Strangers passing in the street
By chance two separate glances meet
And I am you and what I see is me.
For long you'll live and high you'll fly
And smiles you'll give and tears you'll cry
And all you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be.
Down
And out
It can't be helped that there's a lot of it about
With
Without
And who'll deny, it's what the fighting's all about
There is no pain, you are receding
A distant shipsmoke on the horizon
You are only coming through in waves
Your lips move, but I can't hear what you're saying
When I was a child, I caught a fleeting glimpse
Out of the corner of my eye
I turned to look but it was gone
I cannot put my finger on it now
The child is grown
The dream is gone
 |  |
And when the fight was over
We spent what they had made.
But in the bottom of our hearts, we felt the final cut.
If that 23 minute miracle in Hyde Park this past Saturday night was indeed the last hurrah for Pink Floyd (and signs point to yes), then the most impossible reunion in the history of rock music was perhaps the genre's most aesthetically perfect finale as well.
Following 18 years of unending public acrimony, a long-festering wound was healed (or at least publicly bandaged) at last. For those who had only discovered Pink Floyd in the eleven years since the release of The Division Bell, it was a chance to see what they had missed. For those in my age bracket who had come of age in the era of A Momentary Lapse Of Reason and the attendant media-fueled not-so-Cold War between Roger Waters and David Gilmour, it was an improbable wish come true to see and hear Pink Floyd in its most potent artistic incarnation one more time. Lastly, all of us, old and young, were given one last chance to see the band as they once were -- not barely-visible players in a high-tech traveling light show, but instead four very different, yet commonly driven men making music that moves and soothes just as easily as it jeers and attacks.
Pink Floyd's set was not the seamless, polished entertainment package we've come to expect, and yet that made all the difference in the world...my god, they were fantastic. Sure, Nick Mason was a bit rusty on the rhythms here and there, but it was also the first time in nearly three decades that he was the sole drummer on stage, and he made it through with reputation and dignity intact. Waters sounded like he was channeling Bob Dylan when he sang and seemed to move around just as much as his demonized post-Final Cut replacement Guy Pratt (though Pratt never sang along so lustily off-mic), single-handedly displaying enough emotion and enthusiasm for the other three main players. Rick Wright was left off to the side of the camera image far too much, but he was solid and instantly identifiable as he deftly filled in spaces in the dry middle section of "Money." Gilmour, ever workmanlike on stage, wore his dispassionate "game face," sounded alternately ragged and clear as he sang, and played the kind of aching, blazing solos that most guitar players would kill to create.
I think what strikes me the most about Pink Floyd in this day and age is that they have never been bettered or upstaged by younger pretenders to their throne. In the early days after Syd Barrett was put out to pasture, there were attempts made by the band to keep themselves in the limelight of the pop singles scene, and all of these songs rank among the least-essential in their entire catalog. Once the decision was made to abandon the pursuit of the Top Of The Pops is when the band became something that has never been duplicated in the three decades-and-change that followed. Punk, disco, new wave, heavy metal, grunge, techno, nu-rock -- all of these emerging cultures and scenes were eventually called up to the majors and carefully homogenized for mass consumption, and the stars of each genre replicated by dozens of other bands eager to hop on the gravy train. To date, however, no one has ever been able to replicate Pink Floyd, and I'm fairly sure by now that no one ever will. In an industry that seemingly lives and dies by its ability cash-in by cloning the work of a handful of genuine visionaries, Pink Floyd are among the very rarest of bands in that they remained absolutely, untouchably unique.
On a personal level, this was the band that broke it all open for me -- their music was like a gateway drug that opened my mind to a rich, mysterious world beyond the poppy three-minute confines of American Top 40, Solid Gold and MTV. This was a band that didn't want to be seen gallivanting around the world's exotic locales in their videos (in fact, they preferred to let your imagination take care of the visuals instead). These were people who couldn't have cared less if their singles (when they deigned to release them) were routinely ignored by Top 40 radio in favor of the current pop idol of the month. These were lyrics and viewpoints that talked to me as a person and not just a potential consumer looking for something to dance to. Particularly in the case of Wish You Were Here (how many albums can you clearly remember falling insanely in love with the very first time you listened to them?), this was a band who released at least six albums and countless tracks that completely ripped my head from my shoulders, and left me in amazement or awe at the power of music itself like no other band has ever done before or since.
Thanks for the ride, guys. You truly were, and always will be, the best.
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