Inside Out

by Nick Mason

  We returned to Abbey Road to work on the new album once David was on board. Rick contributed ‘Remember A Day’ and ‘See-Saw’. ‘Remember A Day’ had a different drum feel to our usual pounding style, and I eventually relinquished the playing to Norman. I really didn’t like giving up my drum stool – and never have – but in this particular instance I would have struggled to provide a similar feel. Re-listening to this it feels more like a Norman Smith track than anyone else’s. Apart from the rather un-Floyd-like arrangement, Norman’s voice is also prominent within the backing vocals.

  Roger supplied three songs, ‘Corporal Clegg’, ‘Let There Be More Light’ and ‘Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun’. Within months Roger had been galvanised from the awkwardness of ‘Take Up Thy Stethoscope And Walk’ to a lyric style that was much more flowing. ‘Light’ and ‘Clegg’ had considerable production input from Norman, and the latter some verbal input too. ‘Corporal Clegg’ has Norman muttering ‘Git yore hair cut’ on the fade-out, an in-joke, and lyrically the subject matter can be seen as a humorous forerunner of ‘The Gunner’s Dream’. ‘Let There Be More Light’ was engendered by references to Pip Carter, one of the odder characters of the Cambridge mafia, now deceased. Out of the Fens, and with some gipsy blood, Pip worked for us at odd times as one of the world’s most spectacularly inept roadies – a hotly contested title – and had a distressing tendency to remove his shoes within the confines of the van.

  ‘Set The Controls’ is perhaps the most interesting song in relation to what we were doing at the time since it had been constructed to make the most of what we had learnt. The song – with a great, catchy riff – was designed to sit within Roger’s vocal range. Lyrically it is suitably Sixties (based, according to Roger, on late Tang period poetry) and rhythmically it gave me a chance to emulate one of my favourite pieces, ‘Blue Sands’, the track by the jazz drummer Chico Hamilton in the film Jazz On A Summer’s Day. ‘Set The Controls’ is a song that has lasted incredibly well. The song was fun to play live – and we had played it over a number of months, allowing it to evolve and ironing out any wrinkles – but in the studio we could enhance it with echo and reverb, adding a whispery quality to the vocals.

  And the title track, ‘A Saucerful Of Secrets’, is in my view one of the most coherent pieces we have ever produced. Instead of the standard song structure made up of verses, choruses, middle eight and bridge, and in contrast to the evolution of the more improvised pieces, it was carefully constructed. Roger and I mapped it out in advance, following the classical music convention of three movements. This was not unique to us, but it was unusual. With no knowledge of scoring, we designed the whole thing on a piece of paper, inventing our own hieroglyphics.

  One starting point was a sound that Roger had discovered by placing a mike close to the edge of a cymbal and capturing all the tones that are normally lost when it is struck hard. This gave us a first section to work from, and with four individuals contributing freely, the piece developed quickly. The middle section – or ‘Rats In The Piano’ as it was sometimes more familiarly labelled by the band – was a development of sounds that we used in improvised sequences in earlier shows, probably lifted from a John Cage piece, while the rhythm was supplied by a double-tracked drum loop.

  The end sequence was an anthem that built throughout and in performance gave us an opportunity to use ever-increasingly large house organs, culminating in the one at the Albert Hall – an instrument with such power that it was rumoured certain stops should never be used as they might either damage the building’s foundations or cause an attack of mass nausea amongst the audience members.

  We also used a Mellotron, with its weird fluxing tape loops of string sounds, which the Musician’s Union were up in arms about, as they thought it would mark the end of live string players. The instrument now seems so quaint it feels as though it should be in a museum alongside the serpent and crumhorn, but its sound is so distinctive it is now digitally re-created in soundboxes with all its imperfections part of the continuing charm.

  I remember the general atmosphere in the studio working on A Saucerful of Secrets as being industrious and constructive. All of us wanted to be involved all the time, so creating a percussion sound would find Roger holding the cymbal, David moving the microphone closer, Rick adjusting the height, and me delivering the coup de grâce.

  We were learning the technology and some studio technique, and the work was getting done, even if it wasn’t entirely to Norman’s taste. Perhaps when Syd left, Norman may have thought we would return to more conservative song making. There is certainly a story that during the recording of Saucer he was heard to remark that the boys would have to settle down and do some proper work once they had got this piece out of their system.

  Eventually we parted company with Norman, although Norman retained an executive producer credit on the next two albums. In the early Seventies he went on to have a couple of hit records of his own as ‘Hurricane’ Smith (‘Don’t Let It Die’ and ‘Oh Babe, What Would You Say?’) and, to the delight of the audience and himself, was literally wheeled onstage aboard a mobile podium to conduct the orchestra for ‘A Saucerful of Secrets’ when we performed it live at the Royal Albert Hall in June 1969.

  Steve O’Rourke’s notable contribution to the recording sessions for Saucer was the continuation in Studio 3 of his wedding on 1st April 1968. Steve arrived with his new bride Linda, and some of their tired and emotional guests decided to explore the studio complex and try their hand at some of the unusual and intriguing musical instruments they came across. Roger says they later found the bride fast asleep in the grand piano. A short while later Sir Joseph Lockwood issued an edict banning alcohol from the studios.

  The cover design of Saucer marked the arrival of Storm Thorgerson and Aubrey Powell (who was known as Po long before the Teletubbies were ever dreamt of) as collaborators rather than observers. The cover contains all the politically correct ingredients of the period, and is a testament not only to the stream of ideas that flowed from their company Hipgnosis, and which still flows for our benefit from Storm well over three decades further on, but also to the facilities of the Royal College of Art, where they had both been at the film school. Since many of their friends were current or ex-students they relied on the RCA for technical support, as there was no budget for the professional labs.

  On the day of the album’s release – 29th June 1968 – we played at the first free Hyde Park concert, along with Roy Harper and Jethro Tull. This was a marvellous event: the weather was fine, the atmosphere mellow and relaxed. Perhaps most tellingly, it had not occurred to anyone to construct a VIP area, and everyone seemed to be in the same good mood. Plus it gave us the chance to renew acquaintance with our original fan base, albeit in front of a much wider public, and with Blackhill, who were responsible for the whole event. This was our first opportunity to work with Peter and Andrew after the split and that there seemed to be no hard feelings was a bonus. Peter Jenner says, ‘Hyde Park was a great pleasure. The fact that the Floyd played there proves there was no lingering hostility. Both parties had been gentlemanly. There was mutual respect.’

  I think almost everybody who was there has happy memories of the concert, particularly those clever enough to rent the rowing boats on the Serpentine Lake. They didn’t see much of the show, but it was daylight so the lighting effects were non-existent. Other fans were obviously less attuned to the mood, though, since Melody Maker reportedly fielded a number of calls from anxious fans who wanted to know exactly how much it would cost to get into the free concert.

  In August, we returned to the States, ten months after our first disastrous sortie. Before we left, Bryan approached us and explained that as a formality he needed us to sign another agency agreement in order to smooth the path of the tour. Roger smelt a rat, and only signed on the basis that it was a six-week contract. He was right to be suspicious. Two days later we learned through the press that the agency and management side of Bryan’s busine
ss had been sold for £40,000 to NEMS Enterprises, Brian Epstein’s old music company, now owned and run by Vic Lewis.

  Vic was very much old-school music business – complete with pencil moustache and Brylcreemed hair – and we were ushered in to meet the great man at his grand offices in Mayfair. Horrorstruck we listened as he told us proudly of the album he had recorded of Beatles songs arranged his way with strings. He suggested the possibility of Pink Floyd getting the same treatment. Was this a threat, a promise or a joke? Unable to tell, we glanced at each other nervously.

  Although we had signed the agency contract, Bryan had overlooked the management aspect and neglected to get us to sign the relevant contract. This gave us enough leverage to extract some cash from NEMS – a great assuager of artistic pain, I find – and to insist that Steve, who was due to join NEMS, be released to become our personal manager.

  Bryan now maintains that one of the primary reasons he sold the agency to NEMS was that his doctor had told him to cut his lifestyle and workload back, as he was suffering from ulcers. But, to his credit, Bryan did understand the importance of getting us back to America for a second tour, and was instrumental in making it happen.

  It was, and probably still is, fantastically important to achieve success in the US, both in terms of record sales to such a huge market, and live performance…However, a strike by American air traffic controllers in 1968 ensured that a relatively small-scale tour became a full-scale drama. Because our work visas had been delayed yet again, we were forced to arrive as holidaymakers, and then to make a quick jaunt to Canada (it had to be a round trip because we couldn’t afford an overnight stay) to get the correct paperwork in the middle of a residency at Steve Paul’s Scene Club in New York. This basement club on 47th and 6th was an established New York showcase and, although tiny, was an ideal launch pad for us. As an added draw, Fleetwood Mac was booked as support for a number of nights, although I have no memory of how we dealt with equipment changes between sets. A free bar for the bands compensated for low pay. With New York summer temperatures and a low ceiling height, the atmosphere was intense. Carried along on a wave of percussive creativity, and perhaps also by the bar arrangements, Roger sustained some nasty cuts to his hands throwing glasses at the gong during ‘Set The Controls’. After his run-in with the Vox bass at the Cheetah Club on our first tour he seemed to be making a habit of spilling blood in America.

  This audience was not a laid-back UFO crowd, but a much more pepped up New York audience. Among the crowd were other musicians and performers from the local Broadway shows. I do remember staggering back to our hotel after the show accompanied by one of the girls then appearing in Hair, which had recently opened on Broadway. Enormously proud of my conquest, it was many years later that I discovered that her reputation as a singer was somewhat eclipsed by her super-groupie status…

  In New York, we stayed for a while at the Chelsea Hotel. For such a legendary hotel it really was remarkably run-down. Famous for featuring in songs by inhabitants such as Bob Dylan and Leonard Cohen as well as for its rock’n’roll and bohemian clientele, it enjoyed a collection of permanent residents, an understanding credit control, who would let an artist hand over a painting in lieu of rent, and a menagerie on the top floor with a selection of wild animals. We had two rooms for all the band, crew and any visitors or friends we might make en route. Such squalor had not been seen since our flat in Stanhope Gardens. On this particular tour, Roger travelled with just one carry-on bag. Dirty laundry went into the lower compartment and was then recycled into the top section when that was empty. The system proved to be fairly hygienic since a bottle of scotch had got broken in the bag on the flight out.

  Clubs like the Scene formed a solid backbone for the tour, but everything was still being run on a shoestring. At one point, we were stuck in the Camlin Hotel in Seattle, living on room service, until some cash arrived from our American agency and we could settle up and move on.

  This was our first major tour, and was enlivened by spending time with two other British bands that were on the road with us during the same period, the Soft Machine and the Who. The Soft Machine was a group we had always felt considerable affinity towards. They had initially experienced trouble gaining greater public acceptance because of their more esoteric jazz-inspired music. The Who embodied most of the qualities that we aspired to as a working band – heading the bill, playing 5,000-seater venues and displaying a convincingly professional attitude. We played with them at a show designated ‘The English Invasion’ in Philadelphia (the bill also featured the Troggs and Herman’s Hermits) and we got lucky when a sudden rainstorm broke during our set. This meant that the Who couldn’t go on next and eclipse our performance. We gained points for appearing at all, as well as topping the bill by default, and then headed off with Keith Moon and various courtiers to do some live radio.

  This was in the days when FM radio in the States was very freeform indeed, but that night things got freer than ever. We all had plenty of adrenalin still flowing around our systems, and the DJ and most of his guests were chemically relaxed. Rick, not normally a wild man, picked up the stylus while one record was playing on air, announced that he didn’t care for the song, and demanded something else. Keith Moon kept up a barrage of comment throughout the broadcast to enliven the occasion further. Now, over twenty-five years later, when we go back to Philadelphia, people still talk of that night’s radio show in hushed tones.

  In a nearby bar, later that night, Pete Townshend impressed me with the firm way he dealt with a drunk who approached us to discuss loud music and pansy clothes. When he started being aggressive, Pete, rather than continue the discussion, calmly asked the barman to throw him out. This, Pete pointed out, proved two matters. First the power of money (we were spending more and therefore we controlled the bar) and secondly that drunks, particularly in the States, enjoy discussion for a short while but as soon as they start losing an argument, have a tendency to resort to physical violence or draw a gun – yet another useful rule for the book of touring hints and tips.

  As on the first tour, we had almost no equipment, once again victims of empty promises from agents and record companies. It was Jimi Hendrix who saved us. Hearing of our problems (his managers also handled the Soft Machine) he sent us down to Electric Lady, his recording studio and storage facility on West 8th Street, and told us to help ourselves to what we needed. There are some real rock’n’roll heroes.

  Contact with the local record company was erratic, and sometimes nigh on impossible. Steve O’Rourke, desperate to have a meeting with some marketing executive who was not returning any of his calls, tracked down this individual’s favourite shoeshine stall and sat waiting patiently – his shoes so beautifully buffed a regimental sergeant-major would have been impressed – until the elusive gentleman showed up.

  Around this time the British Customs and Excise took exception to bands that were on tour in America returning with large quantities of very cheap musical instruments. They were particularly concerned about drum kits and classic electric guitars that could be bought new from Manny’s in New York for less than half the price back home or picked up in the pawn shops for a snip. Eventually a mammoth raid was carried out in which it seemed every working band was visited. There was some fining and general ticking off, rather than executions, but for months afterwards a Mr Snuggs from the Excise would call up guitar players to say he’d seen them on Top Of The Pops and could they explain exactly how they had come by that rather nice 1953 sunburst Gibson Les Paul.

  On our return to the UK we settled back into the routine of touring, working extensively on the university circuit and in Europe, including an outdoor show in Germany where some students, inspired by a year that had seen the Paris évènements and radical activity throughout Europe and the US, decided entry should be free to all and that it would be appropriate to gatecrash the event. Using VW camper vans, they substituted the Californian surf ethic with a battering ram strapped to the roof.

 
; Just before Christmas 1968 we had one last crack at the singles market: ‘Point Me At The Sky’ was our third attempt since ‘Emily’ and our third consecutive failure. The light dawned, we decided to treat the single-buying public with disdain, and duly ordained ourselves an ‘albums only’ band for the following eleven years.

  Our next album was a score for the film More, directed by Barbet Schroeder. We had appeared in Peter Whitehead’s 1967 documentary Tonite! Let’s All Make Love In London, and in 1968 we had provided a score for a film called The Committee by Peter Sykes with Paul Jones in the lead role, although our contribution had been more of a collection of sound effects than music.

  This film, however, promised to be a more serious project. Barbet, a protégé of Jean-Luc Godard, approached us with the film virtually complete and edited. Despite these constraints and a fairly desperate deadline, Barbet was an easy man to work with – we were paid £600 each, a substantial amount in 1968, for eight days’ work around Christmas – and there was little pressure to provide Oscar-winning songs or a Hollywood-style soundtrack. In fact, complementing the various mood sequences, Roger came up with a number of songs for the film that became part of our live shows for some time after.

  A lot of the moods in the film – a slow-moving, fairly frank and moralistic tale of a German student who travels to Ibiza and finds himself on a fatal descent into hard drugs – were ideally suited to some of the rumblings, squeaks and sound textures we produced on a regular basis night after night. There was no budget for a dubbing studio with a frame-count facility, so we sat in a viewing theatre, timed the sequences carefully (it’s amazing how accurate a stopwatch can be), and then went into Pye Studios in Marble Arch, where we worked with the experienced in-house engineer Brian Humphries.

  A major tour of the UK in spring 1969 ended at the Royal Festival Hall in July, at an event we called ‘More Furious Madness From The Massed Gadgets of Auximenes’. This was another landmark show – and one of my personal favourites in the same way that ‘Games For May’ remains. It is possibly less so for David who, courtesy of some bad earthing, received a bolt of electricity sufficient to hurl him across the stage and leave him vibrating mildly for the rest of the show. We decided to enhance this event with some performance art from an old Hornsey College of Art friend and one-time Stanhope Gardens inhabitant called Peter Dockley. He had created a monster costume involving a gas mask and some enormous genitalia rigged up with a reservoir to enable him to urinate on the front row of the audience. This proved very effective indeed as during ‘The Labyrinth’, a gloomy, rather eerie piece of music, Peter crept around the audience while we used dripping sound effects in the quad system. One unfortunate girl, possibly under chemical influences, turned to find this horrific creature sitting next to her. She screamed and rushed from the auditorium never to be heard from again, not even via her lawyer.