Metal City - Hai Ina Ia Mai Ana Ka Puana

Shine On, You Crusty Bastards.

There is no more important, profound, life-changing, and metamorphic rite-of-passage for the angry, adolescent loner than his inevitable obsession with Pink Floyd. The words and music of Roger Waters, and the friendless, knuckle-dragging nerds of the world will always find one another - and will spend many years living together, crying together, sighing together, and going through the dilapidated emotional milieu that is the domain of the disposessed.

For me, the Pink Floyd odyssey starts not during the halcyon days of the acid-drenched late 1960's, but instead commences during the foul gust of nauseating flatus that was the late 1980's. It was the summer of heaven in '67 - but it was the summer of hate in '88, and I was a young man about to enter his second bout of psychotherapy, pushed beyond the brink of madness via a lifestyle that combined brutal, punishing violence and sickening spiritual malaise. My first attempt at losing my shit had a soundtrack - and that soundtrack was, despairingly, Pink Floyd's 1981 salute to their bank accounts - the ironically titled 'A Collection Of Great Dance Songs'. Disregarding the Floyd's original incarnation as purveyors of prog-rock-for-imbeciles, the album focused on the commercial years - from Dark Side Of The Moon through to The Wall. Looking back, the album is an idiot's guide to a band who embody the idiot's guide to their genre. After all, if we're really honest - Pink Floyd were never any good. Their bass player couldn't play bass, their drummer couldn't drum, their keyboard player may as well have disappeared somewhere around 1972, and their guitarist - the legendary Dave Gilmour - is the only man capable of draining every drop of emotion and power out of every solo he ever played via his mathematical obsession with studio perfection.

But, for me - in 1988 - Pink Floyd was some heavy fucking shit. I was coming out of my Beatles obsession, and I was searching for something new. Something soulful. Something with a lyrical power that could counterpoint the emotional intensity of the music. I required an intelligence, and an ethos - I needed a band that stood for something greater than themselves. A band that stood outside of their own shadow, and determinedly connected themselves to the world around them.

Pink Floyd's connection was, as we all now know, art students.

If you are a swinging, hip, cosmopolitan twentysomething with a shelf full of Kafka and a head full of shit, there is a very good chance that your training wheels in the art of being a pretentious jerkoff came in the form of your Pink Floyd records. If you're reading this webpage, the chances are that you consider yourself a literate, cutting-edge lover of the written word in all its confounding, maddening, wonderful configurations. This makes you a no-balls, lifeless bullshit artist by definition - and so, Pink Floyd is very likely the band for you. Falling into that category myself, Pink Floyd was more than certainly the band for me - and so, I fell in love with their boneheaded iconography, ludicrous 'concepts', and aloof posing. Roger Waters became my hero, and I hung on every bile-dripping word that he spoke.

But, wait! We're getting ahead of ourselves, aren't we?

So, I'm losing my effing marbles for an almost unbelieveable number of reasons, and I am getting heavily into Pink Floyd. By this point in my life, I was already deranged, paranoid, twisted, and deeply unhinged - and so it was that The Wall certainly did me more harm than good. The Wall is an autobiographical psychodrama about how it sucks when you're rich as hell, but your wife still leaves you because you're such a prick. Over the course of the double album, every self-important, masturbatory, self-pitying thought that every wannabe 'artist' has ever had is validated through the whimpering, whining prose of Roger Waters - a man who is almost incapable of going an entire day without finding something that has added further layers of ebony carbon to his disfigured, scorched soul. And, for me, The Wall taught me that even though I was happily ensconsed in the loving bosom of middle-class Melbourne, with a pair of parents who loved me, a Commodore 64, and a future position as the fountainhead of modern literature, I was not only justified - it was my fucking duty to whine about how nobody understood me. Who cares if there are starving millions dying in the third world, and who cares if The A-Team has been cancelled, and who cares that Steely Dan have broken up - nobody wants to listen to my endless, whining bullshit. And that's just not fair.

This is what The Wall communicates to its core audience - an audience that consists almost totally of sweaty, pudgy-fingered nerds who demand to be taken far more seriously than they deserve.

So, my masturbatory emotions took flight, held aloft on the wings of The Floyd. Here is a concise list of creepy Pink Floyd related things I did between the ages of 12 and 16:

1. Carried my Roger Waters scrapbook around with me for two years, collecting press clippings, interviews, photos, and photocopying encyclopaedia articles about my favourite pasty-faced whinge rockers.

2. Wrote, and distributed, now-legendary Melbourne based Pink Floyd fanzine, 'Behind The Wall' - a form for me to rant partially about my love of Pink Floyd, and partially to ask the burning question: "But, WHY do they keep beating me up?"

3. Transcribed, in loving detail, every Pink Floyd lyric from 1967 - 1983 into Word For DOS, and carried around with me in my 'special bag'.

4. Spent many hours reading choice selections from said guide aloud to my Grandmother.

5. Queued up outside CC Music in Greensborough to be the first in the northern suburbs to buy 1994's 'Pink Floyd With Only Half The Band' album, 'The Division Bell'. I was the only one there. I was back home by 9:01 a.m.

6. Trekked into the city, many times, to buy Pink Floyd related rarities. Syd Barrett's boxed set. The Barrett 'Peel Sessions' E.P. The 'Works' album. 'Tonite Let's All Make Love In London'. The soundtrack from 'Zabriskie Point'.

7. Hunted down a videotape copy of 'Zabriskie Point'. Watched it. Repeatedly. Lifelong obsession with pretentious 'art' cinema ensues.

8. Sketched portraits of Syd Barrett in art class. Hung them up.

9. Subscribed to and regularly posted to both the 'Eclipse' and 'Echoes' Pink Floyd mailing lists.

10. Amassed enough bootleg Pink Floyd records to embarass me for life.

Fandom is a strange thing. It occupies some kind of no-man's land between love and crime. And, as I lived my days and slept my nights in a constant frenzy of near-stalking, Pink Floyd meant more and more to me than I'd ever thought possible. They unlocked a world of art and colour and sound that I never knew existed - their pompous, symphonic epics drew me in with their intricate structures and mysterious, confusing symbolism.

And, since I was but a wee ankle biter, I was pretty sure that what I was hearing was the voice of the everyman. 1972's grotesquely overrated paen to madness, The Dark Side Of The Moon, positioned itself as an ultimately human work - a piece of plastic so beloved by the masses because it managed to connect to the issues that plagued the everyday lives of people everywhere. An album that moved, lyrically, across racial, cultural, and economic borders with ease - and cut to the heart of the obsessions that drive us all to the brink. My mistake was believing that a rock star knows shit about anything except being a rock star - and under close inspection, the album began to become more and more laughable as I became older and more cynical and hate-filled.

Nice tunes, though.

As I grew up, my need to listen to Pink Floyd ebbed and waned - and eventually, was replaced. The truly Godlike Bruce Springsteen replaced Roger Waters in my mind, since he actually did all the things he set out to do with his music, and really was talking from the perspective of someone who has more in his life than chardonnay and blowjobs. As university life commenced, and I found out that I had no IDEA what it was like to truly lose one's shit - but was about to - my obsessions changed again, and fruity boys in black lipstick became the order of the day. And then, maturity - and the snide, sneering, teeth-bared sarcasm that only Steely Dan can truly provide because the centrepiece of my musical platter. But, while Pink Floyd had disappeared into the background - they never truly disappeared. They just kind of hung around in the background, waiting for me to take them out of the cupboard and play with them again.

Which I always intended to do. After all, how can something that had been such a massive part of your life ever really disappear? It can't - and from time to time, I'd slap Ummagumma, or Meddle, or Obscured By Clouds on the stereo - and I'd be immediately transported back to the early 1990's - the decade where Everything Went Wrong.

And then, everything did go wrong - and I learned a bitter, life-changing lesson in what happens when one gets too close to one's idols. Like Icarus, I flew too close to the sun - and my Floydian wings melted. Then, I crashed. That sun was a certain surly bass player named Roger Waters.

Many of you have already heard this story. Bad luck. You're hearing it again. This will serve as the definitive version.

Fast-foward your soggy, art-fogged little minds to 2002. An exciting year, I was in the first year of my master's degree, and hadn't yet had every last drop of self-confidence sucked out of me by the vampiric sodomites that make up Deakin University's english department. The foul, unshaven face of Clemens hadn't yet filled my heart with betrayal, and the leering, grinning rictus of Sudesh hadn't yet caused me to wrestle with thoughts so murderous that they present the eternal question Prince asked on the Batman soundtrack: if a man can be considered guilty for what goes on in his mind, then give me the electric chair for all my future crimes. I was a grown-up. Virile and strong, with lively adrenals and a sense of achievement in my heart. Every day was a new adventure in confidence and empowerment, as I relished my newfound status as a postgraduate student. Then, I discovered, I was about to be haunted by a ghost. The ghost of pretention past.

Roger Waters was comin' to town.

The predictably titled Roger Waters - In The Flesh tour was rolling into Melbourne in March, and was bringing with it a sizeable chunk of my misspent youth. As I'm sure you're all aware, I'm not exactly unfamiliar with the joys of mindless nostalgia, and the chance to fulfill my boyhood dreams of seeing my favourite big-nosed bass player churning out his odes to himself was too good to resist. Tickets were bought, and I was set.

But, things were about to get complicated. Gold 104, champions of radio advertising everywhere, were running a competiton. A competition with a prize that was so desirable that I practically started salivating over my stereo:

Call up and answer a single cement-headed question about Pink Floyd, and you will win...

A meeting with Roger Waters. You will attend the sound check before the show. You will receive signed copies of Roger's two latest cash-in best-of's. You will attend the show.

Holy dog shit! Could anything be better? Could anything be more wonderful than that? Is there a SINGLE thing on God's green earth that could be more wonderful, glorious, zip-zap-zooprious than the chance to have a little mano-a-mano bull session with The Most Miserable Human Being Ever? Good grief! Even as I write these words, I get a chill up and down my spine. This wasn't dinner at the Doncaster Pub and a voucher for The Lobster Cave - this was the chance to meet Roger Waters?

The buddah of my youth.

The guardian of my childhood.

My hero. My idol. My teacher. My friend. My confessor.

An angry, angry man.

I called every night. Crash dialled the damn phone lines. And on the third night, it rang.

My teeth ground together, as the I listened to it ring.

And then..

Someone picked it up. And asked me the question. It was something utterly idiotic. Something on the lines of...

"What colour... is The Floyd?"

"Uh. Pink?"

"KEERECT!"

Woah. I won. I was going. I was going! I was going to meet Roger Waters!

And so, I showed up at Rod Laver Arena, with my tickets pressed into my greasy, sweaty hand. After being ushered inside by security drones, the cowboy hat-wearing manager of the Rog confronted our group, and immediately launched into an off-kilter spiel, intended to address our fears for the evening.

"LISTEN UP!", he drawled. "The band you're about to see... is BETTER than Pink Floyd!"

Wow. Better than Pink Floyd? Admittedly, that's not exactly hard - but should we really come right out and SAY it?

"Pink Floyd were a bunch of kids who met at art school. This is a band of PROFESSIONALS who will perform Roger's music AS IT SHOULD BE HEARD."

Crikey!

"This guy here - at the back. This is Chip Douglas. Chip engineered Madonna's albums. Say 'hi', Chip!"

Some know Chip Douglas from his work with Madonna. Others know him from his work with Nile Rogers. More still remember him from his time spent with David Bowie.

But I remember him from the bonus track on The Monkees' Headquarters album, where he is ordered by Mickey Dolenz to go and buy 'hamburgers... fries... lotsa stuff... all kindsa things....'

Awesome! Chip Douglas! The dude from the Monkees records! This is gonna rule!

We were lined up, execution style, in some seats towards the front of the ampitheatre, and awaited the arrival of The Dark One. Yessir - Captain Intensity was in the building. Was this really happening? Was this some wild, teasing dream? After all - of my many rock fantasies, there are only a few that could compare to this:

1. Playing drunken soccer with Iron Maiden.

2. Holding hands with Suzanne Vega and whispering enigmatic, yet sensuous phrases in her ear.

3. Meeting Hate Filled Madman Roger Waters of Pink Floyd.

4. Having Bruce Springsteen fix my car.

5. Being publicly ridiculed by Steely Dan's Donald Fagen and Walter Becker.

Tough competition, as you can see. And so, practically salivating, I sat patiently and waited for Roger to make his grand appearance.

And, appear he did.

With purpose and vigor, he strode past me - never once daring to make anything that might be construed as eye contact. Sauntering up to my main Monkee Chip Douglas, Roger began barking indecipherable orders at him. It was here, that my heart sunk - and I knew that everything I had been told was true.

But, what had I been told? The backstory of Pink Floyd's enigmatic bass player is one riddled with hatred and anger. Roger ruled Pink Floyd with an iron fist - his leadership style combining one part Hitler and two parts General Schwarzkopf. Not a man known for taking shit, Roger led his bandmates into higher and higher stratospheres of success, using his patented 'Do As I Say Or I'll Kill You' method of fostering artistic growth. Eventually, in 1983, either he left Pink Floyd or Pink Floyd left him - depending on who's story you believe - and he went onto a solo career. Either version tells roughly the same tale, though - Roger left Pink Floyd because he's a prick, or Pink Floyd left Roger because he's a prick. In short, then, a man for whom common decency seems to have eluded him during much of his adult life - a man who is unquestionably a complete and utter arsehole.

"GET IT RIGHT!", boomed Roger from the stage - pointing a bony finger at his shattered keyboardist, who blubbered and whimpered incomprehensibly.

And then... Roger picked up his bass. And started playing those famous 7/8 notes from 'Money'.

Ahhhh. Aww. Lookit that! It's Roger Waters, and he's playing money!

And then, a bit of 'Shine On, You Crazy Diamond'. Oh, lordy!

Fancy a slice of 'Every Strangers Eyes'? Nothin' could be finer!

And then...

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?", Roger bellowed, beating his chest. His lips were peeled back, showing a pair of long, ivory incisors - each carved into pointed blades. His forked tongue flickered between them, and his eyes glowed crimson.

Chip shrugged and pushed something on the mixing desk.

"I SAID..", Roger howled, punching the air with a balled claw, "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?"

I sat back in my chair. Was I gonna get to meet Roger soon, or what? And besides, what the hell was this - no hors d'ouvres? No refreshments? No wonder your wife left you, Roger.

Chip blabbered incoherently and stabbed at the mixing desk impotently with a liver spot-coated finger.

"FUCK IT!", screamed Roger, a set of leathery wings exploding from the back of his grey shirt. He flapped once, then twice - then ascended into the air of the arena, his sharp claws slashing at the air, and his pointed tail stretched out behind him. He landed behind Chip, and immediately clamped down on the engineer's neck, draining him of his life essence, while raking his chest with his yellow talons - leaving long, ragged scratches in their wake.

"ONE OF YOU PLAY ME A FUCKING E CHORD!", he howled demonically - holding out his hand. A column of fire spurt upwards from his palm, before wrapping itself into a ball. He held the ball of flame, and pointed at his keyboard player.

"YOU! AN E CHORD!"

The keyboardist vomited quietly behind his instrument, and then - his face pallid and waxy - a trembling finger pressed down on the keys.

It was the wrong note.

Roger hissed, and launched the ball of flame - incinerating the keyboardist, who screamed in abject fear, as his body immolated.

And then, Roger was gone. Nothing but a wisp of sulphorous air remained.

A grinning publicist approached our group.

"Hi, guys! Roger's not going to be able to meet you, today. If you leave me your name and address, we'll post your CD's out to you. Now, get out of the arena."

And that was it. Ejected, and dejected, I sat out on the grass of Rod Laver, feeling thoroughly depressed. All I wanted was to tell my hero how much he'd meant to me when I was a young boy. That's all - but he couldn't even stomach making eye contact with his fans.

We often hear about rock stars who hate their fans - but when one actually experiences one, it can be an unnerving experience. Roger broke my heart that day - I had invested literally years, and countless hours, in worshipping and idolizing someone who was utterly undeserving of it. Of course, Roger will never know this - and even if he did, he couldn't care less.

Which is why now I only worship cartoon characters. Coming soon - my Transformers scrapbook.

But, where is this leading? What's the point of this post?

Today, Pink Floyd reformed - with Roger Waters - to perform at Bob Geldof's Live8 Hyde Park show.

I downloaded the full set, which was four songs: "Breathe", "Money", "Wish You Were Here", & "Comfortably Numb".

I expected to trash it gleefully, pointing out what a bunch of decreptit, worthless old men The Floyd have turned into. I desperately wanted to savage them heartlessly, stating categorically that they are a spent force who looked utterly ridiculous moping about onstage, trying to recapture the sombre glory of their early years. And more than anything, I wanted to eviscerate that big-schozzed jerkoff Roger Waters, constructing a tirade of bile and cruelty so massive and merciless that it would become a thing of legend.

Pink Floyd were a bunch of sad old men, shuffling about the stage, reminding us that their glory years are way past them, and the hefty-proboscis of Roger Waters has learned nothing about stage presence in the 20 years since his bandmates unceremoniously told him to get effed.

But, do you know something? Sitting there, watching the set, I just couldn't do it. Couldn't find anything bad to say. Maybe I didn't want to find anything bad to say. Either way, I sat and watched the reformed Floyd - the icons of my teen years - stagger through a grab-bag of their best known hits, and instead of provoking an outpouring of barely-coherent anger, I felt nothing more than a sense of finality.

After all, when I was 13, I wrote in my fanzine that I hoped to live to see a day where Roger rejoined Pink Floyd and played the old songs one more time. I wanted nothing more than to see Roger Waters - the man who understood me, and gave me comfort and solace as a beaten up, bruised, black-and-blue, half-insane teenager - to be reunited with the band that provided the music to the words that meant so much to me. I didn't care where, or when, or how - I just thought that the music that had touched me so deeply deserved to be heard one last time.

And now, I have.

Posted by David at July 3, 2005 06:55 PM | TrackBack