Inside Out

by Nick Mason

  The motivation was there in ample quantities. Now we turned our attention to the how, who and where of going ahead. When was not really an issue. There was no record company obligation, and we had not committed to touring dates. The making of the album could initially determine the pace of work.

  The how centred primarily over David’s choice of writing and working partners. An early decision was made to bring Bob Ezrin back in as co-producer. It was unfortunate that Bob Ezrin had been considered as a producer for Roger’s Radio KAOS album, which was being recorded at the same time. Bob maintains that he had established that he would not work on Roger’s record because they could not agree a schedule that would suit both of them. Bob specifically wanted to avoid lengthy sojourns away from home; Roger wanted to get on and finish the work. The fact is that Roger felt betrayed as Bob signed with ‘the opposition’ – according to Bob, Roger at this point designated the rest of us ‘the Muffins’.

  In the event, Pat Leonard, who had worked with David previously, and was in the frame for our record, eventually worked with Roger and was delighted with the opportunity, so perhaps honours were even. Andy Jackson was brought in as our engineer – Andy had worked with James Guthrie on the soundtrack for The Wall movie. Knowing James we would have expected him to choose wisely, and he did not let us down.

  After the experiences of recording The Wall in France, Bob proved to be completely sympathetic to the spirit of the project. One of his great qualities is an ability to apply a specific mix of skills to a given situation. Now he quickly realised that on this album his primary function was to support David by acting both as a catalyst and as a kind of musical personal trainer: Bob was particularly good at exhorting David to keep on going.

  As far as writing songs was concerned, David decided to experiment by working with a number of potential collaborators to see what would result. Along the way he spent some time with Phil Manzanera, the Roxy Music guitarist, Eric Stewart of 10cc, Liverpool poet Roger McGough and the Canadian musician Carole Pope. What materialised from these try-outs was that what David was really looking for was a lyricist, and that person turned out to be Anthony Moore, who had been part of the band Slapp Happy, which many moons earlier had been on the roster of Blackhill Enterprises.

  The location we settled on for the early stages of recording was Astoria, David’s houseboat studio moored on the River Thames near Hampton Court. This curious vessel had been built in the early 1910s (at a cost of £20,000 – at the time an enormous sum) for an old music hall and variety show impresario called Fred Karno – the Harvey Goldsmith of his day – who entertained the likes of Charlie Chaplin on board. The Astoria measures ninety feet long, and has a facility for a seventy-piece orchestra to play on the roof should one so wish (we chose not to). David had been living a couple of miles away when he bought it, almost on a whim, as an aquatic home studio.

  For the late-twentieth-century musician, David, aided and abetted by Phil Taylor, had constructed a studio in the converted dining room – a shade on the small side, but with sufficient room for a drum kit, bass guitar and electronic keyboards. The control room, built in the main living room, had windows looking over the river on two sides and across the riverside garden on the third. The boat also provided enough space for all the accompanying ancillary equipment.

  The recording started out with us using an analogue 24-track machine with overdubs onto a 32-track Mitsubishi digital recorder. This marked our first foray into digital recording on tape. This new technology had a number of benefits – including improved sound quality and no degradation – as did the houseboat’s location. Phil Taylor remembers that during the recording for A Momentary Lapse Of Reason, David sailed upriver, stayed on board for one weekend and recorded the entirety of ‘Sorrow’ including all the guitar parts, vocals and the drum machine, so that when we reconvened on the Monday, there was only a bit of spit and polish required.

  The Trout, a 1930s Thames slipper launch, was moored alongside, available for anyone needing to get away, or indeed for anyone living locally to get home should their road licence have been suspended. It still seemed quite radical to have a view of the outside world – and a particularly attractive one (within a few years, however, it had become de rigueur to record in some equally beautiful setting). It proved a successful formula, and such a pleasant environment that even if work had come to a stop no one particularly wanted to leave in a hurry.

  There was the occasional unnerving motion when large boats cruised past over the speed limit, but the only other passing traffic, apart from the odd oarsman, were the hundreds of swans from the local haven. We did once have a visit from an uninvited television news crew who, having failed to gain an audience, claimed to have donned scuba outfits and, in a scene reminiscent of Above Us The Waves, recorded us at work underwater. They would have had to have been there so long, and been so cold in order to get even a snippet of waterlogged sound, that I think the story can be filed alongside the one that maintains that we get our inspiration from alien beings visiting from other planets…

  A more serious threat was caused when the river started rising so fast that the whole boat began to tilt as it became snagged up against one of the piers keeping it in place. The prospect of the Astoria disappearing into the foaming waters Titanic-style as the band played on was too ghastly to contemplate, although I like to think Leonardo DiCaprio could have successfully captured my boyish charm in the made-for-TV epic that would doubtless have ensued. As it was, our faithful boatman and caretaker Langley was on hand to release the offending clamp. In damp-browed gratitude, we later invited him to be a principal character (as the rower) in the tour films. Since Langley lives on the boat, and rows every day, he’s the nearest equivalent to Ratty in The Wind In The Willows that I’ve ever met.

  Working life on board was greatly enhanced by the new technology available since The Wall and The Final Cut. In the intervening years, computer software and equipment had become standard in the control room. Like most technological advances, the great advantage of computerisation was that all sorts of decisions could be put off while an infinite variety of options for sounds and editing were tried.

  This was the album where we first incorporated significant amounts of sampling; the samples were easy to manipulate and songs could be developed out of the sounds themselves. For the drum parts, the tempo, drum fills and even bar-by-bar elements could now be altered, with a deliberate variation in the tempo dialled in to make it a little more human. Obviously a computer still can’t throw a television out of a hotel window or get drunk and be sick on the carpet, so there is little danger of them replacing drummers for some while yet.

  In fact, I found myself overwhelmed by the computers on this record. I hadn’t played seriously for four years and didn’t even like the sound or feel of my own playing. Perhaps I had been demoralised by the conflict with Roger. Certainly I ended up struggling to play some parts satisfactorily. With time pressure on, I surrendered a number of parts to some of the best session players in Los Angeles, including Jim Keltner and Carmine Appice – an odd feeling, a bit like handing your car over to Michael Schumacher. This was not only a defeatist attitude, but meant I then had to learn the damn drum part to play it live (an experience to file under ‘never ever again’).

  The guest artists were part of a general panic when – with Bob becoming homesick, and needing a bigger studio – we shipped ourselves, somewhat against our better judgement, over to his native LA. In the A&M Studios, we were able to admire the talents not only of Messrs Keltner and Appice, but also Tom Scott’s saxophone and the keyboard work of Little Feat’s Bill Payne. Bob Dylan was recording at A&M too, so the whole experience felt like a return to the real world of music after the swans and cucumber sandwiches of the Astoria.

  While we were in California, I encountered a new breed of human being: the drum doctor – not the venerable roadie who made sure the kit was set up correctly, but a magician who coaxed unheard-of sounds out of the available
resources. The drum doctor would arrive with a van-load of equipment, sniffing disdainfully at my own kit, and proceed to erect an array of fabulous-sounding material: a choice of half a dozen snares, full of subtle nuances, and myriad cymbals. It was a complete eye-opener, like having Jeeves permanently on hand, laying out coordinated cymbals rather than ties.

  Rick joined proceedings quite late in the day and was quarantined from any costs or legal repercussions from Roger. This was mainly a practical matter. There was some confusion over Rick’s position within the band. When David and I first wanted to talk to Rick we discovered that buried in his leaving agreement from 1981 was a clause that prevented him rejoining the group. Consequently we had to be careful about what constituted being a member of the band; only David and I appeared on the cover of the album.

  Most of the songs on Momentary Lapse had been complete before we started recording and as a result there really is very little filler. When I went over to Los Angeles to hear the work in progress on the initial mixes, I was slightly taken aback. It seemed as if there was too much going on aurally. We had recorded a lot of material and most of it seemed to be in the mix. Generally we had tended to lose material in the mix. We agreed that it wasn’t sounding right and the final version had much more space and air.

  A couple of things strike me about the finished album. In hindsight I really should have had the self-belief to play all the drum parts. And in the early days of life after Roger, I think David and I felt that we had to get it right, or we would be slaughtered. As a result it is a very ‘careful’ album with very few risks taken. These things together make me feel ever so slightly removed from Momentary Lapse, to the point that it doesn’t always sound like us. However, ‘Learning To Fly’ does for some reason – it feels very much like a ‘home’ track.

  We spent the obligatory three weeks agonising over the album title: each choice had to be given more than one test. Did we like it, was it suitable for the music, and would Roger and the critics use it against us? Eventually it dawned on us that there was no word or phrase in existence that someone couldn’t make fun of, so, having settled on A Momentary Lapse Of Reason, a phrase taken from a lyric created by David with Phil Manzanera, we reverted to worrying about the other elements.

  For the album cover, we turned again to Storm Thorgerson. In keeping with the river setting of much of the recording and a lyric describing a vision of empty beds, the concept evolved into a river of beds, photographed on Saunton Sands in Devon, where most of the war sequences for the film of The Wall had been shot. All the attendant problems of fast tides and rotten weather ensued. A bonus was that with all the alternative formats at our disposal – CD, vinyl, cassette, minidisk, versions for different territories – we could make the maximum use of good design ideas we might otherwise have had to discard, neatly avoiding lengthy arguments and difficult decisions.

  By now we were preparing for a tour. Michael Cohl, the Canadian promoter, proved to be a tower of strength, at a time when we were grappling with the final stages of the album, and the legal aspects. Michael had been promoting shows since the late 1960s, concentrating initially on his native Canada and then expanding to North America. He became heavily involved with the Rolling Stones, promoting their Urban Jungle/Steel Wheels tour, and thereafter Voodoo Lounge, Bridges to Babylon and Forty Licks tours.

  Michael was confident that a tour could happen, and taking the risk that Roger would injunct any promoter selling tickets, began advertising our shows. At a time when we did not know ourselves what would happen, support like this was priceless and ensures Michael a place in our personal Hall of Fame. Early ticket sales were strong; now all we had to worry about was whether we would be sued, whether the audience would be outraged when Roger failed to appear, and how to pay for the set-up of the sort of show we wanted to produce…

  Since the early 1980s, sponsorship had become a major element in tour financing, but although attractive, this was not an option that was available to us. With all the unknown elements facing our reception – and the potential of a dramatic pratfall – there was no queue of cola or trainer shoe manufacturers outside the door. We couldn’t put all the tickets on sale and use the money up front. The only viable way to do it was for David and me to fork out.

  In my particular case I was a bit short of ready cash for the millions required, so I eventually went down to the upmarket equivalent of the pawn shop and hocked my 1962 GTO Ferrari. Probably my most prized possession, and an old family friend (I had bought it in 1977) this car yet again added to its distinguished competition history. Because the car market had recently gone berserk, with this model at the top of the madness – one car reputedly sold at the time for $14 million – I had little trouble in financing my half of the tour set-up costs.

  As we compiled the team to work on the tour, we encountered more strains on people’s sense of fair play and loyalty. To design the staging, we initially approached Fisher Park, but they turned down the opportunity since they were already committed to working on Roger’s Radio KAOS show. It was unlikely that either side would have taken kindly to sharing their talents. Considering they were also to be involved in Roger’s version of The Wall in Berlin two years later they were probably right to stick with his team.

  I have no idea if it was the case, but I sensed that Jonathan Park in particular was loyal to Roger rather than us, whereas Mark Fisher would happily have done both projects. I mention this because it became an issue seven years later, when, mean-spirited as we are, we asked Mark alone to work for us. We may forget to give credit when it is due, but we always have no problem remembering real or imagined slights.

  Steve then carried out some research into set designers and came up with Paul Staples. As soon as we had talked to him and seen some of his work we thought Paul could do the job. He brought a large dose of fresh thinking to our staging: he had extensive experience of working in the theatre as well as on innumerable exhibitions and presentations. Paul came up with a raft of ideas – as usual, some had to be scrapped, while others survived. The show was initially designed for indoor arenas but still required a roof structure to hang the screen. We wanted a large stage, and although we never seem to achieve it, we always aim for as clean a stage floor as possible.

  We also required the maximum amount of darkness for projection purposes, which led to the creation of what was essentially a large black box. We have one very specific advantage over the majority of touring bands. The total inability of any of us to moonwalk, duckwalk, set fire to our hair or play guitars with our teeth means that the audience do not need a constant video monitor to show what we are doing on stage. People sometimes ask me why don’t we just get computers to perform instead. I usually reply, ‘No, we can’t, they move around too much…’

  Film is more unwieldy than video in many ways but it has such good quality and luminescence in comparison that it is still more suitable for stadium environments. The future probably holds laser, full-colour hologram projection into an artificial cloud hanging over the auditorium, but it certainly wasn’t available in 1987.

  Marc Brickman, who Steve had called at short notice in Los Angeles to work on The Wall shows, now took another call from Steve, asking him to fly over from LA. Marc remembers talking to David, and picking up the feeling that David was ‘incensed’ that Roger thought he had the right to shut Pink Floyd down. Marc was taken on as lighting designer, and started work with Robbie Williams and Paul Staples. Marc and Robbie went to Brussels to meet Paul, who was working with a ballet company. They had a coffee in a nearby café, and a tram trundled past. Marc and Paul looked at each other, as their cerebral light bulbs went on. In the tour, lights running on tracking were used, stopping directly over Rick’s head as he played the intro to ‘Wish You Were Here’. Another effect was something of an accident. Testing the Very lights and the round screen, there was a computer glitch. As Marc reset the system all the lights flipped over. He realised they could ‘dance’ and the technique became a major
element of the show. Other new toys included the periactoids, which were the spinning sections built into the front face of the stage base. They could be set to turn at different speeds, or to flicker in pre-set patterns.

  One of the fattest files in the touring department is ‘The Ones That Got Away’. Much time is expended on effects that promise a great deal but always seem to end up being bloody dangerous, fabulously expensive and only work once in fifty attempts. Sometimes (viz the inflatable pyramid), despite fulfilling all these characteristics, they still slip through the net. This time we decided mid-tour to ditch Icarus, an apparently airborn figure who sprang forth in ‘Learning To Fly’ and flittered across the stage. He never quite worked, ending up looking like oversized washing on a line.

  One idea – the flying saucer – sounded perfect. A large helium-filled device, it could be radio-controlled to hover over the auditorium, dripping with lights and effects. No wires or rigging were required. The problem was that it was a fantasy. To carry sufficient power for the proposed lighting rig it would have been about the same size, cost and approximately as safe as the Graf Zeppelin…

  A decent model of the staging was built to show how the whole thing could be assembled, folded and trucked. One of the most important aspects of these rehearsals was working out the most efficient way to pack up and down the trucks, since saving one truck for one year of touring could save something in the region of $100,000. This was all well and good. But we also had to construct a band – and however many models we constructed, the musicians had to be at least partly human. We had used additional musicians before. Ever since Dark Side, additional singers had been part of the show. Snowy White had added a second guitar to The Wall – and for that brief period in early 1968 Syd and David had presented a two-guitar line-up. We had also used an additional drummer on The Wall. We obviously now needed a bass player. Perhaps the most significant change was the arrival of a second keyboard player. This was a response not only to the possibilities offered by digital technology – we needed someone who was familiar with sequencers and samplers – but also to help represent the fuller, more complex sounds we had been able to produce on the houseboat.