Inside Out

by Nick Mason

  Alan Parker has one particular recollection of Steve O’Rourke. During post-production Steve took a phone call in Alan’s office, a bungalow in the Pinewood gardens, from Roger in the main building. Steve turned to rush back, but ‘with his bad eyesight he failed to see the closed glass doors, which he ploughed through and shattered. Steve was badly cut, concussed, and lying on the floor. He opened his eyes to see my secretary Angie, gently picking the shards of glass out of his face. He immediately fell in love and eventually married her.’

  My belief is that Alan was the best man for the job. And on occasion he did listen to what was said or suggested by others. I still have a small film canister that he sent to me. We had argued for some time about a particular shot of the boy on the beach, which I thought a bit on the whimsical side. In the can was a roll of film of this sequence and a note saying ‘OK, you win’. Alan remembers few creative disagreements with Roger over the material – he remains very proud of the finished film – but says that the problems that arose from a clash of two strong egos did often make him miserable. The sign on Alan’s door at Pinewood said, ‘Just Another Prick On The Wall’.

  Steve as executive producer was responsible for ensuring that we survived the financial disasters of film making. ‘As for the accounts,’ says Alan, ‘someone said that Steve O’Rourke had written the cost of the animation off in so many books they could fill a shelf at Foyle’s.’ We were initially at risk for the start-up costs on the film of $2 million (all our The Wall record earnings), but eventually David Begelman at MGM came through with the guarantee for $10 million that we needed. Bernd Eichniger at Neu Constanin provided a further $2 million and Goldcrest, through Lazards, financed the actual production. Regrettably for Goldcrest it had gone into liquidation by the time we were to pay them back their profit element, though we did give Jake Ebberts, who was the president of Goldcrest, two free tickets for the show in Canada when he called in 1994.

  Alan Parker recalls that when he and Steve first offered the film to MGM (he had recently made Fame for the company), David Begelman ‘told me he was entrusting their many millions of dollars of investment to me even though he had absolutely no idea what the film was about. What’s more neither did his eighteen-year-old son, who was a Pink Floyd fan. Steve O’Rourke and I shook Begelman’s hand on the deal, and I said, “Don’t worry, David, you can trust us because we treat other people’s money as if it’s our own.”’ Steve then told Alan in the lift that that remark was probably inappropriate as David Begelman had been ousted from a previous job as chairman of Columbia Pictures after being accused of embezzling a cheque for $60,000.

  There never was a film soundtrack album, partly because it was inevitably so faithful to the original record, but there were some interesting versions of songs where Bob Geldof was able to bring his own interpretation to bear.

  Various premieres took place in 1982, including a late-night showing at the Cannes Film Festival that was fun, particularly as it coincided with the Monaco Grand Prix, and I was able to take a guest in the shape of James Hunt. The sound system at the old Palais du Festival had been upgraded with a little help from the Britannia Row stores. As the music started, plaster began to crumble from the ceiling, creating a curtain of dust and paint. Alan Parker remembers that Steven Spielberg attended the Cannes screening and, ‘as the lights went up at the end, he looked across at me with enormous pity and shrugged, as if to say, “What the fuck was that all about?”’

  There were various shows, too, in LA and NY, including one US press conference where the producer, Alan Marshall, when asked about the meaning of the film said, rather succinctly, ‘It’s about some mad bastard and this wall, innit…’

  AFTER ALL the work on The Wall was complete, my overriding feeling – and by now a pattern may be emerging – was less of elation than exhaustion. Given that we had only performed the show thirty-odd times in two years, it was difficult to blame this on physical exertion. It was more a feeling that the whole project appeared to have been going on for an eternity. However, perhaps another reason for my lethargy and lack of enthusiasm was caused by the thought of confronting each other once again.

  Following the end of the tour and the film, the four-man Pink Floyd that had existed since 1968 was no more. Rick was enjoying self-imposed exile: he was living in Greece, the home of his second wife Franka, and relishing a taste of lotus eating. Rick’s absence in the sun only served to underline the fact that we were locked into a cycle of non-communication.

  In July 1982 The Wall had gone on general release. We had all been involved in promotion to a greater or lesser extent. I remember being sent to Spain as the sole ambassador for the premiere there – since I think all the others were in America for openings in New York and California – and smiling through gritted teeth for the cameras. Meanwhile I waved in what I thought was a regal way from the royal box in Madrid and modestly admitted that it had not been entirely my own work…

  Back in London Roger had started work on an album that underwent a number of changes in fairly quick succession. My recollection is that the original scheme was to incorporate a number of tracks that were left over from the Wall project. There were some songs that had been included on the film soundtrack but had never made it onto the original album, and these were to be augmented with new material.

  This is borne out by the fact that the original working title for The Final Cut was ‘Spare Bricks’, an idea that was dropped as the record gestated into something rather different. I think various factors contributed to this change of tack. Roger was dissatisfied with the original piecemeal approach and by now had a much clearer idea of what he wanted to tackle. The Final Cut – A Requiem For The Post War Dream was a much more focused piece. Although still linked to elements contained in The Wall, it dealt with Roger’s feelings about the death of his father at Anzio in the Second World War. The fact that for the initial years of the war Roger’s father had been a conscientious objector added more poignancy. The underscore to this was the failure of post-war Britain to provide the better world that so many had died for.

  The other unlikely candidate for a muse was Margaret Thatcher. In 1982 Britain, under Thatcher’s premiership, declared war on Argentina over sovereignty of the Falkland Islands in a conflict most expertly described by Jorge Luis Borges as ‘two bald men fighting over a comb’; the atmosphere in Britain at the time was alarmingly jingoistic and I think this particularly upset Roger. The Final Cut became a real tool for expressing his horror at these events.

  I could hardly fail to sympathise with these political sentiments, but I think David’s view was that it was becoming unsuitable as a band album. David wanted time to produce some material of his own. Roger, now totally motivated, was not interested in waiting. He wanted to press on, and once he has the bit between his teeth he leaves little time for prevarication by anyone else. In addition, he appeared doubtful of David’s ability to produce anything in the foreseeable future.

  Certainly, the imposition by Roger of a deadline to complete the album seemed to staunch David’s creativity. I’m not sure that this was a conscious power play by Roger. I suspect that he might have been angry or simply impatient with David’s apparent lack of speed in producing material, or it may be that in Roger’s head he was already moving into his solo career, and merely wanted David and me to assist him in his aspirations. During the Wall recordings we had maintained some semblance of democracy, but even this semblance was under threat. The matter rapidly became ‘an issue’, and like a menacing U-boat, poked a periscope up above the murky waters of our relationship.

  The upshot was that the album consisted entirely of Roger’s writing. David’s input was minimised – apart from his guitar solos, which even Roger was not foolhardy enough to try and influence – and most significantly Roger decided to take on the bulk of the vocal duties himself, leaving David to sing one song, ‘Not Now John’. In the past, the inflection of David’s vocals had inevitably made some subtle changes to the melodic
structure of Roger’s songs. So this change, and the loss of Rick’s trademark keyboard sound, meant the disappearance of key elements from what had become an established ‘Pink Floyd sound’.

  Another missing link was Bob Ezrin. In bandspeak this parting of the ways might be described as ‘musical differences’, but in reality it could have been due to one of a number of incidents: Roger was still seething over an unfortunate interview Bob had granted an American magazine just prior to the Wall shows. A journalist friend (friend no more) had weaselled out of Bob – and published – a full description of the show, including the exclusive revelation of the tumbling wall as the grand finale. Bob was as mortified as anyone by this betrayal, but to add fuel to the fire the journalist also gave glowing credit to Bob for rather more than he deserved, or at least more than we felt he deserved.

  Bob now got a call from Steve threatening litigation and suggesting that, being in breach of contract by talking to the press, he might not be seeing any of his hard-earned royalties. Bob was shaken by all of this. From being one of the inner circle he was suddenly out in the cold. It was made clear to him that he would not even be welcome at the shows. I think now that we just had no idea of how terrifying our combined disapproval could be. With the record just beginning to show every sign of being a huge hit Bob could not even enjoy this moment of glory.

  Eventually the whole issue was dropped, but a couple of years later the dust was still pervading the atmosphere rather than settling, and Roger was certainly not ready to take Bob back on board – even assuming Bob wanted the ride. For my money this was a shame. Bob’s mind may be addled but he’s always prepared to speak it…

  The gap left by Bob was, in part, filled by Michael Kamen, who was not only a highly rated – and later an Oscar-nominated – composer but a very able keyboard player. Michael had originally studied oboe at the Julliard School in New York, and began composing film music in the 1970s. After The Wall, he went on to score, amongst other movies, Brazil, Mona Lisa, Die Hard, Licence To Kill, Robin Hood: Prince Of Thieves (for which he got his Oscar nomination) and Mr Holland’s Opus, and created the music for the TV series Edge Of Darkness.

  This solved the practical problems left by Rick’s departure. However, Michael had no interest in a confrontational approach to making records. Indeed he had no need to. He would simply get on with producing wonderful work in whatever situation he found himself. His work on The Wall had been done without any face-to-face contact, and band politics were simply not in his remit.

  Much of the work for The Final Cut was done at Mayfair Studios in Primrose Hill in north London. Apart from its convenient location close to a restaurant we all rather liked, James Guthrie was anxious to work there. In Bob’s absence, James had been the obvious choice as engineer and co-producer, especially for his ability to breeze through the tricky business of working with all of us. In 1981 he had helped us re-record ‘Money’ for the compilation release A Collection Of Great Dance Songs. Dave had programmed the groove on the recently released Linn Drum Machine, and then I went into the studio to overdub live drums. Unfortunately, there were some discrepancies between my timing and the machine’s, and James felt he needed to confront me directly. He explained that there were some consistency problems in both timbre and timing. He recalls that I listened intently to his comments, nodding and weighing each word carefully, and then responded, ‘Mmm, timing and consistency never were my strong points. I was always much better at the after-gig parties.’

  A number of other studios were used for specific overdubs, including Olympic, RAK, Eel Pie, and Roger and David’s own home studios, both of which were now equipped to professional levels. Roger’s studio name, the Billiard Room, indicated the contents augmenting the 24-track recorder…

  Part of this was a desire to avoid returning to Britannia Row, which although now in much better shape technically, still lacked a number of qualities that James felt were essential. It was also probably a wise decision to use neutral studios rather than Britannia Row: in the confines of our own nuclear bunker things might have become terminally explosive on the inside rather than the outside. The only real technical hitch we experienced at Mayfair was the assistant who overslept and kept us locked out on a weekend just before Christmas, when we had all made a particular effort to come in – for his own safety he was advised not to return in the New Year.

  On one occasion during the recording of The Final Cut, James remembers a rather fraught session at the Billiard Room, with Roger attempting to perfect a particular set of vocals: ‘Roger was in his customary position, perched on the edge of the billiard table, headphones on, and singing. Most days, Roger was in his stride and able to capture a moving vocal performance fairly quickly. Today was an off day. Pitch was not coming easily, and the tension began to build. Michael was just not in the mood. He had not said a word for quite some time and his attention was clearly elsewhere. He scribbled with great focus on a legal pad.’

  Eventually Roger, distracted by Michael’s apparent lack of interest, stormed into the control room and demanded to know what Michael was writing. ‘Michael had decided that he must have done something unspeakable in a past life, something he was now karmically paying for by having to endure take after take of the same vocal performance. So he had written over and over on his legal pad, page after page, line after line, “I must not fuck sheep”. He was not sure exactly what he had done in this past life, but “I must not fuck sheep” seemed like a pretty fair guess.’

  Some years later, when Michael was on tour as part of Roger’s band, the touring party were issued with T-shirts. All of them had ‘Am I really cost effective?’ written on them in mirror writing (to remind them first thing every morning), while the band had individualised messages on their T-shirts. Michael’s particular one read … Both Michael and James, perhaps surprisingly, belong to the extremely exclusive band of collaborators who have survived to work again with all of us.

  My own part in the proceedings was pretty minimal for a while. I was spending more and more time motor racing: in 1981 I had failed to get to Le Mans, The Wall shows having taken precedence. Steve, however, had done a remarkable piece of jet-setting by driving in the start of the race, before rushing back to Earls Court for the show on the Saturday night, and then returning to the circuit to drive in the latter half of the race on the Sunday morning. To make up for this, I had organised one particularly smart piece of promotion in the form of encouraging Wilfred Jung, the president of EMI Germany, to sponsor the Dorset Racing Lola 298 to run at the Nürburgring 1,000-km race in 1981 in full Wall livery. This was actually not very difficult since Wilfred was the most ardent motor race fan. I think we both felt that this was exactly how to cement artist–company relations. The following year I had returned to Le Mans sharing a drive with Steve. Between sponsor hunting, practice sessions and a disastrous part-ownership of a Grand Prix team, it’s a wonder I ever found time to get to the studios…

  Still, I spent some days laying down a few drum tracks and a certain amount of time turning up to show willing and to remind everybody I existed. These undemanding tasks were only augmented when it became clear that another ingredient was failing to live up to expectations: the holophonic sound effects were not working. At the start of recording we had been approached by an Italian audio boffin called Hugo Zuccarelli. He claimed he had devised a new holophonic system that could be recorded simply onto stereo tape. We were sceptical since some previous forays into the wonderful world of quad during the 1970s had proved to be far too complex. The quad recording process required vast amounts of track space and seemingly endless adjustments to the control knobs to place the sounds in the quadraphonic spectrum. Not only was the process extremely complicated in nearly all aspects, but also the number of lunatics prepared to position their armchair precisely in the centre of their living room to get maximum enjoyment from the experience was insufficient.

  However, Hugo Zuccarelli’s holophonic – or ‘total sound’ – system was di
fferent. It really worked. I still don’t know exactly how because it only used a pair of stereo mikes contained within a dummy head. This provided some spatial sonic quality that when heard back through headphones replicated the way the human ear works in daily life. Hugo’s first demo cassette was truly startling: I remember one effect where a box of matches was shaken and moved around your head so it seemed to be behind, above or below. If you closed your eyes while listening on the headphones it was quite disorientating and completely convincing.

  We immediately decided to use the system for all the sound effects on the album, and I was volunteered to escort the holophonic head (which answered to the name of Ringo) to various locations to capture the sound of church bells or footsteps. Roger was particularly taken with the Doppler effect of traffic going by, and the musical effect that was created as the passing vehicle’s tone changed. Finally my motor racing experience paid off: I spent many a happy hour capturing the sounds of the Queen’s Highway, and trying to record screeching tyres on the skidpan at the Hendon Police Driving School (a total failure since even with their brakes fully locked the cars glided over the oil slicks in eerie silence).

  Roger also wanted warlike plane sounds. Through a high-ranking air force contact, I was granted permission to record a number of Tornadoes at RAF Honington in Warwickshire. It was an extraordinary experience to stand at the end of the runway trying to set a level for a sound so intense that as the afterburners were lit up the air itself was crackling with sonic overload. I also drew on the old pals’ network to persuade a friend who was flying Shackletons to record one of the planes in flight. The thought of a half-day spent circling the ocean looking for non-existent submarines did not thrill me, but Ringo manfully accepted the mission and was returned for breakfast and medals, along with twelve hours’ worth of droning aircraft noise on tape. I do still have a twinge of guilt that I had so much help from friends within the armed forces, and that all that work ended up on a protest record. I hope they have now all forgiven me.