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Roger Waters exposes the secrets of Rock 'N' Roll's most
self-destructive supergroup,
PINK FLOYD
Penthouse Magazine, September, 1988
"Is there anything more sad and unjust than a *fake*?" frets
radically flustered British rock legend Roger Waters, seated in
his Spartan loft offices in London. His fervid question fairly
scars the afternoon air with its savagery. "Can you imagine the
disappointment in learning you'd spent your savings on a false
Magritte or a fraudulent John Lennon manuscript? Not to mention
the spiritual trust and emotion people invest in the symbolic
power of any name."
Indeed, Waters allows, in many ancient cultures names were sa-
cred things that could never be changed, transferred, or falsely
assumed. To tamper with a name, much less manipulate it in the
marketplace, was to desecrate the spiritual force it contained.
It was like spitting on the soul.
"And it was the struggle *against* these kinds of attitudes,"
adds the wiry Waters, his square jaw stiffening, "that helped
John Lennon create the sense of artistic decency that I like to
call `the Lennon Instinct.'"
The fight that Waters is discussing is closer to home than any
cunning exploitation of the farflung Beatles legacy, but the
stakes are still plenty high. Indeed, one of the biggest and most
bitter battles in the annals of the billion-dollar rock business
concerns the much-coveted legal custody of a quirky musical
trademark: Pink Floyd.
In the beginning were the words, and the words were the Pink
Floyd sound. Derived from the first names of two obscure Georgia
bluesmen (Pink Anderson and Floyd Council), the term was applied
in 1965 to a certain experimental British rock band; and over the
course of two decades it has become synonymous with a magnetic,
edgy music in which its pervasive chilling mood is the star.
The man at the center of the ugly contest for control of this
potent rock presence is songwriter Roger Waters, a lyricist *ex-
traordinaire* whose spiky meditations on death, madness, and apo-
calypse were pivotal in leading an obscure British psychedelic
group to the pinnacle of commercial preeminence in progressive
rock. In particular, Waters wrote all the words and the better
part of the music for Pink Floyd's 1973 album, _The Dark Side Of
The Moon_. One of the most successful records of all time, the
hypnotic _Dark Side_ has lingered for a staggering 725 weeks on
_Billboard_'s pop charts; yet its spooky cover image of a
prismatic pyramid is the closest its faceless creators have ever
come to iconlike stardom.
Waters' legendary fertile imagination yielded another phenome-
nal blockbuster in 1979, the epic autobiographical ode to postwar
alienation, _The Wall_ -- and under his leadership the band would
ultimately move more than 55 million albums. But the focus of
fans' adulation remained the anonymous banner of "Pink Floyd."
The Floyd broke up in 1983 -- notwithstanding all flamboyant
appearances to the contrary -- and now Waters and longtime Floyd
lead guitarist/vocalist Dave Gilmour are locked in a fight over
rights to the name. Waters wants "the reigning trade-emblem of
rock" to be permanently retired, pleading, "Let's be fair to our
public, for pity's sake, and admit the group disintegrated long
ago!"
Gilmour vehemently rejects such notions, raging, "I've been
working on my career with Pink Floyd for 20 years -- since 1968.
I'm 44 now, too old to start all over at this stage of my career,
and I don't see any reason why I should. Pink Floyd is not some
sacred or hallowed thing that never made bad or boring records in
the past. And I'm not destroying anything by trying to carry on!"
Actually, these pitched acrimonies evolved out of a 1985
management rift, in which Waters ended his representation by
veteran Floyd manager Steve O'Rourke. Their falling-out was over
contractual agreements for future Floyd output -- a matter Waters
deemed moot since the band was, to his mind, defunct. When
O'Rourke bridled, calling his termination by Waters a violation
of his own formal agreements with, and responsibilities toward,
the entity known as Pink Floyd, Roger sought support from former
band members Gilmour and drummer Nick Mason (Roger even rashly
proposed to cede the band's rights to Pink Floyd if they'd close
ranks against O'Rourke's claims; neither Gilmour nor Mason ac-
cepted Waters never-to-be-repeated offer.)
As Waters tells it, when he calmed down and took the long view
on both the deepening breach with O'Rourke and his estrangement
>from Gilmour, Mason and Floyd orphan Rick Wright (who Roger says
was fired by mutual consent of the rest in 1980), he decided the
sanest course of action was a writ to nullify the name Pink
Floyd.
In 1986, on Halloween, Roger Waters filed suit in London
against Gilmour and Mason. Last year, the dispute spilled out of
the offices of the principals' attorneys and onto the world's
concert stages. Roger Waters mounted a massive tour in support of
_Radio KAOS_, his second solo LP, while Gilmour, Mason and Wright
performed the _A Momentary Lapse Of Reason_ LP under the Pink
Floyd flag.
Waters' record drew wildly mixed reviews and sold modestly;
yet his much-praised KAOS concert pageant, while pitted against
the rising tide of pseudo-Floyd promotion, slowly prospered to
where Waters could sell out solo shows in England's gigantic
Wembley Arena on two consecutive nights. Meanwhile, the product
of Gilmour's Floyd facsimile drew similarly mixed notices but
triumphed in record stores, sparking a hefty 3 million purchases
in the U.S. alone; and the lasers- and props-packed _Lapse Of
Reason_ dates proved a steady sellout internationally.
On both tours, crowds were treated to the bountifully forebod-
ing sweep of the Pink Floyd aesthetic. Hits and FM favorites like
"Welcome to the Machine," "Money," and "Another Brick In The
Wall" were lavished on all comers -- but it was only during the
_Radio KAOS_ concerts that noted Los Angeles deejay Jim Ladd
(performing as the voice of the mythical KAOS station) deigned to
declare, "Words and music by Roger Waters!"
While Waters' authorship of the best of the Pink Floyd reper-
toire was plain from the start, it was opponent Dave Gilmour who
won the crucial first round at the box office. While savoring the
bounty from _A Momentary Lapse Of Reason_, Dave permitted himself
a bit of boasting last november in the pages of _Rolling Stone_:
"We never sat down at any point and said, `It doesn't sound Floyd
enough. Make this more Floyd.' We just worked on the songs until
they sounded right. When they sounded great and right, that's
when it became Pink Floyd."
Roger Waters read that "arrogant soliloquy" down in Nassau's
Compass Point Studios last spring while at work with Paul "Don't
Shed A Tear" Carrack and the Bleeding Heart Band on the then un-
titled follow-up to _Radio KAOS_.
For Roger, Gilmour's assertion was the last straw. "That's an
outright lie, absolute and barefaced," he seethed, slamming the
magazine down, "and someday the world will know the depth of this
entire hoax!"
Waters saw Gilmour's quote in _Rolling Stone_ as the rock
equivalent of the Iran-Contra crew and their droll demurrals con-
cerning official misconduct, despite a damning paper trail to the
contrary. The Gilmour statement emboldened Waters to come forth
for the first time with details of what he sees as the behind-
the-scenes disloyalties and double-dealings that gave rise to _A
Momentary Lapse of Reason_. "I must say," Waters quips, "that
under the circumstances, it's a superb title for a so-called Pink
Floyd record."
Granted, anyone can say anything to the press to justify his
position to Pink Floyd's legion of rabid fans. However, the in-
trigues that emerge from six months of independent inquiry into
this epic test of rock'n'roll wills differ shockingly from all
previous accounts.
What emerges is a saga of greed, cynicism, and misrepresenta-
tion in the modern music business. Over the last 20 years, rock
has grown from the simple expression of a spirited singer and
his song into a gigantic entertainment juggernaut in which even
the most splendid displays of "talent" and "vision" can be of
synthetic origin. Thanks to the convolutions of current recording
technology, a musician needn't play, a band needn't assemble, an
artistic bond needn't exist. A songwriter-producer can adopt the
focused traits of an assembly-line foreman as he brings the illu-
sion of a supergroup and its latest album into being. This is the
story of a massive controversy, centered on the marketing of two
seemingly foolish words: Pink Floyd.
"You learn nothing from a lie," says Roger Waters, stretched
out in the Billiard Room, a home studio that has supplanted the
game room of his spacious house in Barnes, West London. It's been
a troubled six months since our initial Pink Floyd-related talk,
and the sinewy Waters looks distinctly world-weary. "Even as you
discover a deliberate untruth, it always only confirms what you
already knew but refused to face."
This blunt observation is at the core of Roger Waters's
outlook as a composer, since unsentimental confrontations with
delusion form the fundamental themes of his work. Like many old-
guard rock practitioners, Waters values the unconditional open-
ness of the best rock as a public expression of a personal truth.
Naysayers claim that rock no longer requires any creed or sub-
stance beyond the brazen announcement of itself.
"In Aldous Huxley's book *Brave New World*," mulls Waters,
nursing a cup of strong tea, "he warned about every human being
conditioned to accept his lot so that the bosses arrive at a nice
smooth situation where nobody questions anything and everything
is supposedly `taken care of.' This is the deluded scenario I put
forth in *Radio KAOS* -- which was my doomsday-bound vision of a
`soap-operatic republic' in which nobody gives a shit if, for in-
stance, Oliver North did the right thing or was wrong, or what
effect it had on anything else. All that many viewers still care
about concerning the indicted Mr. North is whether he gave a
good, solid, John Wayne television performance. And because
North's airtime suddenly became entwined with the American net-
works' sickening concept of what constitutes great television, it
was literally excused!
"What it comes down to for me is: Will the technologies of
communication and culture -- and especially popular music, which
is a *vast* and beloved enterprise -- help us to understand one
another better, or will they deceive us and keep us apart? While
there's still time, we all have to answer for ourselves. But nei-
ther Huxley nor Meese nor Ollie North could have prepared me for
the creative, technological and moral issues I'm facing with the
Pink Floyd sham -- a grand display that's also being excused in
public because it makes for great arena rock.
"Naturally," he chuckles, showing a handsome, seldom seen grin
that merits more exposure, "all of this solemn contemplation is
showing up in my music. *Radio KAOS* was hopefully universal in
its pained concern, but my new album's themes involve anguish in
my very own backyard."
Indeed, one day last winter, as the personnel calling them-
selves Pink Floyd were moving across the map from San Diego to
Sydney in fierce pursuit of ticket sales, a pensive Roger Waters
went to the Billiard Room and began writing stanzas for what be-
came a song for his new album:
We watched the tragedy unfold
We did as we were told
We bought and sold
It was the greatest show on Earth
But then it was over
We oohed and aahed
We drove our racing cars
We ate our last jars of caviar
And somewhere out there in the stars
A keen-eyed lookout spied a flickering star
Our last hurrah
(COPYRIGHT 1988 ROGER WATERS. ALL RIGHTS RESERVED)
Waters gradually realized the two verses were a requiem for
the fragile integrity of the Pink Floyd reign. And yes, tens of
thousands of spectators *were* at that moment crowding arenas to
hear a band calling itself Pink Floyd. Yet the most devout fans
surely were aware that the whole presentation could not be furth-
er in fact or intent from the aims of the idealistic school chums
who forged the Pink Floyd Sound.
When a title for his bittersweet new song eventually occurred
to Roger Waters, it also seemed an apt name for both his latest
solo album and the tragic creative destiny that it summarized. "I
didn't know what else to call it," he shrugs, "but *Amused to
Death*."
Among ultra-hard-core Pink Floyd zealots, the period of mourn-
ing for the band commenced way back in 1968, when another Roger
-- Roger Keith "Syd" Barrett -- was booted from the psychedelic
act he'd named. A fellow student of Waters's at Cambridge High
School for Boys, Syd Barrett was invited by Roger in late 1965 to
join a combo he'd formed with two other architecture majors (Nick
Mason, Rick Wright) at London's Regent Street Polytechnic. Spew-
ing barrages of feedback-cum-Chuck Berry chords during Sunday-
afternoon "Spontaneous Underground" sessions at the fabled Mar-
quee Club, Pink Floyd quickly became the vanguard experimental
outfit on the London underground scene.
Unfortunately, young Syd too quickly became high-priest-
without-portfolio of a surreal strain of hallucinogen-fueled rock
songcraft, whose halcyon era was as hazy as his own cerebellum.
While still sufficiently grounded as of January 1967 to author
Pink Floyd's first British hit, "Arnold Layne," Barrett soon
tired of the rigors of reality. He was halfway to the laughing
house when *The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn*, the debut Floyd LP,
emerged from Abbey Road Studios in August 1967.
Cambridge High School alumnua`s Dave Gilmour, fresh from gigs
as a male model in France, was brought on board in February 1968,
to serve as backup guitarist and vocalist for the dangerously
balmy Barrett. When too many visits to the popstar pharmacy paved
the way for Syd's inevitable on-mental tour collapse, Gilmour got
the nod as new guitar hero. Waters, Gilmour, and Rick Wright went
on to assist Barrett in two loopy solo LPs (*The Madcap Laughs;
Barrett*), and then Syd retired to his mum's house to preserve
his premier rank as acid-fried rock savant.
With Gilmour the appointed front man, Waters gripped Floyd's
artistic reins and steered them into years of exotic
progressive-rock reveries. The electronics-drenched albums had
titles like *A Saucerful of Secrets; Ummagumma; Atom Heart Moth-
er; Meddle. And the spacey songs followed suit: "Set The Controls
For The HEart Of The Sun," "Astronome Domine." The band also pro-
vided soundtrack scores for a few of the more outre' late
sixties-early seventies art movies, notably *More* and
Michelangelo Antonioni's daffily desolate *Zabriske Point*(1970)
in which the Floyd song "Careful With That Axe, Eugene" soared
over the closing sequence of desert explosions. (**note from
typist/poster: the song in the movie is titled "Come In Number
51, Your Time Is Up." and is a very souped-up version of "Careful
With That Axe." This article contains some other minor inaccura-
cies, but I couldn't let that one stand.**)
The Pink Floyd stage productions of the era were the
forerunners of the modern rock extravaganza, featuring elaborate
special effects and one of rock's inaugural light shows, plus
protracted instrumental suites served up via a remarkable 360-
degree sound system called the Azimuth Coordinator. At one UK
concert, a 50-foot inflatable octopus rose from an adjacent pond
during a climactic number, the Floyd playing so loudly the deci-
bel level actually decimated the real aquatic life in the water.
For all its bizarre overkill, the Floyd had no impact on the
American market until 1972's _Obscured By Clouds_ was embraced by
FM radio. From there it was a short step to a commercial blast-
off courtesy _The Dark Side Of The Moon_, with its immaculate in-
strumentation, ominous phonic mumbles, and jarring sound
effects(ticking clocks, ringing cash registers). Each band member
contributed something to the mix of _Dark Side_, but lyrically,
musically, and conceptually it was Roger Waters's coming out par-
ty. While the rest of the group basked in the glow of their
abrupt mass acceptance, Waters busily exorcised his ingrained
demons, expounding throughout _Wish You Were Here_(1975, dedicat-
ed to Syd Barrett), _Animals_(1977), _The Wall_(1979) and _The
Final Cut_(1983), on gloomy human themes rooted in grief for his
airman father's World War II death.
"My father was a schoolteacher before the war," Waters ex-
plains evenly. "He taught physical education *and* religious in-
struction, strangely enough. He was a deeply committed Christian
who was killed when I was three months old. A wrenching waste. I
concede that awful loss has colored much of my writing and my
worldview."
It has also shaped Waters's intense sense of protectiveness
toward Pink Floyd's recording heritage, since it encompasses ma-
jor developmental horrors in his life -- whether they involved
coping with the death of the dad he never knew, or the psychic
dissolution of adolescent companion Syd Barrett.
"Syd and I went through our *most* formative years together,"
Waters shyly admits, "riding on my motorbike, getting drunk, do-
ing a little dope, flirting with girls, all that basic stuff. I
still consider Syd a great primary inspiration; there was a
wonderful human tenderness to all his unique musical flights."
From his alternately slack and hypertense body language to the
crackling clarity of his discourse, Roger Waters, 44, is the epi-
tome of the overly bright man for whom intellect, self-awareness,
and social conscience are a decidedly mixed blessing. The hard-
ness of his chiseled visage and flinty gaze are leavened, howev-
er, by the disarming vulnerability of his nature.
"There's something to be said for disastrous business miscal-
culation and failure in the marketplace," he says with a hapless
chuckle. "They send you back home to ponder your value systems,
and at the same time they reward you with a new freedom to follow
your creative heart without worrying about commercial tyrannies.
"I've also discovered that the law is not so much interested
in moral issues as the cold factors of ownership, treating the
name Pink Floyd as if it were McDonald's or Boeing! On a personal
level, I have nothing against Dave Gilmour furthering his own
goals. It's just the idea of Dave's solo career masquerading as
Pink Floyd that offends me!"
Gilmour is the polar opposite of his adversary in both appear-
ance and opinion. Round-faced, smiling, with a teddy-bear torso,
he projects amicability and approachability -- until his darting
eyes sense weakness in their vicinity. At which point, the smile
turns to a fixed leer and a fabled sarcasm spills forth.
"I don't share Roger's sense of angst about music and the
world," he banters scornfully, speaking at dusk in a Providence,
Rhode Island, hotel room shortly before another concert stand.
"If I did, maybe we would have come to an agreement on our
dispute. While Roger's acted dumbly and isolated himself, I've
discovered new strength with the extra work load I've had to put
on myself in this last year. But like him, I did several solo LPs
myself and made no demands on anyone when I did. Granted, I did
less work with Pink Floyd back in the old days, but that was
something Roger was forcing. And now," Gilmour adds with glee,
"the poor chap's lost his whip hand!"
Perhaps. But David Gilmour is singing a vastly different tune
than he did back when his solo future seemed brighter.
"Roger comes up with the concepts -- he's the preacher of the
group and spends more time home writing with Pink Floyd in mind,"
a breezy Gilmour told _Rolling Stone_ in 1978, as his _David Gil-
mour_ album was being issued. "We get along fine. I know what I
give to our sound, and he knows it, too. It's not a question of
him forcing his ideas on us. I get my ideas across as much as I
want to. They would use more of my music if I wrote it."
**(typists note: why might Gilmour have wanted/needed to publicly
deny internal strife within the band in 1978? Think about it.)**
Gilmour took an aggressive stab at writing his own music for
his _David Gilmour_ and 1984 _About Face_ collections, but it ap-
pears that only Pink Floyd cultists bought them (**typists note:
and who bought Waters's solo projects?**) It was after his second
solo album that he began to press the Pink ploy.
"From there, the story takes a sordid turn," claims Waters,
"and after long thought on this mess and the mountain of false-
hood (**not to mention the money they're making with the band I
thought was *mine* Waaah! -- typist's insertion. sorry, I'll stop
:-)**) mountain of falsehood that this scheming bunch has creat-
ed, I'm now going to divulge the cold, hard, indisputable facts.
Please do feel free to go back to any of the parties mentioned
about their side of the story. I think you'll stop them dead in
their sneaky tracks."
The first bombshell Waters drops is that Bob Ezrin, who served
as coproducer on _The Wall_ as well as _A Momentary Lapse of Rea-
son_, was originally supposed to produce _Radio KAOS_.
"That's right," Waters says with a grim nod. "We met in New
York City in February of 1986. This was after Gilmour had been
spouting for a year about how wise it would be to get Pink Floyd
back together in any passable form -- with me always refusing
that scam.
"So I see Ezrin for a two-day meeting and give him cassettes
of the _KAOS_ material I'm working on. He said he was interested
in doing the record. We shook on the _KAOS_ agreement, and we
agreed to start work in England on April 16 of 1986."
Come early April, Waters found it impossible to contact Bob
Ezrin.
"I couldn't reach him," says Waters. "Then,exactly ten days
before my first scheduled _KAOS_ session in England, I manage to
catch him at home in the wee hours of the morning. He picks up
the phone, is startled to find it's me on the other end, and he
blurts out, `My wife says she'll divorce me if I go work in Eng-
land!' I was stunned. I said, `Couldn't you have told me that
three months ago?'
"I'm in a state of shock, and the minute I put the phone down
after the conversation, my wife Carolyn says to me, `I'll bet
he's going to do that pseudo-Pink Floyd record David wants' All I
could reply was, `I can't believe he'd do *that*.'
"I discovered exactly one week later," Waters says, "that he
had indeed been hired to do a Pink Floyd record."
After having Waters's detailed accusations read to him, Bob
Ezrin replies, "I was in Los Angeles in the midst of a Rod
Stewart album when Roger called from London in February of '86,
and I set two days aside at Roger's insistence and we met each
other halfway, both of us flying to New York to talk about
_KAOS_. At the time I met with Roger, I said I wanted to do the
album, but I had an instinctive sense that he was being too rigid
and intense in his attitudes about the project. And believe me, I
know how rigid Roger can get from doing _The Wall_ with him.
"See, Roger was completely inflexible about when and where he
wanted to do _KAOS_. I have five kids, and he was wanting to move
my whole family to England for a minimum of three months. My wife
was against it because she felt it would disrupt our children's
school schedule. And so after I thought it through, I exercised
my right as a potential employee of Roger's to decline.
"It was a *full month* afterward," Ezrin proclaims, "that I
was approached by Dave Gilmour about producing a Pink Floyd pro-
ject. I hadn't been in touch with Dave since producing his _About
Face_ album."
So why, after rejecting a three-month Waters-related stay in
England for the good of his family, did Ezrin wind up spending
almost seven months in London recording _A Momentary Lapse of
Reason_ with Gilmour?
There, a long pause. "Dave didn't demand things like Roger
did," Ezrin finally replies. "While Roger was thinking only of
*his* family's schedule, Dave was willing to work out a more
flexible calendar plan that would accomodate the school schedules
of both our sets of kids. Also, Dave flew to LA to hang out and
play his work tapes -- rather than insisting that I go to him."
Ezrin's disclaimers sound peculiarly prissy coming from an
itinerant veteran whose studio dance card has regularly included
heavy-metal hell-raisers like Alice Cooper and Kiss. However,
giving him the benefit of the doubt, we move on to the artistic
integrity of _Lapse of Reason_. Roger Waters's outspoken ire,
you'll recall, was triggered by Gilmour's assertion to _Rolling
Stone_ that "we never sat down at any point during this record
and said, `It doesn't sound Floyd enough. Make this more Floyd.'"
On the contrary, according to Waters, it was Bob Ezrin who
rang just such an alarm at the halfway mark in the _Lapse_ ses-
sions.
"After four to five months of constant work with Gilmour and
company," says Roger, "Bob spoke to Michael Kamen, who did or-
chestral arrangements on _The Wall_ and also coproduced my first
solo album, _The Pros and Cons of Hitchhiking_. (** typists note:
Kamen also did some arrangements for Queensryche, a very Floyd-
sounding band at times**) Bob told him the tracks were `an abso-
lute disaster, with no words, no heart, no continuity.'" Michael
Kamen, who had declined involvement at the start of the project,
confirms Waters's account of the conversation with Ezrin.
"Ezrin was so depressed," says Waters, "he took a cassette
copy of the tapes home to his house in Encino, where his teenage
son Josh discovered it and played it with his friend. Both of the
kids got angry, and Josh told Ezrin, `Dad, it's *not* Pink
Floyd!'
(** typists note: what would a teenager in 1986 have known
about the many different phases and sounds of Pink Floyd??? **)
"What happened next," says Waters, gathering steam, "was that
Bob Ezrin, David Gilmour, and CBS Records executive Stephen Ral-
bovsky had a confidential lunch meeting at Langan's Brasserie,
the famous London bistro in Hampton Court, in October or November
of '86, wherein both Ezrin and Ralbovsky told Gilmour, `This
music doesn't sound a *fucking thing* like Pink Floyd!' And ac-
cording to what Dave told me, they had spent $1.2 million on it!"
Back to Bob Ezrin. Is Roger Waters's account of this secret
meeting correct?
"Omigosh!" gasps Ezrin in dismay. Then, in a quavery tone:
"How Roger could have known that we all had that meeting is re-
markable to me! Okay, fair enough; the *point* of the meeting was
for me to tell David that what he had thus far was not up to Pink
Floyd standards.
"Wait a minute, let me rephrase that: I said it was not up to
*our* standard of a Pink Floyd project, and that we should start
over again. And David was open and willing to do that.
"But the fact, amazingly, that Roger has become a *detective*
to learn about that meeting says to me that this thing has
become...er, it's gone too far past, er...It's not about the
music anymore! It's about the simple `making' of the _Lapse of
Reason_ record -- as well as the fact that Roger's not on it."
Precisely. Roger Waters's most vociferous charge has always
been that the intention on the part of Gilmour, Ezrin, et al.,
was never to create music that succeeded on its own terms, but
instead, from the corporate estimation on down, to endeavor to
fake the Pink Floyd Sound. Right?
Another uncomfortable pause. "Well," Ezrin murmurs, "I won't
tell you that there weren't times when I didn't say to David or
David didn't say to me, `This would be easier if Roger were
here,' or `Roger would know what to do,' or `Roger could give us
that flavor.' But both David and I knew that that would mean con-
tending with the rigid, intense, obsessive, and *artistic* Roger
-- which we didn't want."
And which Roger had closed the door on anyway.
"Er,...yes. So we had no choice but to go our own route and
start over -- and we did."
Which brings us to the question of exactly whose fingerprints
are on (and *not* on) the version of _A Momentary Lapse of Rea-
son_ that reached the marketplace. Scanning the fine print on the
inside of the expensive gatefold album jacket, one discovers --
in addition to Gilmour, Nick Mason, Rick Wright, and Bob Ezrin --
a guest list of 15 noted session musicians. (** typists note: How
many session musicians are on _Dark Side of the Moon_ and _The
Wall_? Even in the days of Barrett, session musicians were used.
An entire high school marching band sat in on _Jugband Blues_ and
I don't think that's Roger's voice singing _The Great Gig In The
Sky_ either....**) No less than 18 *more* musicians and technical
experts are acknowledged and thanked in the sub-fine print. ANd
the songwriters tucked away on the record's label include, be-
sides Gilmour and Ezrin, Messieurs Anthony Moore, Phil Manzanera
(** typist's note: Manzanera is a guitar wizard in his own right.
Check out his solo _Guitarissimo_ if you have a chance. **), Jon
Carin, and Pat Leonard.
This mysterious multitude is discreetly substituting for an
act that last consisted of Waters, Mason, and Wright, with Roger
doing the overwhelming majority of the songwriting. (** typist's
note: the article does NOT mention Gilmour in the previous sen-
tence. And what about Michael Kamen, or the orchestra hired to
play Kamen's arrangements on _The Wall_? Plus, while I rarely
listen to _The Final Cut_, I think I recall distinctly hearing
other singers and instruments on it as well. **) Does Dave Gil-
mour still presume to call this army of hired guns and mer-
cenaries Pink Floyd?
"Listen," Gilmour fumes, "the band is bound to change! It
must, regardless of the external or internal climate it faces.
But Nick and Bob Ezrin and I ultimately sat down with the materi-
al and decided what worked and what didn't!"
Notice there is no mention by Gilmour of the fourth "member"
of the unfathomable Pink Floyd, Rick Wright.
"That's because Rick Wright is merely on a wage on this entire
Pink Floyd world tour," Waters explains. "Rick has been burnt out
since 1979, when Gilmour, Ezrin and myself unanimously decided to
fire him.
(** typist's note: so it's ok with Waters to call it Floyd
without Wright OR Barrett...just not without Waters? **)
"Ezrin was the person to first call Rick during Rick's odd lit-
tle vacation that fall to Greece -- just as _The Wall_ was being
completed -- and said, `You're no longer pulling your weight.'
And Rick told him, `Fuck off!' It was then we all discussed the
matter, and Gilmour said, `Let's get rid of Nick Mason, too!'
Eventually Rick did some _Wall_ shows, but he only received a
wage, and then in 1980 we fired him for good." (Gilmour corro-
borated these charges of Wright's failings and "severance" ar-
rangement in a 1984 interview, in which he said of Wright, "He
wasn't performing in any way for us; he certainly wasn't doing
the job he was paid to do. On _The Wall_...Rick didn't play many
keyboards.)
"On August 4 of '86," Waters says, "I had a meeting with Dave
on the _Astoria__, his houseboat-recording studio that's anchored
on the Thames, because we were still trying to settle our differ-
ences. Dave told me himself that he still had no respect for ei-
ther Wright or Mason, but that they were useful to him. The man
who was most useful, however, was Bob Ezrin, which is why Dave
and Bob now each split three points right off the top from the
gross retail sales of _Lapse_. The remaining 12 or so points are
divided amongst a sea of other participants like Mason. As for
poor Rick Wright, he's on a weekly salary of $11,000. I know, be-
cause I've seen his contract with my own eyes.
"At least Rick knows it's just a payday. Nick Mason goes
around acting like Pink Floyd might really be a functioning tour
band. And once again, I invite and urge you to go to Wright and
Mason and repeat all these charges."
Unfortunately, Wright and Mason refused all requests for in-
terviews, which were repeatedly tendered through both the press
offices of CBS Records (which also remains Roger Waters's label)
and those of JLM Public Relations, Waters's own Manhattan
representative.
If, as Waters alleges, the erstwhile personnel of Pink Floyd
merely function as potted phantoms and paid-off tour props, who
can be counted on to propagate the Pink Floyd Ploy beyond the '88
World Tour?
"That's the most scandalous facet of this whole ruse," Waters
rules, "because Gilmour has built up an entire cast of backstage
characters that he's sought to enlist as sources of material for
the *next* so-called Pink Floyd album. Many of them are leftovers
>from the first abortive try, when he and Ezrin were pulling their
hair out in vain efforts to concoct a concept album. Failing
that, they just established relationships with anybody willing to
cook up songs that resembled something Pink."
Could Waters reveal the names of any of these other phantom
Floyds?
"Oh, sure. One is Eric Stewart, a founding member of the ori-
ginal 10cc band and a very talented British songwriter who's col-
laborated with Paul McCartney, for instance, on Paul's 1986
_Press to PLay_ album. Another lyricist David has waiting in the
wings is Roger McGough, the Liverpool poet, who was a member of
the famous experimental mid-sixties rock group Scaffold -- which
also had Mike McGear, McCartney's brother. And then there's
Carol Pope, who's one of the finest contemporary Canadian song-
writers. I'll give Gilmour credit: When he devises a fraud, he
goes to first-class talent for assistance."
"Yes," Eric Stewart confirms, "Dave Gilmour and I got together
around August or September of 1986 to work on a concept that was
definitely intended for the next Pink Floyd album. We sat around
writing for a period of time, but we couldn't get the different
elements and ideas to gel. The songwriting itself was acceptable
in certain parts, but not as awhole; so the concept was eventual-
ly scrapped.
"I don't want to divulge the concept because, especially know-
ing Dave, he may want to go back and revive it. It may well be
used in the future."
Peter Brown, former director of the Beatles NEMS Enterprises
management company and present manager of Roger McGough, is happy
to give similar confirmation of his client's Pink Floyd-related
collaborations with Dave Gilmour.
"Dave worked with Roger McGough late in 1986 on original ideas
for the Pink Floyd project," Brown explains, "but those ideas
remain a grey area. We're waiting for Dave to finish his Pink
Floyd world tour to see what will come of it all."
"The idea to contact me came from Bob Ezrin, says Carole Pope.
"It was January of 1987 and they were looking for somebody to
rewrite a batch of Dave Gilmour's material, so I went over to
England for a few weeks to lend assistance. Bob and David also
asked me if I had any suggestions for concept albums in the Pink
Floyd style. By the time I left England in February, they still
couldn't decide what to do. They did have one song, though, which
I thought was quite nice, though it never surfaced on _Lapse Of
Reason_. It was a mid-tempo thing about Roger Waters, called
`Peace Be With You.' Seems strange that they didn't use it."
And so, while the genuine creative alliance of the Pink Floyd
Sound lies in an unquiet grave, David Gilmour has contrived a
ghoulish farm-club system designed to generate prolific stand-ins
and impostors. As you read this, the current Floyd cavalcade is
fulfilling its last global concert commitments. But peace is not
at hand. Once Gilmour completes the tour, perhaps he'll contact
those collaborators currently on hold for whatever Pink Floyd
roles stand vacant. It's as if a surviving Beatle -- say, Paul
McCartney -- had instituted an employment agency for Beatles
clones, and found it worked efficiently enough to dare call the
fickle roster the Fab Four.
Bob Ezrin, who could be at the helm for the next episode of
this pop chicanery, has his own convoluted rationale for this en-
terprise.
"I think Roger is brilliant, but he's a tough guy to disagree
with, and he can be overly passionate and uncompromising. It's
those qualities that go into making him a great artist, but nei-
ther Dave nor I would ever consider ourselves great artists.
We're more interested in creating something that's popular and
fun. Actually, I *hate* the word *artist*, but I would definitely
concede that Roger is a great artist -- as well as a total obses-
sive and a psychiatrist's dream. I love Roger, and I truly love
most of what he does, but not enough anymore to go through what's
necessary to be a part of his process. It's far easier for Dave
and I to do *our* version of a Floyd record."
For Gilmour's part, he will press on unless a court decision
prohibits him from such activities.
"I don't see any reason why I should stop," he states tersely.
"It took decades of care and feeding for Pink Floyd to find its
loyal audience, and I won't throw in the towel, especially after
_Lapse of Reason_ has been such a huge success. Roger doesn't
have the right at present to tell me what to do with my life,
although he believes that he does. And he'll not ruin my career,
although lately he's been trying to."
Actually, apart from the ongoing legal fray, Roger Waters is
pouring most of his energies into promoting and performing
_Amused to Death_ -- plus writing material for a fourth album of
his own.
"Things change so drastically and yet they remain the same,"
Waters assures, leaving his chair in his West London home to be-
gin another afternoon of trial-and-error songcraft in the Bil-
liard Room. "The Lennon Instinct tells me that, as with John's
song of the same name, my approach to the Floyd fight is `just
like starting over.' Yet I'm also pleased that I've got a new
career, a solo career, that I've been nurturing since 1984.
"The main difference between me and Dave Gilmour is that, when
it comes time for him to finally confess his dishonest...venture
to the world, I'll at least have the justice of a solid, credible
head start on him."
Waters shows a fatigued grin. "That's the advantage of putting
your *own* good name on your work. If people do decide they enjoy
it, they always know who to thank and where to find you."