the desolation and simplicity (Warm winds blowing/ Heat and blue sky/ And a road that goes forever). It's a song of dreams and frustrations at the mundane nature of life, underscored by Leach's shimering keyboards and snappy drumming from Martin Ditcham. In the second half, Rea's Fender soars into life just briefly and transports you into that laid-back dream, completely at ease. Before long you are in the Deep South, surrounded by hints of the foot-stomping blues Rea would finally produce on Dancing Down The Stony Road (2002).

'Looking For A Rainbow' is where the album starts to fall apart. It's nearly twice as long as the previous track, at 8:05, which means that the pop hooks and punchy nature of the last three songs will be difficult to sustain. Rea reverts instead to the rain and schmaltzy piano (courtesy of Max Middleton) and slowly allows you to sink into a vat of wallpaper paste. Even when the percussion comes in, it never sounds genuine or engaging enough to stir you from your slumber. In short, it's just too long.

Both the next two track fail to drag this record out of the mid-album dip. 'Your Warm And Tender Love' has such a treacly title that is almost impossible to swallow. It begins somewhere between a Simple Minds ballad and an offcut from Queen's Made In Heaven (1995), neither of which seem immediately diserable. This is cloyed and clichéd through and through, never letting itself be anything more than a humdrum, middle-of-the-road love song, and that's annoying. 'Daytona' tries harder, restoring the themes of both America (the racetrack) and cars (the Ferrari of the same name). The tempo is faster, the production crisper and the piano returns to add the melody. But it's still not brilliant, with flat lyrics and no sense of direction. Even the presence of the car at the end (which actually sounds nothing like a Daytona) can't get your pulse going.

You may be tempted to switch off now, but don't. Because 'That's What They Always Say' is an absolute belter. Perhaps that's the wrong word, because this is still a slow, and quiet song. Nevertheless, it has a hugely catchy chorus and a serious of smooth verses which wash over you and make you smile. More than that, though, you can feel the whole band playing tighter and enjoying themselves as a result. No single instrument is allowed to overstay its welcome, so that even Rea's flirtings on the guitar are perfectly balanced between satisfying your initial expections and leaving you wanting more. And for the first time in a long while, you realise what a great singer Rea is. He's unconventional, he's earthy and he pulls no punches on this brilliant song.

'I Just Wanna Be With You' could easily fall into the same trap as 'Your Warm And Tender Love'. The title doesn't do it any favours, that's for sure, but a shared fate is avoided by a series of very clever touches Rea injects into the mix. The percussion is more amusing, or at least tongue-in-cheek, including the apposite cowbell that arrives early on. The guitar riffs are more subdued, and are complimented very nicely by the Hammond Organ sound emanating from the keyboards. Even the slightly dodgy female vocals can't rock this boat.

'Tell Me There's A Heaven' is the ideal closer for the album, invoking the imagery of the title and keeping the focus on the individual. This could have been a terrible song, either by being sanctimonious and preachy, or by being so sugary that it ended up as a must-sing on weepy karaoke nights. But thanks to Rea, it's neither: it's just a heart-swelling, tear-jerking, laid-back emotional masterpiece. Even with the stock strings and overblown piano, it's very hard not to like this song, or be moved by it. The lyrics fit perfectly around the piano part, so that the two are perfectly interwined. Their content appeals to that wish in most or all of us for a better world to the one we have now, whether it be a literal, Christian heaven or an earthly one we make for ourselves. This is a splendid way to round off, and should be accorded pride of place in Rea's catalogue.

The Road To Hell has been hailed as a "modern masterpiece", and on the whole it thoroughly deserves that title.¹ It may not be the deepest or most meaningful piece of rock on first impression: Rea's reputation as a middle-of-the-road schmaltz mercant is palatable if you don't dig any deeper. If, on the other hand, you look behind the pop-ish veil, you open up an album flowing with ambiguity and playfulness, an album that gives few answers and invites you to explore. It will take a while to go from liking this album as a catchy set of songs to liking it as a political statement, but give it enough time and that change will come. And while the classic 'mid-album dip' is quite noticeably severe, deep down they are not dreadful songs, merely below-par ones. In the final analysis, The Road To Hell is without a shadow of a doubt the finest album Rea has ever made, and if ever likely to make if his recent forages into blues are anything to go buy. Shamrock Diaries and The Blue Café (1998, #50) were passable pop; this is proper album rock.

4.10 out of 5

References
¹ John Floyd, 'The Road To Hell', http://www.allmusic.com/cg/amg.dll?p=amg&sql=10:tneb97w7krht~T1. Accessed on January 16 2009.

Top 100 Albums - #14: The Wall (1979)

Pink Floyd's fifth chart entry is The Wall, a double-concept album rock opera which resulted in one of the most elaborate tours in rock history.
Following the release of Wish You Were Here (1975), Roger Waters' influence over the musical direction of Pink Floyd began to grow. Following the tour, the band invested a large amount of money in the creation of Britannia Row Studios, described by Nick Mason as a place that "could take on the grim and claustrophobic qualities of a nuclear bunker".¹ It was in these (suitably) dark surroundings that Animals (1977) emerged, with Waters writing, co-writing and/ or singing all five tracks. The tour that followed saw the band playing huge stadiums, often filled with people who came not for the music but for the drugs and the buzz of the crowd. On July 6th 1977, at the Olympic Stadium in Montreal, Waters finally lost his temper and spat in the face of a fan trying to climb up the barricade. The band returned to Britain alienated and exhausted. While David Gilmour and Rick Wright busied themselves with solo albums - David Gilmour and Wet Dream (both 1978) - and Mason turned producer for The Damned, Waters set to work on the components for a masterpiece that would revive the Floyd's fortunes.

It is in these bleak surroundings that The Wall emerges. 'In The Flesh?' kicks off the first half in unusually subdued style. After the brief and as yet inexplicable snippet of dialogue - "... we came in?", there are a few seconds of calming harmonica. But don't be fooled. After about 18 seconds, the first guitar chord slashes through this sea of tranquility, hitting you right between the eyes without any warning. The chords are punchier and harder than anything on the previous album, and the whole feel of the song is so huge and expansive. It's a brilliant way to introduce the album, even before the explanatory lyrics come in.

'The Thin Ice' is much in the same vein, with a quiet beginning which slowly but surely mutates into an horrifically loud ending. At the start, where it is just Gilmour and Wright's piano, it all feels rather tender and soft. But the mood of the music is counterbalanced by the pathos-ridden words emanating from Waters' pen and Gilmour's mouth. Waters sings the more overtly dark second half, describing the sensation of being out of depth in the world. Then Gilmour lets rip with a series of amazing chords that make you feel like you are sliding down into the depths of an ocean filling with your own blood. This is a terrifying track, one which if listened to in a dark room will transport you closer towards the true meaning of fear.

Having come through this psychotic episode, 'Another Brick In The Wall (Part 1)' is, relatively speaking, a moment of light relief. Though he may have hinted at it on The Dark Side Of The Moon (1973, #23), this is the first instance of Waters writing openly about his father, killed at Anzio in World War II. While the first two tracks were more thematic, to get us in tune with the new Floyd sound, this introduces the character of Pink. Like Waters he has lost his father in war, feels neglected, and in response is beginning to erect a wall to protect him from the world outside. Musically it's very well structured, managing to sustain a repeating riff to create tension without sounding like filler.

Before long, though, the tea break is over and 'The Happiest Days Of Our Lives' comes hovvering into view. Quite literally in fact, since this track begins with the sound of a helicopter and the teacher's familiar yell: "You! Yes, you! Stand still, laddee!". Here Waters starts to get into his stride, railing against the education system of his childhood. Through the eyes of Pink he depicts the teachers as uncaring fiends, who take their aggression out on the children while being secretely beaten by their wives (one of many sick jokes in this piece, of which Waters seems to be a fan). Waters' bass playing has always been simplistic, but this is not a bad thing. Underneath his whispering and screaming, his simple chords slowly cut into you like a chisel while Mason's hi-hat buzzes around your head like a wasp stuck in a jar.

'Another Brick In The Wall (Part 2)' is almost too famous to require much more being said. Of course, it is famous for the wrong reason, being known as the Floyd's only hit single rather than as an amazing piece of rock craftmanship. As I said in my review of Echoes (2001, #31), the true genius of this track is that it sounds more complicated that it actually is. Taken in its component parts, we have a decent (but not brilliant) set of lyrics, a nice (but not brilliant) guitar solo, a good-ish bass line and a fairly mundane drum part. But put these pieces together, and the whole becomes greater than the sum of its parts. Like 'Money' on Dark Side, this is written and produced so that each instrument and section comes in at just the right time and for just long enough. No aspect, from the drums to the children's choir, is allowed to overstay its welcome or be cut short by the intrusion of something else. This has everything you could possibly want from a Floyd track: a powerful message, strong lyrics and amazing sound, all tied down to a hummable melody and played by brilliant musicians.

'Mother', meanwhile, is more subtle. Waters and Gilmour again share lyrics, only this time they take on the characters. Waters plays some simple but sweet acoustic on the verses, while relaying Pink's fears to Gilmour's overprotective mother. This is similar to both parts of 'Pigs On The Wing' from Animals in that the individual lines are spaced out, given room to breathe so that they stand alone as powerful statements. Gilmour is ideally suited to the part of the Mother, singing Momma's gonna make all of your nightmares come true in his usual bright, ethereal voice, thus achieving maximum irony.

'Goodbye Blue Sky' is probably one of the best anti-war songs ever written. From the childish cry at the start ("Look Mummy, there's an aeroplane up in the sky" - more irony) to the descending bass line at the end, it never fails to make your heart feel heavier. Unlike Waters' subsequent anti-war efforts, like on The Final Cut (1983, #49), this doesn't tell you directly what is wrong or what is to opposed. All we get in the lyrics are vague glimpses into human tragedy, which our minds then multiply until we picture a horror too unspeakable for words. Lines like The flames are all long gone/ But the pain lingers on are perfect for this purpose, and the images they convey is amazing, depicting war as some kind of loss of innocence. Gilmour's vocals meld beautifully with the acoustic to create a truly sensational piece of work - not just in its quality, but the way that it makes you feel.

Like 'Goodbye Blue Sky', 'Empty Spaces' only gives you glimpses. But here the glimpses come much later, and only after considerable build-up. For a song that only has four lines, it is surprising and a rare joy because it doesn't feel even remotely padded out. The repeated sound effects maintain the beat, while the distant wail of the guitar puts more pictures in your head. This song sees Pink wondering how he will fill the final places to complete the wall. The first note of the guitar is flung into the centre of the mix like a spotlight being turned on, showing the face of a demented Pink scouring his new concrete landscape. In the show this piece was much longer, incorporating a rant about humans' frenzied desire to not stand still; it was edited for the LP to make the music fit on the vinyl. But that doesn't matter, because like the edited version of 'Marooned' on Echoes, you still get plenty of majestic music that leaves you wanting more.

Having run out of bad experiences, Pink decides to become a rock star in 'Young Lust'. Gilmour takes the lead in this one, with his voice sounding rougher and his guitar playing just exuding menace. He shouts the opening line, which comes as a bit of a jump if you've had your ears pressed close to the speakers to hear what Waters is saying. But then that's appropriate, not just because Waters and Gilmour are completely different kinds of singers, but also because we are seeing a different side of Pink: the openly destructive, hedonistic side rather than the dark, self-pitying one. The simple macho chorus is punchy, as is Mason's drumming, while Wright re-emerges on the organ as a form of musical counterweight.

'One Of My Turns' sees the union of both Pinks, the old introvert and the new rockstar, in what turns out to be a lethal combination. Pink leads a groupie into his hotel room, only to take no notice of her advances and then proceeding to smash everything around him, scaring her to death. After the television flickers into the background, the keyboard enters the fray and the song begins properly. The first half is incredibly sinister: the lyrics drip from Waters' mouth like wax from a burning candle; Day after day/ My love turns grey/ Like the skin on a dying man is a fabulous opening line. Eventually, Pink explodes in a fury of drums and guitar, and Waters moves from a whisper to full-on screaming and shouting, so that it feels like he is attacking YOU.

'Don't Leave Me Now' is the first track to fall short of the mark. It finds Pink alone, having collapsed out of his fury with the news that his girlfriend has been cheating on him. He goes from angry to despairing, desperate, and even fearful. The main problem with this is that it feels lazily written. There is no sense of discipline over where the words and music join up, as if the band recorded a rather uneventful ambient track and then Waters improvised over it. While such techniques would serve him well on Amused To Death (1992), here they compromise the result.

'Another Brick In The Wall (Part 3)' refocuses the plot and the listeners, albeit a little unsubtly. Amid glass smasing, Pink completes the wall and realises his dream of perfect isolation from the rest of the world. The lyrics are more basic, and the music is familiar, but the pace feels more frenzied, as if Pink is moving a knife through his hand and then sealing his creation in his own blood. At 1:15, it's shorter than the other parts, but this doesn't matter because it successfully conveys all that needs to be said. All of which makes 'Goodbye Cruel World' pretty much superfluous. It's shorter, the title is hackneyed, the lyrics are obvious and musically it's flat, with a two-note bassline nicked from 'Careful With That Axe, Eugene'. This worked in the show, serving as a means to place the last brick. On record, this isn't needed, so it doesn't work at all.

The second half kicks off with 'Hey You', and finds the first pangs of regret beginning to take hold of Pink. Here his slow descent into madness begins with his desire for human contact, the very thing he has shut out in creating the wall. The verses chronicle this progress, with Pink first asking for feeling, then for contact, and finally for help, each time directed at a force he knows is there but that he cannot quite comprehend. In another sense, this is a song of two halves. The first half is Gilmour's, beginning with a sweet turn on vocals and a maelstrom of a guitar solo, while the second half belongs to Waters, melding together his bitterness and his empathy in one powerful cocktail.

'Is There Anybody Out There?' is a look spookier, with the mood changing drastically. Where 'Hey You' genuinely sought contact and the comfort which that brings, this is more suspicious. Waters' whispered lyrics echo across the mix like whispered yells over no-mans'-land. You feel with this song like you are a soldier crouched in a shell-hole, or perhaps a PoW dodging the searchlights in his bid for freedom. And all the while, at the centre of this suspicion and trepidation, the mood is haltingly and cleverly juxtaposed by the acoustic, faintly reminisent of John Williams' 'Cavatina' from The Deer Hunter (1973).

'Nobody Home' is quite simply astonishing. Continuing on from the previous track's sampling of film audio clips, we are taken back to the hotel room where a washed-up, burned-out Pink is listing his earthly possessions. It doesn't sound thrilling, but the execution of this 'list song' is superb. This in indicative of Waters' later solo work, like 'It's A Miracle' from Amused To Death. He starts with simple background music, and then the lyrics tumble forth in a sequence which, though random in real life, seems to flow perfectly and compliment everything. Everything about this little gem is wonderful. Waters sings/ speaks the lyrics with gravitas, leaving room for every impressive syllable. The strings and brass that are added later on create a wonderful mood that is tragic and nostalgic, with a military touch to it. And the inclusion of odd clips ("Surprise, surprise, surprise!") add humour in order to bring out the darkness. This is Waters at his finest.

Both 'Vera' and 'Bring The Boys Back Home' are too short and one-dimensional to serve any great purpose. They are at heart segues, designed to carry the plot rather than stand as songs 'Vera' is a mini-ode to Dame Vera Lynn, the famed wartime singer who was all but forgotten after 1945. Waters seems to be using this as a metaphor for how the ideals of 'the post-war dream' have slipped from memory, but he doesn't develop this in nearly enough detail. 'Bring The Boys Back Home' is just bizarre; the grouping of the screechy Waters with a deep male voice choir never really works. This does have one plus point, however. After the singing ends, a sound montage is slowly built up, which serves as a very good lead-in to 'Comfortably Numb'. Like 'Speak To Me' on Dark Side, it combines little motifs and snippets from most of the other songs, finally culminating in the echoey "Is there anybody out there?".

'Comfortably Numb' itself is one of the album's centrepieces. It is indeed one of the centrepieces of the band's repertoir, solidified by its performance on both the Pulse tour in 1994 and at Live 8 in 2005. So far all the songs of the second half have hinted at Pink's descent into madness, but this is the starting point for that actual descent. Rather than demonise Pink straight away, the band are very clever, presenting him as being pleasantly aware of the events going on around him. His body and brain are 'comfortably numb', swimming in drugs designed to keep him going through the show. The lyrics switch between the doctor (Waters) assisting the patient, and Pink (Gilmour) describing this new-found numbness in graphic and beautiful detail. Gilmour sings dreamily, guiding the audience into Pink's head so that they feel an organic part of the mix. Thus, when that award-winning guitar solo rears its head at the end, it feels like the soul of Pink himself is singing and thrashing around, taking the listeners with it. What a rock masterpiece this is.

'The Show Must Go On' is more segue, and therefore deserves little attention from us. Its purpose is to link the hotel room to Pink's arrival at the concert, something achieved without music in the film but difficult to do on an album. It's not completely superfluous, but it's hardly essential either. 'In The Flesh', meanwhile, is completely essential. Not simply a reprise of the first track, it is the unveiling of the new Pink. The rockstar has died a violent death, and in his place, amongst the organ and guitars, strides a blackshirted fascist dictator, ready to unleash himself upon an unsuspecting crowd, brimming with admiration. By employing female voices and selective echoes, the Floyd succeed in turning the rock concert into a gigantic rally in which no-one is safe and the adrenaline levels begin to rise.

'Run Like Hell' takes things ever further, both in consolidating the fascist landscape and raising the bar for Floyd songs to a whole new level. This is undoubtedly the best song on the entire album. Where previously you could be but a spectator, idly looking in, on 'Run Like Hell' you are thrust right into the mêlée with no means of escape. The mass experience dominates everything, with the heavy drums and loud bass taking you to the front row of a eardrum-bursting arena. The narrative is sustained magically, with Waters doubletracking and pushing his range to its uppermost limits. His voice is absolutely hypnotic as he snarls through the verses and screams magnificent lines like If they catch you in the back seat, trying to pick her locks/ They're gonna send ya back to Mother in a cardboard box. This is a frenzied and psychotic piece, which truly demonstrates the power of the Floyd's music. Not only will this send shivers down your spine, it will openly scare you, and yet thrill you at the same time.

'Waiting For The Worms' is just as good, although its role is very different. Pink is now in the grip of madness, and enjoying every minute of it. With the aid of a well-recorded megaphone, he barks out orders to his minions, directing them to follow the worms and bring about their destruction. A lot of this is an allegory of the Nazis' genocide, hence the references to Jews and the line (Waiting)/ To turn on the showers/ And fire the ovens. These must be taken with a pinch of salt, for Waters is clearly being ironic, setting up Pink as being an accurate but extreme representation of evil, so that people may not repeat it. The best part of this truly frightening track is the final speech. As it plays you can picture Pink smiling, then the smile turning to a forced grin, then a rictus, then gaping horror and finally the epic scream of 'STOP!'.

The actual song 'Stop' is the shortest on the album, at only 30 seconds long. It's the last so-called segue, being extremely brief and not especially deep; its only purpose is to start Pink's process of self-trial and coming to terms with what he has done. This is dealt with much better in 'The Trial'. Even if you haven't seen the film, which features the nightmarish animations of Gerald Scarfe, you can't help but be terrified by this track. Waters takes on all the voices, playing the various characters who are called to testify against Pink - the schoolmaster, his girlfriend, and his mother. While the lyrics are characteristically dark and sinister, their structure is unusual for a Pink Floyd song. It's less of a rigid pop song than a dark take on a libretto by Gilbert and Sullivan: the characters sing as they speak, and the song sounds more staged as a result. This is not a problem, however, since the content and production are still enough to make you jump out of your skin. The climax, where judgement is passed and Pink has to tear down his wall, is one of the finest conclusions to any rock song. If you listen to this in the dark first time round, be sure to have a defibrillator close to hand - because this is heart-stoppingly good.

As the dust settles, we end pretty much where we began. 'Outside The Wall' trundles merrily along on its harmonica and children's choir, appearing to neatly wrap up any loose ends so that we can all go home. But in fact, very little is left answered. Is Pink still alive, or did the process of destroying the wall kill him? If the latter, who is singing at the end? And is this really the end? The final question is addressed with the closing words, "Isn't this where...": the continuation of the opening words, "... we came in?" hint that this may be a continual process, to which Pink and ourselves are irreparably bound. It's certainly enough to get the little grey cells going.

The Wall may not be the finest album the Floyd ever made, but it still contains everything that made this band so great. From the dark, ambiguous lyrics to the complex yet hummable melodies, and all the conceptual touches, this extend and build on the previous three albums. Where Dark Side dealt with the human condition as an expression of empathy, Wish You Were Here looked at absence and the feeling of loss, and Animals explored the notion of class and the powers that be, The Wall is a deep and involving journey into the darkest reaches of the human subconscious, albeit a journey skewed by Waters' own experiences. It's not perfect: the jazzy touches of Dark Side have all but disappeared, and the second half can seem inconsistent. But when listened to as a whole, you will struggle to notice this, because the whole is so overpoweringly brilliant. This album will shock you, scare you, terrify you and thrill you in ways that you cannot possibly imagine. It will take you to the very brink of insanity and then blow your mind. It is essential listening for anyone who loves Pink Floyd, or anyone who wishes to go a little deeper into the darkest corners of the human mind.

4.04 out of 5

References
¹ Nick Mason, Inside Out: A Personal History of Pink Floyd, ed. Philip Dodd (London: Phoenix, 2005), p. 218.

Top 100 Albums - #21: Peter Gabriel 3 (1980)

At number 21 is Peter Gabriel 3, Peter Gabriel's third solo offering and his highest entry on the chart.
After departing from Genesis in 1975, Gabriel spent the best part of two years in self-imposed isolation at his Surrey home. He spent his time growing vegetables, playing the piano, practicing yoga and raising his new-born daughter. In 1977 he finally returned to the studio under the supervision of Bob Ezrin. The resulting record, Peter Gabriel 1 (1977, #71), was a menagerie of different styles which came together to successfully distance Gabriel's sound from that of his former bandmates. After a short tour, he released Peter Gabriel 2 (1978, #85), produced by Robert Fripp. This was a more transitional affair, with Gabriel still unclear of where he was going musically. Gabriel spent the rest of 1978 and the best part of 1979 on tour, bumping into his old bandmates along the way. He made a guest appearance with Genesis in New York for one date in their tour for And Then There Were Three (1978) and played a set at the Reading Festival where Phil Collins played the drums.

Fittingly, it is with Collins that we start. 'Intruder' is one of the first tracks in music history to employ 'gated reverb' on the drums, the sound that would define Collins' solo work. In layman's terms, the drums are recorded in a very echoey room, captured on condenser microphones and then passed through a noise gate, which cuts out when the sound rises too high. The mood thus created is ideal for the lyrics about someone breaking into a lady's house at night. Amid the atonal guitar chords, Gabriel begins with some distant screams, and then delivers the verses as if he is right next to you in the darkness, whispering in your ear. It's genuinely unnerving.

On 'No Self-Control', this dark mood is taken further. The opening is very distinctive, as the synthesisers dash back and forth between each ear, until your eyes are following them. Then the sinister xylophones come in, which are kooky but sound like they are made of human bone. In the midst of this, Gabriel is a demon unleased, crammed full of claustrophobia and paranoia. The drums on the chorus ring out like machine gun volleys, and in the verses the repeated line I don't know how to stop locks you in to the darkness. Kate Bush provides light relief on backing vocals, but this remains a thick and murky marvel.

'Start' is a short instrumental, lasting 1:21 and segueing into the next track. Although it is a segue piece, it's impressive in its own right. Dick Morrissey's saxophone solo, which dominates it, is very well-written, adding a sad jazzy twinge to the atmospheric art rock on offer elsewhere. It also serves as a 'breathing point' between the terror of 'No Self-Control' and the angry angst of 'I Don't Remember'.

This, on the other hand, cannot be reduced to filler, and it certainly doesn't give you room to breathe. Just like on the opener, the drum beat is relentless, pounding through your skull like a carpenter's chisel while John Giblin's bass rumbles on. Gabriel is at the top of his game, both lyrically and vocally. In the first verse he sets out his new image in complete defiance of the old:

I've got no means to show identification
I've got no papers, show you what I am
You'll have to take me just the way that you find me
What's gone is gone and I do not give a damn

These lyrics work with the scary instrumentation to produce a real gung-ho triumph. Gabriel's first two albums had some great songs on them, but none of them were as upfront as this in distancing him from the light, airy psychedelia that he helped to create in Genesis. This is so completely removed from that sound and era, that it has the initial effect of shocking you. But then as you listen all the way through you are reassured, then pleased, then delighted that the new Gabriel is even better.

'Family Snapshot' is not as gung-ho, and nowhere near as upfront. But it still manages to be brilliant beyond measure. Gabriel is underrated as a pianist, and the intro to this song is among his finest and most ethereal. He would later reuse this riff on Birdy (1985), the soundtrack to the Alan Parker film of the same name. There it is stark and delicate, but here it blends with his calming, raspy voice. Having started slow, it gradually rears its head in rage, carrying so much power without being overwhelming on the ears. The lyrics are based on the book An Assassin's Diary by Arthur Bremer, which chronicle an attempt on a politician's life from the point of view of the killer. Gabriel conveys this theme well, so that you don't have to have read the book to know what is going on. In the climax, the whole thing shrinks down, so that it is just Gabriel and piano as at the start. He croaks lines about a lonely childhood with a gifted honesty which made Us (1992, #39) so wonderful. It is a magical track which was well ahead of its time.

'And Through The Wire' relies more on rhythm than on lyrics, meaning that it cannot match the previous two tracks for quality. On the other hand, this is more catchy and pulsating than 'Family Snapshot', with its solid refrain and call-and-answer of I want you. Where previous tracks were led by drums or keyboards, here you do notice the guitar more. Dave Gregory provides a jagged rhythm part which brings out the chorus, giving it more life. You still notice the drums - Jerry Marotta is not the most understated player of the skins - but this feels more rounded than we have become used to.

The classic mid-album dip arrives on the next two tracks, long overdue. 'Games Without Frontiers' feels like it was written as a quick single, rather than to compliment the feel of the album. It is also the second track to feature Kate Bush, but while on 'No Self-Control' she provided a safety valve, here she sounds inane and superfluous. The result is that the rest of the otherwise passable music is fatally compromised. This in turn makes Gabriel's lyrics hamfisted, and when you are writing about war that is the last thing you want to happen.

'Not One Of Us', on the other hand, has a much more simple problem - it's too damn long. This could have been a good track, if the twisted effects at the start had been put to better use and condensed. Instead, they have the effect of stretching this song beyond the normal realms of patience, so that you are put off even before you get to the tedious chorus.

To get this album back on track, we need a good'un. And that is exactly what we get, in the shape of 'Live A Normal Life'. This makes no bones about being stripped-out and quietened-down for the sake of refocussing the listener. The piano sounds buoyant and the percussion is esoteric, but the dark underbelly is still there, albeit in the distance and muffled beneath effects. When Gabriel finally comes to the surface for air, he doesn't make all that much sense, but he does enough for you to give him another chance.

He doesn't disappoint. We close with 'Biko', one of Gabriel's first songs about human rights; the subject is anti-Apartheid activist Stephen Biko, who was brutally murdered by his interrogators in September 1977. Although it begins with some placid African singing, soon the track goes a lot more Western, the drums are shorter and Gabriel takes control. This is the longest track on here, at 7:33 long, but he has more than enough to say on the subject to sustain your interest. His lyrics are potent and charged, but he sings them with an air of calm defiance:

You can blow out a candle
But you can't blow out a fire
Once the flames begin to catch
The wind will blow it higher

All the ingredients of this album come together properly on this track, making it a good closer. And while the ending is a little messianic, this is a lot less patronising that other such efforts of the 1980s (including that of a certain Mr. Geldof).

Peter Gabriel albums are rarely the place to look if you want consistency. There is always a lot of experimentation and tinkering going on, exemplified by the gaps between albums as his career progressed. But where other albums could feel like a bag of random bolts, Peter Gabriel 3 sounds like a well-oiled machine. It feels more unified and together than anything Gabriel has put out before or since (with the possible exception of Up (2002, #22)). But magically, it manages to feel as collected and strong as it does without coming across as cynically calculated. There is almost no filler here to pad out the themes - because it just isn't needed. And while you do get a couple of less than brilliant tracks, they are not outright howlers. If Peter Gabriel 1, 2 and 4 (1982, #80) are records which you listen to in small chunks, Peter Gabriel 3 is an album you can easily listen to all the way through without getting bored or irritated. It is a feast for the senses, a classic in its time and in ours.

4.00 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #22: Up (2002)

Peter Gabriel's penultimate chart entry is Up, the long-awaited follow-up to Us (1992, #39).
After the release of Us in September 1992, Gabriel embarked on a massively successful world tour, captured on the album Secret World Live (1994) and on the subsequent DVD. The tour featured a menagerie of the most highly skilled musicians, from long-time collaborators Tony Levin and David Rhodes to newcomer Paula Cole, whose performances helped to kick-start her solo career. Gabriel spent the next few years tying up the loose ends of the tour while beginning the recordings for what would become Big Blue Ball (2008), a multi-national collaboration headed up with Karl Wallinger. In 1997, he embarked on a project for the Millennium Dome, to design a show and compose the music for the celebrations on New Year's Eve, 1999. The project, which ran through two years, eventually produced OVO (2000, #81). In 2002 he composed Long Walk Home, the soundtrack for the award-winning film Rabbit-Proof Fence, about the plight of Australian aborigines.

A good opener should always make the mood of the album clear, and 'Darkness' achieves it in spades. For the first 30 seconds it is tentative, obsessive and scarily quiet; you know that something else is coming, but you also begin to relax. Then the whole mix explodes in front of your eyes. Rhodes' guitar is angry and distorted, Manu Katche's drums are ferocious, and the whole experience sends adrenaline rushing through your veins. Gabriel, meanwhile, sits in the eye of the storm, reciting the lyrics like a poem while his voice is altered as he sees fit. This does make it harder to understand first time out, but after a while you don't really notice.

'Growing Up' is a lot less in-your-face - which comes as a relief - but is hardly worse off where substance is concerned. The deep cello at the start reminds you that we are still dealing with the tragic side of the human condition. While the single version contained on Hit (2003, #72) could have passed for punchy, this is more meticulous and drawn out. It may have a faster beat, but there is a lot more going on; it entices you, it tempts you, but you still have to make your own way in. Gabriel's lyrics are more arty than his mid-80s commercial period. Indeed, the bridge would not have been out of place on Foxtrot (1972):

Well, on the floor, there's a long wooden table
On the table, there's an open book
On the page, is a detailed drawing
And on the drawing is the name I took

If sources are to believed, 'Sky Blue' took twenty years to complete. And yet, at first glance, it is suspiciously familiar. Fans who bought Long Walk Home will be quick to spot the similarities with 'Cloudless' from that album - the almost identical riffs, The Blind Boys of Alabama on backing vocals, and the spacious, pathos-riddled production. On closer inspection, however, this is not just Peter repeating himself. By adding in some electronic paraphernalia at the start, and a decent set of lyrics, he has taken the best elements of a distinctly average track and made them into what they should always have been.

'No Way Out' begins - after a while - with one of the best guitar riffs recorded in the last 10 years. Rhodes plays the four-measure phrase on his Fender Strat with a unique, sinister menace; the reverb is so great and deep that it sound like a bass, and that makes it frightening. This pulsating riff is counterpointed by the fingertippy piano of Gabriel and Levin's funky but unimposing bass. This is the first track to deal solely with death, and it wins the first battle by setting a bleak mood. Gabriel then pulls off a neat second trick with a set of lyrics which stand at an odd angle but eventually become clear. He peruses over the second verse - and the subject of goldfish - as if he is in mourning for a lost friend. Couple all this with the repeating emotion plea - I'm not quitting on you - and you have one of the best songs he has crafted in a long time.

'I Grieve' is often believed to have been written as a response to the 9/11 attacks. Although I stated this in an earlier blog entry, this is actually a myth, since the song was written and completed in its present form as far back as 1998 (I apologise). Despite this, you do sense that Gabriel is singing these words with his loved ones in mind. Just as his elder daughter Anna was the subject of 'Come Talk To Me' on Us, so he could easily be singing this about his younger daughter, Melanie. In any case, he is certainly using this track as a means of silencing critics who were saying that his voice had withered in the intervening years. It has certainly changed, but he can still get upstairs when he needs to and sound bloody amazing in the process.

For 'The Barry Williams Show', however, the words we're looking for are 'bloody stupid'. The whole thing, from start to finish, feels ham-fisted, outdated, corny and sometimes downright embarrassing. This is a case of Gabriel trying to prove that he is still cool, can still keep up with the kids of today. That is a grave error since: (a) they probably don't want to know; and (b) Gabriel's commercial success was never premeditated or packaged - that's what made it so compelling then, and now. This feels fake, really fake - fake enough to make you reach for the off switch and despair that someone of his stature could have sunk so low.

If, on the other hand, you have the patience of a saint (or a album blogger), you will still be around for when the album gets back on track. 'My Head Sounds Like That' is a welcome return or retreat to introspective mood pieces, packed from end to end with solemn soundscapes and dolorous piano. This time we get the Black Dyke Band as well; they lit up OVO and they achieve the same effect here. The tempo may be ponderous, but this is compensated for by Gabriel's performance. He takes the cryptic style of lyrics, as on 'Lay Your Hands On Me', and then strains his vocal chords to shift the piece up a gear (see my review of Peter Gabriel 4 (1982, #80). The break is especially good, as the sounds and words mash together and start messing with your mind.

'More Than This' is the most upbeat we get on Up. Which is a shame, because whether as an album track or as a single, this is not a good song. This is an example Peter is trying too hard - not to be cool, as before, but to be interesting. There are some lovely touches: the opening riff isn't all that bad, and Rhodes' bright phrase at 0:56 could really have gone somewhere in the region of 'Solsbury Hill'. But there is so many little motifs like these going on, that it ends up as a chaotic, incoherent flop.

'Signal To Noise' soon puts that to rights - and some. The distinctive dropping drum in the first few seconds, along with the atmospheric violins, make you realise that this is going to be something special. Gabriel begins the first verse in a downbeat, jazzy sneer, and then goes into a full-blown scream with only the deep strings to keep him tied down. Throughout this wondrous track, you can sense him wanting to break free, wanting to snap and speak his mind. But every time he is trapped by this rich, tantalising vapour of noise, where it be electronic tics, reverberated drums or the solo performance of the late Nusrah Fateh Ali Khan. In the final third of your song, your tried patience is melded with paranoia and fear as the track rises, and rises, and rises. Only now, with both singer and listener at a critical level, does the whole thing explode, blossoming into a frenzied and terrifying finish, with violins duelling Dhol drums and Gabriel in the centre screaming Receive and transmit! You come away completely blown apart, having heard the best and scariest track on the album.

'The Drop' is the closer, and it's just as well that it's a solemn, quiet affair. With only a piano on his person, Gabriel half-croons, half-whispers this song about flying and the brevity of life. You picture yourself either in an aeroplane, looking down on city lights, or else lying on a bed surrounded by naked lights, steadily dimming until the silence becomes complete. The lyrics, brief as they are, dwell deep inside your head; you will be thinking about them for days until their personal meaning becomes clear.

For an album about death and the bleak nature of life, Up is not exactly a hackneyed suicide note or the musings of a sad old man. It's hardly Gabriel's most optimistic work, and so fans of his more commercial stuff will be unpleasantly surprised. For those, on the other hand, who like an album to slowly unwind and reveal itself according to how much attention you give it, this is an inspired work. Like Us, you will hear something new and interesting every time you play it, either all the way through or by sampling its component parts. Unfortunately, there are odd moments where Gabriel goes too far in his introspection, or where he forgets that what made him successful was the quality of his songs rather than any desire to be famous. But while Us occassionally flattered you with reassuring songs, Up is always egging you on, always pushing you deeper and further into the dark areas of your soul. It may take longer to fathom, it may even drive you round the twist - but you emerge at the other end more complete, more inspired, and more fulfilled.

4.00 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #23: The Dark Side Of The Moon (1973)

Pink Floyd's fourth entry on the chart is The Dark Side Of The Moon, their critical and commercial breakthrough which has so far sold in excess of 40 million copies.¹
Following the departure of Syd Barrett in April 1968, the Floyd entered a period of experimentation and extended pieces, as they struggled to find a new sound. The first post-Barrett album, A Saucerful Of Secrets (1968), contained only one of his compositions ('Jugband Blues') and was poorly received compared to its predecessor. Now settling into life as a fourpiece, the band spent 1969 creating the soundtrack to Barbet Schroeder's More and touring in support of their double album Ummagumma. This and the follow-up, Atom Heart Mother (1970), kept the band in the limelight, the latter being an ornate and overambitious recording employing a full orchestra and conceptual composer Ron Geesin. It became their first No. 1 album in Britain, but has since savaged by the band. Finally, on Meddle (1971), the Pink Floyd sound began to coalesce together, and the fans agreed, heralding the 23-minute 'Echoes' as a masterpiece. After the release of Obscured By Clouds (1972) - another Barbet Schroeder commission - the band were poised to take the world by storm.

Anyone who is even faintly familiar with this album, or the mythology surrounding it, cannot help but feel a strange sensation upon starting it. After a few seconds of agonising, despairing silence, the famous 'heartbeats' kick in and we creep slowly forwards into 'Speak To Me/ Breathe'. The first minute is a sound montage, sampling all the sounds which would become motifs of the album, including the first of the famous 'voices' (I've been mad for fucking years and all that). When 'Breathe' eventually begins, we are exploded out of this madness into a calming, reassuring groove which sees all four instruments working in harmony. Nick Mason keeps the beat simply and solidly, while Roger Waters' bass strums appositely, providing the harmony part for David Gilmour's wailing lap steel. The lyrics serve to delicately introduce the album's purpose, as "an expression of political, philosphical and humanitarian empathy that was desperate to get out".²

With 'On The Run', our pulses are send racing as the mood shifts from one of philosopical balm to deeply seated fear. The song is anchored by the throbbing, distorted synthesiser beat, sampled and sped up. It pulses through the mix like some strange being, whom you are always aware of but is always just out of sight. The voice of a female announcer mumbles around you as footsteps resound and vehicles doppler shift their way across your subconscious. The song was inspired by the band's fear of flying, caused by relentless touring. And sure enough, by the time the aeroplane crashes at the end of the track, your own heartbeat has quickened, you feel frightened, and you begin to understand the album's message - that it's okay, it's natural, it's human to feel this way.

'Time' begins ominously. If you allow yourself to drift into a state of rest, having escaped your fate, your bliss is brutally shattered by the chiming of the clocks. It may have been shamefully parodied on 'One Slip' later in the Floyd's career (see my review of A Momentary Lapse Of Reason (1987, #62), but here it serves its purpose beautifully, creating a delicate, edgy feeling in the listener into which the band can express their feelings. Once Mason has had his minute-and-a-half of freedom, the whole pieces takes on a life of its own. Waters' lyrics about the passage of time and the feeling of being lost in life are beautifully delivered; Gilmour takes the stricken verses, while Rick Wright blends beautifully with the female singers, delivering the killer line Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way with all its inate English charm.

We stick with Wright for the next track, 'The Great Gig In The Sky'. It is a testimony to his abilities that, in a piece packed with beautiful lap steel and that vocal solo from Clare Torry, for the first minute at least you only want to listen to him. He doesn't play the grand piano, so much as stroke it with a series of feathers, ending up with something bittersweet, something graceful - something wonderful. When Torry finally comes in, your concentration does shift, but you are always aware of Wright's organs underneath her. It is as though you are drowning in a sea of sound, and she is the siren mourning your loss. No-one has ever matched her performance live, and on record it remains frighteningly beautiful.

'Money' probably ranks as one of the greatest songs of the 1970s. It is certainly one of the most original and unusual hits, with its unwieldy 7/8 time signature and equally unwieldy length. The opening, with the cash register, tape loops and fabulous bass line, is of course well-known and loved. But there is so much more to it than that. The band sound tight and together across this album, but this takes unity to a new level. There is no excess fat here at all - no drawn-out guitar solos, no overly clever drum fills, no John Entwistle-style bass noodling. Instead, what we get is four musicians playing off each other tone-perfectly, coming and going at the right time without a second's argument or hesitation. Even a seasoned stoic cannot help but be enslaved by the rhythm Waters creates and Mason exemplifies. The saxaphone solo is brilliant, the change in time signature is the very definition of seamless, and the lyrics are simple but sensationally clever, conveying so much by saying so little:

Money, it's a crime
Share it fairly
But don't take a slice of my pie
Money, so they say
Is the root of all evil today
But if you ask for a rise
It's no surprise
That they're giving none away

This is not just the best track on the album; it's arguably one of the greatest tracks of all time.

After railing against materialism, Waters turns his attention to war, as he would often do in his career. 'Us And Them' is more jazzy and nuanced than 'Money', which isn't really suprising when we discover that Wright is behind this one as well. Like so much of the group's compositions for the album, the finished result was almost an accident. Wright composed a similar piece for the film Zabriskie Point (1970), but it was rejected, shelved and then rediscovered during the recording. The piece rolls along gently, creating a summery feel which lulls you into a false sense of security wherein the lyrics can pounce. Mason's drums serve more as a garnish than an anchor, as Wright delivers that magical 'third chord' - a DmM7 - which sets the piece apart. Waters' lyrics are again deceptively simple, but they get the grey cells going so that everyone can find something different in lines like With, without/ And who'll deny it's what the fighting's all about?.

Out of all the tracks on the album, 'Any Colour You Like' is easily the hardest to like. It's not terrible in the traditional sense, and in many ways it's very listenable. But it has the feeling of the band treading water, taking their foot off the pedals and freewheeling while Waters was thinking of something else to say. This has the feel of 'The Travel Sequence', a jam from their live shows which was eventually replaced with 'On The Run'. Like the jam, this feels aimless - there are no lyrics (which is not a problem in itself) but there is little in the way of melody even to reflect the title (a reference to the erroneous words of Henry Ford, "you can have it any colour you like, as long as it's black").

'Brain Damage' is a return to form, or at least to some kind of unified message. As with so much of Pink Floyd's work, the spectre of Syd is hovering over this: the opening lines, The lunatic is on the grass, are both a chilling reminder of his fate and a tirade against conformity. Waters sings for the first time on the album, and his unique voice suits this piece better than Gilmour's or Wright's. Although he had sung on previous Floyd songs - like 'Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun' - he sounds more professional here. More confident as well. This song begins to tie up the themes of the album, returning to some form of empathy and reassurance after ranting against the 'virtues' of the world - and of course, introducing the mystical image of the dark side of the moon as a place of refuge for those who don't quite fit in with what the world expects of them.

'Eclipse' serves as a natural, favourably formed coda to close the album. The lyrics are one long list of reassurances from Waters about the human condition, again seeming to say: It's okay to feel this way. Musically, it sees the climax and coming together of all the ingredients for one last assault on the senses. It rises and rises more and more, becoming richer and brighter all the time until the final shimmering organ chord from Wright brings things slowly to an end. Soon the heartbeats start up again, the music fades out, and we are left with the immortal words of Abbey Road doorman Gerry O'Driscoll: "There is no dark side of the moon, really. Matter of fact it's all dark".

Writing about The Dark Side Of The Moon is a frustrating experience. There is almost nothing which can be said about it which is new, interesting or enlightening. Many claims made about it are becoming less and less contentious: it is one of the greatest albums of all time, in terms of sales and critical reception. It is a hugely significant cultural and musical milestone. It is a masterpiece of production. It is, in many ways, the epitome of Pink Floyd, with all four members working together and coming through with the goods. But one thing it is not is the greatest Floyd album. All the components of a great record are here, and the end result is a sumptuous delight, a thought-provoking, soul-searching three-quarters of an hour wrapped up in the language of arty pop songs. But as we shall soon discover, subsequent Floyd efforts took this formula further, consolidating and developing it into something equally memorable. Hence the best way to view The Dark Side Of The Moon is both as a milestone in its own right, and - more importantly - the foundation for every single one of the Floyd's subsequent creations.

4.00 out of 5

References
¹ Bill Werde, 'Floyd's 'Dark Side' Celebrates Chart Milestone' (May 5 2006), http://www.billboard.com/bbcom/news/article_display.jsp?vnu_content_id=1002463719. Accessed on August 20 2008.
² 'The Making of The Dark Side Of The Moon Part 1', http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Jtj8she1mgg. Accessed on September 21 2008.

Top 100 Albums - #25: All That You Can't Leave Behind (2000)

U2's fifth and final entry on the chart is All That You Can't Leave Behind, widely seen as a return to critical and commercial success after the poor reception of Pop (1997).
While both Achtung Baby (1991) and Zooropa (1993) had won U2 new audiences and critical acclaim, as the 1990s wore on their new image began to turn on them. In 1995, following the end of the Zoo TV Tour, the band collaborated with Brian Eno on Original Soundtracks 1 (1995), a mostly instrumental album of songs for imaginary films. Released under the band name Passengers, the album was spurned by both fans and drummer Larry Mullen Jr., who worried that the band were becoming self-indulgent. These feelings were exacerbated by Pop, an album recorded at breakneck speed because of the pre-arranged tour. Despite being dark and political in places, the album received mixed reception from critics and the cold shoulder from many fans. Following the release of compilation The Best of 1980-1990 (1998), the band returned to the studio in a desperate bid to reinvent itself, just as it had done ten years before.

We begin, of course, with 'Beautiful Day'. It may been merecilessly overplayed on ITV, and reduced to the relative banality of a football theme tune, but this is a still an amazing song. The oscillating keyboards and bass drum are a great way to introduce this new U2 - combining the best from the heavy rock of the 1980s and the more electronic touches of the 1990s. Bono's voice is weaker than it was on, say, The Joshua Tree (1987), but he still wipes the floor with just about every other forty-something rocker on the planet. If anything, the lack of his once-trademark falsetto - for the most part - allows you to discover a new, more pleasant side of him, a side you thought had been lost long ago. The band as a unit feel tight, together and thoroughly modern. They have their pulse on the sound of the day, but still create something new and defining. This gets better every time you hear it, it's a sheer belter.

I have been unkind about the next track before. In my review of The Best of 1990-2000 (2002, #43), I attacked 'Stuck In A Moment You Can't Get Out Of', describing it as a bizarre cross between pop rock and lounge music. Some of that is still very true - Bono's lyrics are not his best, fulfilling his own words that There's nothing you can throw at me/ That I haven't already heard. But somehow, in the context of the album as a whole, this comes across a lot better. Being only the second track, we are still getting used to the new sound, and so there are bound to be little things we don't like even in the best tracks.

'Elevation' needs no such excuses, though. It may begin with the e-piano pootlings of a five-year-old, but The Edge's riffs are jagged and distorted, filled with a new metallic potency. Bono begins annoyingly, but soon he settles down into a very bizarre set of lyrics which push the boundaries of what it acceptable as rhyme without being cheesy. It's a proper rock single - not the most substancial thing in the world, but still a great listen. The most interesting section is the bridge - Bono's voice is electronically altered, not something he would have normally allowed.

With 'Walk On', we downstage slightly in terms of subject and take a more spiritual approach. The song provides us with the album's title and is dedicated to Burmese peace activist and 'prisoner of conscience' Aung San Suu Kyi. This does feel more like traditional U2, with The Edge soaring on the choruses on his highly strung Strat and Mullen playing more crisply than on previous songs. The lyrics achieve the rare feat of being both political and spiritual without sounding twisted or compromised. We get our fair share of both in the second verse:

You're packing a suitcase for a place
None of us has been
A place that has to be believed
To be seen
You could have flown away
A singing bird in an open cage
Who will only fly, only fly
For freedom

From this point of view, this is one of the band's finest achievements - though not as fine as 'Kite'. This is a complete heartwrencher, designed to move you beyond what you consider possible. The violins in the opening section are beautifully orchestrated, and The Edge is at the top of his game on slide guitar. Mullen keeps the drumming economical but effective, perhaps conscious that this is Bono's song. The meanings of the lyrics are many and varied, including that of a father letting his children out into the world, lovers getting over a failed relationship, and a eulogy of sorts to Bono's father, Bob Hewson, who passed away during the Elevation tour in 2001. Whichever of these you choose to believe, it is impossible to deny the emotional power of this track, summed up in Bono's breathtaking (and breathless) performance on vocals, his most emotive and exceptional to date. This is a song which you will listen to sparingly, so that you can savour its every perfection; in return, it will always, always, bring you to tears.

After what can only be described as a phenomenal start, the band drop the ball on the next two tracks. 'In A Little While' is about the much less attractive subject of a hangover, picking up the drunk song baton from 'Tryin' To Throw Your Arms Around The World' (from Achtung Baby). This is U2 trying to be funky, incorporating the open hi-hat and scratching sound of hip-hop to create something which at its worst points is, frankly, embarrassing. 'Wild Honey' is equally disparate, beginning with some gut-wrenchingly tinny guitar, such as you would hear on a theatre student's demo tape. And while the chorus might have something to it, it cannot in itself hold your attention for the length of the song. This means you will have to try and understand the verses, exposing yourself full on to the apogee of modern tweeness.

We get back on track with 'Peace On Earth'. Despite the daunting title, this is actually indicative of the relationship between Bono and the rest of the band at its best. Just as on 'October', the other members, especially The Edge, have tied Bono to the ground, stopped his head swelling up and forced him to deliver an honest performance. The result is a very real, pleaful and lifting piece (see my review of October (1981, #87)). The lyrics are very focussed and yet modest, with the digs being subtle and shrouded in principle, e.g. It's already gone too far/ They say that if you go in hard/ You won't get hurt. Then Jesus comes into the equation with no cheesy fanfare, and the honesty factor rises again.

'When I Look At The World' is much in the same vein. We find a U2 more restrained, still potent but trying to reign themselves in to avoid looking like a bunch of rich ageing idiots. The lyrics should be relevant to anyone who has been a Christian for a long period of time. They describe deep-seated doubt, prompted by world events but rooted in questions about the very foundations of one's faith. When Bono sings the chorus, he is so stricken that you really do feel that he is wrestling with God:

So I try to be like you
Try to feel it like you do
Growing up, but it's no use
I can't see what you see
When I look at the world

In the midst of all this soul-searching, The Edge keeps the song rolling along, providing some wonderfully crisp chords on a guitar which sounds like a wasp stuck in a steel pipe. Mullen uses his snare and ride cymbal well to create another dynamic rhythm, and as if by magic Adam Clayton's bass pops up at the most apposite moments, lifting the whole mix. The song concludes with the classic lines of the doubting Christian, Tell me, tell me/ What do you see?/ Tell me, tell me/ What's wrong with me?.

The last major slip-up on this great album is 'New York'. Until now, Messrs. Lanois and Eno had been on sensational form, but here they have taken a good mix and then made a hippo sit on it. As a result the drums, especially the hi-hat, sound tinny and overly funky - and worse still, it is impossible to hear Clayton al. With this in place, Bono may as well have not bothered. In the lower registers especially he sounds like a threepenny crooner. Even when the band kick the tail out at the end, it still sounds impotent.

'Grace', on the other hand, is a gem. Clayton begins the song, with his double-tracked bass taking both the high and low rhythms while The Edge lays down a downbeat, chilled-out series of chords which make you close your eyes and picture a garden full of summer flowers. Despite being very long for a U2 song (a not-so-punchy 5:32), there is hardly any drag here. Bono may be singing in what feels like slow-motion, but he is not slow enough to try your patience to any great degree. Instead, he produces a worthy sequel to the likes of 'One', for this has all the sensitivity and great lyrics of that track, combined with a contemporary feel and much better production.

We round up with 'The Ground Beneath Her Feet'. This is unusual in that it is one of the few songs in the U2 canon without Bono as lyricist. The words come from the pages of Sir Salman Rushdie, which is not hard to pick up on. This does have a more literary feel to it, much more arty and poetic than anything Bono could have created on his own. Despite that, this is easily one of the most accessible songs on here, which is just as well when you consider how good this is. We have an ethereal slide guitar melody from The Edge, counterpointed by Bono's acoustic and captured like rain on a lake by Lanois. We have a vocal performance from Bono to rival anything he has produced thus far at his peak. And we have a finished product which sounds like both a rock song and a piece of orchestral soundtrack work. It is a fabulous way to finish.

In many ways, All That You Can't Leave Behind is like the Rolls Royce Phantom. First, you get the instant impression of quality everywhere you go, from the playing to the production - even the album cover looks like brushed aluminium. Then, when you step inside, you are made to feel as comfortable as humanly possible, cocooned in your own little world with nothing to distract you or disrupt the experience. Leaving the car analogy aside, this album offers you the best of everything U2 have served up thus far, but there is still enough variety among the tracks for you to choose your own favourites. The follow-up could do that too, but How To Dismantle An Atomic Bomb (2004, #82) suffered from trying to be too political and in doing so saw the band slip into self-parody. Here, though, everything feels genuine, everything sounds new, and everything is worth savouring. It may be quieter and more understated than any U2 album since The Unforgettable Fire (1984), but it is in this meticulous level of restraint and self-control that true beauty emerges, making this truly the Rolls Royce of U2 albums.

4.00 out of 5

Top 100 Albums - #27: Quadrophenia (1973)

At number 27 is Quadrophenia, The Who's second rock opera and their penultimate entry on the chart.
Although Who's Next (1971) had become the band's most critically acclaimed album to date, Pete Townshend remained frustrated. The album had resulted from the collapse and termination of the Lifehouse project, an overambitious multimedia production designed to push the boundaries of rock and film to the limit. The project, which only Townshend ever fully understood, almost claimed his sanity. But The Who returned to the road in good spirits, touring the States over two legs through the remainder of 1971, and being dubbed 'The Greatest Show on Earth' by The Los Angeles Times.¹ By contrast, 1972 was a quiet year for the band. Townshend took six months off to reflect on the band's success, releasing a solo album, Who Came First, and two records dedicated to spiritual leader Meher Baba. Keith Moon's reputation for excess increased no end, punctuated only by his cameo in Frank Zappa's bizarre road movie, 200 Motels. While Roger Daltrey renovated his newly-bought Burwash estate and began recording his first solo album, Daltrey (1973), John Entwistle released Whistle Rhymes (1972) and began initial recordings for Rigor Mortis Sets In (1973). After playing to half a million people in Paris in August 1972, the band returned to the studio to begin recording Townshend's latest project, tentatively titled 'Jimmy'.²

Things don't start well. 'I Am The Sea' is 2-and-a-bit minutes of perfectly produced but rather unsettling sound effects. The sound of the waves may set the scene for this opera - just off the coast of Brighton - but the snippets of brass and echoed vocals that wash up are downright confusing. The success of 'Baba O'Riley' on Who's Next, with its long, radio-unfriendly intro, seems to have prompted Townshend to go further with his overtures. This time, it clearly hasn't worked. The overture to Tommy (1969) was crisp and clear - this is convoluted and bizarre.

Thankfully, this is soon rectified with 'The Real Me'. This is a hell of a track, kicking off with razor sharp guitar work from Townshend. Moon is on proper form, using every last inch of his already sumptuous kit to fill up the sound with fills where no other drummer would find the room. Entwistle is playful and jazzy, hinting at his later work with Alembics to create a wonderful, treble-ish melody. But the true highlight is Daltrey, whose range continues to grow while losing none of its raw power. On the contrary - at times here the energy coming off him as scary.

The title track, which segues in from 'The Real Me', completes the scene-setting as far as we are concerned. It is now clear that this is very different to Tommy; instead of some artistic fantasy, this is grittier, earthier and richer, exploring the often dark roots of the Mod movement which made The Who famous in the first place. The quadrophenia in question is a four-way split personality, to represent the four very different band members fighting under the single personality of The Who. Musically, this is a strange but elegant combination of synthesisers and acoustic, which actually works out quite well.

Having established our setting and the symbolic illness in question, our character can now step forward into the limelight. 'Cut My Hair' introduces us to Jimmy, the quadrophenic London Mod in question, stuck living with his uptight parents in an age of poverty and social change. Townshend takes lead on the verses, backed by smooth piano chords and Moon's ride cymbals. But on the chorus it is Moon and Daltrey all the way, with lines like Dressed right for a beach fight/ But I just can't explain being growled savagely. This song has good lyrics, but sharing them out has made it something of a hotch-potch. Some could say it symbolises the different sides of Jimmy, but if that were really the case, where are Moon and Entwistle?

No such fears abound on 'The Punk And The Godfather'. This bursts forth from the 6 O'Clock News with immense attitude and huge torque; the opening chords will cause you to turn your head as if a gun had fired closed behind. Daltrey is back on lead and is in swaggering form, delivering Townshend's lyrics with a sardonic snarl. His voice is still raw and savage, but his ability to crest high notes with sufficient force has improved no end since Live At Leeds (1970, #68). When things do quieten down, Townshend takes over, but soon Daltrey smashes back with his passionate OKAY! which greets the crowd of Mods dubbed in. This is brilliant stuff.

'I'm One' returns to Townshend and brings acoustic guitar to the fore. Because, or perhaps in spite of this, this is another very, very good song. The riff may be more ponderous and complex, but you're not fooling anyone if you say this is directionless. Even on the quiet opening section, before Moon's snare fires up, you can sense a hidden energy under Townshend's singing. The rest of the song is all Townshend, with Moon subdued but still magical, and the third verse is completely self-deprecating:

I got a Gibson without a case
But I can't get that even-tanned look on my face
Ill-fitting clothes, I blend in the crowd
Fingers too clumsy, voice too loud

After sufficient introspective musings, 'The Dirty Jobs' returns us properly to Jimmy, this time focussing on the dead-end world of working-class work. The synthesisers return to the foreground, and after what seems like a long absence, so does Entwistle. Our hero (or anti-hero) goes from feeding pigs to driving a bus-load of miners and a great deal besides, always being put down and pushed round, but always vowing not to sit and weep again. Daltrey captures this sense of defiance tinged with despair to a tee, and the whole group feels tight and agile. We also get the huge end section from about 3:39 onwards, which completes the package.

The first big slip-up on the album is 'Helpless Dancer', also known as 'Roger's Theme'. Townshend wanted to compose a theme for each of the four members, which is fine as an idea. But the execution of the idea in this case falls short. For a start, we get the same muffled brass section that we had on 'I Am The Sea', and the same oh-so-dramatic piano. Then the piano is reduced to loud, blunt minor chords, and Daltrey's rapid-fire vocals about frustration and identity are severely compromised by the tricksied-up production.

It's a good thing, then, that the next two songs make up for this. 'Is It In My Head?' is chock full of emotion. Here the piano is sweet and saddened, Daltrey is allowed to sing straight-face, and Moon is back with a vengeance. The lyrics describe the mental deterioration of Jimmy, as his addiction to amphetamines begin to mess with his mind and make him act completely out of character. This song is a symbol of what Townshend is capable of if he really concentrates - it's powerful, elegant, unpredictable and honest. As is 'I've Had Enough', for that matter. Moon and Daltrey lead as before, as the former beats the living daylights out his tom-toms in some spectacular fills, and the latter graces the top of his voice with a sense of wrath and cunning. Once again, Entwistle has to take a back seat, but otherwise this is fabulous. Daltrey's scream of LOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE is the perfect way to end the first half.

The second half begins as tentatively as the first, with the sound of train doors closing. Then the opening chords of '5:15' begin and we launch longingly into the first truly amazing track on here. This is a riot in which all four members are wrestling for control in this section about Jimmy making the trip, in more ways than one, from London to Brighton (Out of my brain on the train). Townshend provides the jangly, dynamic guitars, Entwistle the intelligent horns and subtle bass lines, and Daltrey pushes himself still further with every passing lyric. But in truth, this song is all about Moon. From the first hit of the snare, you have a picture of him wheeling around the kit with a huge grin on his face. It shows so openly in his playing, lighting up the already-potent mix with an impish, rebellious charm, all the time keeping things tightly unpredictable. As we will see, there are many tracks which merit the title of tour de force, and this is surely one of them.

'Sea And Sand' finds Jimmy considering his future. Having been finally kicked out by his parents, he find himself in Brighton, and about to be caught up in the riots of 1965. But for the moment, all he can think of are his parents - who celebrated his eviction by getting drunk - and his perfect dresser girlfriend. This is a great opportunity for Townshend to let loose some more personal potshots, again being self-deprecating about his inability to dress like the 'Ace Face'. Musically, The Who are now fully into their stride, with rip-roaring riffs and toe-tapping drum beats. But now, at last, Entwistle's bass has been cranked back up to the deafening level that it was on 'The Real Me'.

'Drowned' is a big duffer, I'm afraid. The piano which accompanies Townshend at the start is just too twinkling and sanitised. This taints the rest of the sound, which isn't helped by the fact that his lyrics come up short too (I'm travelling down cold metal/ Just a tear in a baby's eye? Come on.). This doesn't feel like a thoroughbred Who song at all. It feels like a sub-standard piece of 1970s piano rock with Keith's part from another song dubbed over it.

Speaking of Keith, we know get back on track with 'Keith's Theme' - 'Bell Boy'. Thanks to Moon's wonderful drumming and tongue-in-cheek vocals, this would become a huge live favourite, as seen on the film from Charlton Football Ground in 1974.³ Moon may not be a singer at heart, but he knows a thing or two about comedy characters and timing, going from the loud-mouthed ex-Ace Face to tender boy wonder and back again. The others are on similar form, particularly Townshend who has finally made the synthesisers blend with The Who's sound as well as they did on Who's Next.

'Doctor Jimmy' is the longest track here, at 8:36. This is partially because it incorporates 'John's Theme', a.k.a. 'Is It Me For A Moment?'. We have heard snippets of it before, but here it is in full, sandwiched with no hint of awkwardness between two fiery salvos from Roger Daltrey. In a flash, all the playfulness of 'Bell Boy' is gone, blown away by the sea breeze at the start of the track. The band start muted, but soon they build, like Jimmy's fury, into something enormous. Daltrey and Jimmy become one huge, angry visceral young man, spitting out lines like insults and retorts made in mid-fight with a Rocker. The chorus is Townshend at his most vitriolic:

What is it?
I'll take it
Who is she?
I'll rape it
Got a bed there?
I'll need it
Getting high?
You can't beat it

It's the last two tracks, though, where things get really good. 'The Rock', which interpolates from 'Doctor Jimmy', is on first impression just a reworking of the title track. The riffs are similar, the tempo is the same, and the time signature is the same. But after the first 13 seconds have passed, all idea of retreading old ground evaporates as Moon comes along and takes control. He famously hated drum solos, and this certainly isn't one. What it is is a wonderful instrumental interplay between drums and guitar, chronicalling Jimmy's journey (or 'trip') to an island off Brighton in a lonely motor boat. Townshend's Les Paul sings out sadly and seriously in the silence that is the middle section, but throughout this is counter-balanced by Keith's endless invention and creative appetite. Any other drummer asked to play along with this would have created something pedestrian - but Keith moves with Townshend, teasing the listener and again making you smile, not just in laughter but in reverence at how euphorically he is playing.

If you want real euphoria though, you want 'Love, Reign O'er Me'. It opens with the distinctive, heavenly piano chords, which thunder down through the pouring rain right into the heart of the listener. Here we end as we began, with Jimmy alone on Brighton Rock, watching his life flash before his eyes, wondering what it all means and who he really is. Townshend surpasses everyone's expectations - including his own - on his 'Theme', and not just on the ethereal opening. After so many snippets of themes and riffs which served to confuse the listener before, here it all comes together; the synthesisers provide the violin-esque backdrop as Daltrey (and Jimmy) bears his soul. And boy, does Daltrey respond, capturing the essence of Townshend's lyrics about empathy and introspection and turning them into one of the greatest love songs ever written. It is never clear whom he is delivering this song to - God, his lover, his parents, the other parts of himself - but what is always clear is that he means it. If the rest of the album made you confused and frustrated, this will give you a deep, spiritual thrill which deepens every time you hear it.

While it may not have translated all that well to the live circuit, there is no doubt that Quadrophenia is a proper Who album, if not the definitive Who album. There is so much in the way of substance on offer, whether in the gnarled, gritty realism of Townshend's London, or in the deep, soul-inspiring poetry which he conjures up in the midst of this. This is certainly superior to Tommy, not because it is more realistic, but because the narrative is never allowed to excessively interfere with the music. While on Tommy we had to put up with songs like 'Miracle Cure' and 'Tommy's Holiday Camp' for the sake of continuity, here the narrative is allowed to weave in and out of the concept as it sees fit. This creates a more exciting, more all-rounded result, still uneven in places but that is the nature of rock opera. Cited by Townshend as the pinacle of The Who's achievements on record, it still stands today as one of the most compelling, intriguing, and thrilling albums of the 1970s. Anyone who cares even faintly about music should own it.

3.94 out of 5

References

¹ Robert Hilburn, quoted in Andy Neill & Matt Kent, Anyway Anyhow Anywhere: The Complete Chronicle of The Who, 1958-1978 (London: Virgin Books, 2007), p.276.
² Pete Townshend, quoted in Roy Carr, 'Pete Townshend: Who Came First', NME, October 7 1972 - cited in Neill & Kent, Anyway Anyhow Anywhere, p.313.
³ http://uk.youtube.com/watch?v=jsFKWGlrze0. Accessed on August 30 2008.