In which The Author buys himself an early Xmas present
My regular readers already know that, of all the many rock bands I've listened to in my life, Pink Floyd's impact has been the deepest and most enduring. (I've gone into detail previously, especially in On the Up and Making One's Own Luck.)
I've loved them since I was doing my O levels and I've never outgrown them, because their music is timeless and wonderful. Also, the older you get, the more meaning you discover in their lyrics. In fact, for a non-musician (although watch this space), I've got far more pleasure from Pink Floyd's music than you'd imagine. I'm fairly sure I'm the only person ever to have sung 'See Emily Play', 'Time', 'Money', 'Us and Them', 'Wish You Were Here', and 'Comfortably Numb' (both vocal parts) at Thursday night karaoke. I used to joke that, if I were ever to enter Mastermind, I'd like to take Pink Floyd as my specialist subject – simply to have an excuse to listen to their entire back catalogue for weeks on end.
Last year the V&A announced a major retrospective of the band's career to mark their fiftieth anniversary, entitled 'Their Mortal Remains'. Naturally, I added it to my list of things to do this summer. Then it went on the back burner because I was busy with other projects. Two months or so ago I was talking to Huw F. He'd just come back from spending a few days in London, and he was very enthusiastic about the exhibition. A couple of weeks later, I was chatting to Barbara in her bookshop in Aberdare. It turned out that she and Adrian, her husband, had been to see it as well. In fact, Adrian was so impressed by the whole thing that he was planning a return visit.
Then I saw some amazing reviews online, and decided I'd try and squeeze it in before it closed. I mentioned it to Clare, whose musical taste is fairly varied. Since we've been planning a trip to London anyway, it seemed like the ideal excuse. I booked the tickets last week, and took advantage of National Express's latest offer to get us cheap coach seats.
As with some other London attractions, we had to choose a time slot for admission. I went for 1.30, giving us plenty of time to get across town in case the coach was delayed. Last week I was chatting to Laura, who keeps the record stall in Aberdare Market. She told me she knew someone who'd spent the entire day walking around 'These Mortal Remains'. This was obviously going to be something special.
We got to the V&A just after 1.00, and had to hunt around for a while until we found the entrance to the gallery. There was already a long queue, and people were arriving for the next slots while we were waiting to go in. We presented our tickets and made our way to a desk where two people were handing out the audio gear. Each of us got a pair of Sennheiser headphones and a wireless receiver to wear while we were making our way around.
When Martin H. and I went to the Sir Peter Blake exhibition at the National Museum of Wales (see Starless and Bible Black), there was a chance to listen to the definitive Under Milk Wood recording in the afternoon. 'Their Mortal Remains' is the next step in audiovisual presentations. With state-of-the-art audio equipment, you can walk around at your own pace, and the soundtrack changes according to where you are in the gallery. Virtually the first thing you hear is the familiar 'found sound' montage of heartbeats, random snatches of conversation, screams, birdsong, and those early 'samples' which feature throughout their records. Then you're into the exhibition proper.
It's a labyrinth of rooms, each one devoted to a particular period of the band's evolution. (Quick disclaimer: A lot of the spaces are fairly dark and I didn't want to use the flash, so a lot of my photos aren't great.)
The exhibition is arranged chronologically, so you follow the band's progress right from their early days as architecture students, travelling to gigs in a van painted with a white stripe. But that's only where the fun starts – because the exhibits are inside a mocked-up van with a white stripe. There's even a letter from young Roger Barrett (later known as 'Syd', of course) explaining how the van came to be decorated in that way.
I've always had a fascination with the psychedelic era, and I was amazed to see how much documentation has survived five decades. There were posters, flyers, cuttings from underground newspapers, and even letters from the BBC, including one complaining that a member of the band had 'freaked out' during a recording session. (No prizes for guessing which one.)
Every so often there's a red telephone box decorated with newspapers, magazines and news clippings from that era. (Here's the one to accompany A Momentary Lapse of Reason, for example.)
I had to chuckle at the one from the mid-1960s, which included the Radio Times commemorative supplement to accompany coverage of Sir Winston Churchill's funeral. Auntie Maggie had kept the same booklet. When we were clearing out her house, we decided to keep that and some other historic papers she'd stashed away. It's in a drawer in my house.
It was while I was in this first space that I realised just why we had the headsets. There are mini TV screens showing early 'promotional films', interviews with the musicians and their many collaborators (including the cartoonist Gerald Scarfe and the Hipgnosis design team of Storm Thorgerson and Aubrey Powell), and rare footage from the band's live shows. As you move around, the radios and switch to the appropriate audio track. It means that you can explore the exhibition at your own pace, backtracking if you want to, and you're not interfering with anyone else's enjoyment. I went to look at the Atom Heart Mother piece in more detail and lost Clare entirely. (I didn't see her again until I was almost at the end of the sequence. She had to be briefly allowed back in to find me.)
It was quite wonderful to get up close and personal to the instruments that had produced some of the most important music of my life. There were David Gilmour's beautiful guitars, Rick Wright's array of keyboards and vintage synths, Nick Mason's painted drum heads, Roger Waters' bass guitars … I took plenty of photos of these, but they're a bit blurred. I'm blaming that on the low light, but I must admit that my hands were shaking a bit as well. It was a fairly emotional experience for me.
We'd gone in just after 1.30, and with my phone switched off I had no idea of the time. I wandered through the spaces without feeling any need to hurry. I found myself marvelling at the complexity of the LP covers. You can only really appreciate them when you see them on a large scale. A twelve-inch square is very nice to look at, but when you see the same images nearly two metres across, your jaw just drops.
If you looked up, from time to time you'd see things like the model aircraft which used to fly over the audience. There were props, models, animations, film clips and beautiful photographs, all accompanied by the highest 'fi' I've ever heard. I think I watched most of the interviews at least twice, and stood for ages while the story of the infamous flying pig (from the Animals cover) unfolded. One of the most remarkable exhibits was a letter from the NASA Space Centre in Goddard, Maryland. It accompanies a photograph of the British astronaut Dr Piers Sellers holding a CD of Dark Side of the Moon on board the International Space Station. It's a fitting piece in the story of the band whose live improv piece accompanied the BBC's coverage of the first moon landing.
There's even a room where you can watch the legendary prism design rotating slowly against a backdrop of the night sky, while 'The Great Gig in the Sky' plays through the sound system. Simply as an art installation, it was the most immersive and well-designed set-up I could have possibly hoped for.
There were plenty of people taking photos, but nobody jostled anyone or complained that their view was being obstructed. Everyone took their time and seemed to be having a thoroughly civilised afternoon. It was pleasing to see how many young people were there, too. I'd worried that Clare might be the only person under fifty, but there really is something for everyone to enjoy. Since the kids are back in school, we can't even attribute this to the 'family trip to the museum' effect. The youngsters were obviously there because they wanted to see it for themselves.
All course, all good things must come to an end, and Pink Floyd were no exception. People had written them off after The Final Cut, of course, when Roger Waters left to pursue his solo career. Instead, Messrs Gilmour, Wright and Mason continued as a trio, augmented by some of the finest session men and women in the business. As I've mentioned elsewhere, The Division bell is the only LP I've ever bought on the day of its release. And, of course, I wept when Bob Geldof pulled off a miracle and got the definitive line-up to play at the Live 8 concert in 2005.
When Rick Wright died, seven years ago last week, it meant the end of Pink Floyd. Without Mr Wright's unmistakable keyboards to underpin the melodies, it could never be the same. At the end of the chronological tour, there was some footage of them recording together. It was beautiful to watch these three old friends doing what they did they best. Knowing that it effectively marked the end of their time as a band made it especially poignant. I had a few tears in my eyes when I was watching that clip, I don't mind telling you.
And just when I thought it was all over, there was an surprise treat right at the end. Everyone took off their headsets and we sat down in a large empty room to watch that Live 8 performance of 'Comfortably Numb'. When I left the 'performance area', I was definitely crying. I'm still a bit emotional just typing this, to be honest.
I bought the exhibition catalogue in the gift shop. There was loads of merchandise on sale, but I didn't want to buy something like a keyring or a badge, which would be easy to lose. I thought an tenner for half a dozen postcards in a box was a bit pricey, too. But the exhibition catalogue will sit nicely alongside my several other books on what is, for my money, simply the greatest rock band of all time.
I found Clare outside the gift shop, and was amazed to find that I'd spent nearly three hours in the exhibition. We decided we both needed a pint (me more than her, I think), so we repaired to the Zetland Arms to look at my photos. As I've explained, they weren't great. Clint very kindly gave me his Canon compact automatic when he upgraded his gear, but I prefer my Olympus. (I know my way around that one.)
In fact, there might be only one thing for it. The exhibition has been extended to the middle of next month. I think that, like Adrian, I might have to pay it a return visit before it closes.
And Clare and I have made a pact to totally own 'Comfortably Numb' in karaoke before Xmas. It's not only my favourite rock song of all time – it was also the song that TV cook Paul Hollywood chose to save from the waves when he was a guest on Desert Island Discs. Kudos to him.
It's the song I want played at my funeral. And if any of you buggers get up to leave before the second guitar solo fades away, I swear I'll come back and haunt you.
