Marking fifty years Waters wades into troublesome shallows,
While unearthing depth through his tembre, and a near funereal pace
And populating each song with another interpretive album of poems;
Prose primed but rhyming at irregular points to save face.
His recording is a curious mix. He’ll be mocked, and knocked
I expect in fandom’s furthest places, and yet all the while
There is substance worming its way through the lines,
As his core-seeking voice buries in, as if chewing the earth
Of all corpses, shared as if always is with his father,
Who, lost to a foxhole remains the white rabbit Roger’s
Dry heart soon waters as he chases love’s fruit
Through death’s lyme. Waters likes to be controversial
It seems, seen in the recent Nazi chic he’s paraded.
There was also a quote about jew food, which may
Or may not be a joke. But like all who know right from wrong
This could well be a comment on Israel. He ‘ waxes political’
Often. And now all pro-Palestine views must be woke.
But Waters acuity and profile are high, perhaps moreso
Than ever. And let us not forget Roger’s clever
And always wrote the best songs. So that controversy
Stays, for just as he sought to eclipse poor Syd Barrett,
He does the same thing to Wright and to Gilmour,
While Mason’s sonambulant drumbeats remain
Sans the gong. Instead, bass and atmos dominate,
Along with faraway organ. Even Waters’ own Money
Is no longer a windfall but rather a draft through hell’s hole.
Us and Them also finds a new two note bass rhythm
On which the words balance as Waters monologues wry
And droll. Time tests the true in exorcising guitar
And thus, David Gilmour whose stunning solo
Becomes the stuff of dreams in the eye
Of the old dog staring out and catching sight
Of the prism. After Storm Thorgerson, this new cover image
Appears faithful perhaps to the lie that this recording
Betters the first. This is afterall one dog’s growl
Through the woofers. A reasonably unique cover version
In which the one paying tribute was part of the team
Who set light to a previous life and to how far rock
Could roll and accomplish, as it entered the homes
Of most people, or all people, it seemed, Breathe felt bright.
Here it does not. Waters roots all connection.
His branches are twisted, ghostly and grave in hindsight.
For at eighty years old he seeks to enhance what was
First written at thirty, previously described as sixth form
Poetry by their author, here they become dissertations
On madness and age, and yes, mirth. As he digs
For derangement here too, as Any Colour You Like
Becomes verbal, with Waters proposing that they re-record.
Dark Side of the Moon laughs find worth. ‘They’ll say
He’s gone mad,’ he signs off before starting into Brain Damage,
Aware at each moment at how this need to reclaim
A shared past can and will be demeaned if not damned,
Ridiculed or avoided and yet at least in his dotage
He attempts to transfigure the remnants of youth
Once age casts and not just repeat the refrains
These forgotten men made in their twenties,
It is just a pity he muddies what had shone before
Through song craft. The Great Gig in the Sky
May cost Waters more than he had bargained for
To be honest. With little played but the home chord,
What was Wright’s does feel wronged. With Claire Tory’s
Impro part transcribed by a cartoon synth in the background
And Waters relating of the passing of a friend of his
Its his song. He seems to have stripped Rick away
Sadly in line with the unlucky legend between them,
And yet sacking him from his own song feels reductive,
Intended or not. Its unwise. Despite the tender tale
Waters tells, what was in the well dries around him
Sincerity should be subtle, but this is starkly etched.
Wright twice dies. And yet Waters limited range
As can be found on his albums, in being bass bound
Is attractive. The Pros and Cons of Hitch-hiking
Is for me his song high. Money retains more
Of the main version’s music (albeit slower),
Unlike the others; the touch is not tentative
Its neglectful and the prodded colour,
When pressed or played looks bone dry.
And yet perhaps what he’s done is to make
Those original spoken snippets the subject
In which the dying in hearing time’s voice
Realign with a new consciousness
And in that way a new treatment. Life,
That short, warm spell is familiar
But death’s cold duration is naturally
A new mix. And so Waters flow close
To Ingmar Bergman’s Chess player,
As well as Doctor Phibes that Styx seeker,
Who in laughing at life plays dark tricks.
Speak to Me sets his scenes and claws
The credit back from Nick Mason. Pink Floyd
Turns violet, then purple, then black;
Songs as spores. This album is Water’s new
Final Cut, an extension of his recent Lockdown
Sessions, where his need to talk to the people
He once spat at and on gushes forth. As a fan
Of my age you will see what he has done.
Rueful, Roger. The Dark Side just grew darker.
Seamus the dog is dead but still howling.
Meanwhile Waters bubbles.
His mouth is a microphone kiss.
Stir spit’s source.
David Erdos 6/10/23