by Nick Mason
As a gesture of goodwill to our Italian fans, we accepted an invitation to perform on the Grand Canal in Venice. However, it transpired that the invitation had not been sent out by all the city fathers. There were two opposing factions, one delighted, the other convinced that we would achieve what a thousand years of lagoon waters had failed to do, and sink the city in a single afternoon. We held a press conference to reassure the council, the nation and the conservationists that we were not setting out to sack the city, not even to undertake any light pillaging. Nevertheless, we still failed to convince everyone that this was the case.
As Venice has limited access the plan had been to restrict the number of tourists allowed in on that particular day. We stayed outside the city, in the Lagoon, reckoning that life was hard enough without having to jostle past the fans and the city authorities. In the event, the mayor conspired with the police to allow everyone in, persuaded the shops to close and withdrew any previously arranged toilet or rubbish collection facilities. It is not impossible that support seemed to be withdrawn when the necessary payments were not made to all and sundry.
A representative of the Gondoliers’ Union came and claimed his colleagues would all blow their whistles throughout the show if we didn’t pay them $10,000 (they already had clients paying double for every boat). This was one bluff we could call – I have yet to hear any whistle rise above the noise we can make. Our stage-cum-barge was declared a seagoing vessel and liable to an extra tax if we tried to move it up the Grand Canal, the police blockading every other route out. Fortunately we were able to set sail on the high sea and make an escape in the Horatio Nelson tradition.
These distractions did not dent the success of the show, which worked particularly well as a live television special. Michael Kamen, who was due to play with us, was the only distressed face I saw. He had appeared before as an occasional guest but this time we wanted him involved in a more structured way, particularly as it was going to be televised. Alas, Michael was held up in the crowds, and thwarted by a lack of water transport at a critical moment, he only made it as far as the mixing desk, too late to take part, and had to watch from the shore two hundred metres away – a sort of bearded French lieutenant’s woman.
One golden moment was when a royal barge arrived filled with the dignitaries who had caused us so much trouble. Covered in lights and serving a seven-course meal it drew up in front of the stage, mooring in front of the audience and blocking their view. The audience went mad. A hail of bottles and rubbish rained onto the barge. The waiters manfully defended their masters, shielding them, centurion-style, with their silver trays. Soon the barge was underway again, this time attempting a mooring alongside our platform. One look at our crew, who made Blackbeard’s pirates seem like the Partridge Family, and off they went, never to be seen again.
If playing in Venice was problematic, a series of gigs a few weeks earlier had posed even more of a logistical challenge, when we played in Moscow. A shortage of currency meant that it was virtually impossible for a Russian promoter to pay the costs of the tour, but a deal was worked out that essentially covered all the practical aspects of playing. First, they were responsible for getting our equipment from Athens to Moscow and then on again to Helsinki afterwards. To do this they flew in the military Antonov, the biggest cargo plane in the world. It looked fantastic and took the whole set easily. Accommodation was in the huge hotel in Red Square, which was still staffed with KGB surveillance on every floor along with samovars to provide hot tea. With the tightness of security and the sheer size of the place, it took us three days to find where we could get a drink in the evening and breakfast in the morning.
We also took our own catering, which was the most effective door opener available. An invitation to dinner for any official ensured all sorts of benefits. Through our tax adviser, Nigel Eastaway, who also happens to be a trustee of the Russian Aviation Research Trust, we were able to visit Monino, the Russian air force museum – the largest, and at the time, the least visited of Europe’s aircraft museums. There we saw some of Igor Sikorsky’s aeronautical inventions, some 1930s Russian monoplane bombers (from a period when the RAF was still using antiquated biplanes) and a politically correct version of the history of flight, along with parts from Gary Powers’ U2 spy plane shot down in the 1960s, and the bombers that had circled Red Square during the May Day parades to convince American observers of the might of the Russian Air Force. We were particularly honoured, as we discovered that the Air Attaché at the British Embassy had been unable to acquire the same invitation.
The British Embassy gave us a good lunch and we ended up with hundreds of Russian dolls and an array of fur hats. I only wish I had not asked what they were made of; it transpired some of the fur was baby seal. We also made one visit to the university to talk about politics, art and life but it degenerated into yet another ‘How did the band get its name?’ session. We left, commandeering limousines to replace the ones we had arrived in, since we had been gazumped in the commandeering stakes by someone more important. The equipment was then driven nonstop to Helsinki with a police escort – by all accounts one hell of a ride (Phil Taylor remembers the experience of arriving in Helsinki as like going from ‘black and white to Technicolor’).
After the tour was over a live album was mixed – Delicate Sound Of Thunder – at Abbey Road, using Studio 3, now completely rebuilt since our last sojourn there. What was particularly gratifying was that so little repair work to the music was required. Without doubt recording towards the end of the tour had been a good idea.
Meanwhile, Roger was re-staging The Wall in Berlin and we couldn’t help but hear about it. Not least because he made a point of inviting all our ex-wives, although of course it may be that my invitation simply got lost in the post… Confusion about who played in Berlin still rumbles on, though why that is I have no idea. It was entirely Roger’s show, but people are always thanking me and telling me how fantastic it was. I still haven’t worked out if it’s easier to smile modestly and pretend we were there, or to embark on a full explanation that this was in fact Roger on his own with a cast of thousands. When fans continue to insist I was there, I respond with a weak grin and a vacant stare to avoid the confusion.
Just under a year after the last show on the tour (at Marseilles) we took part in the Knebworth open-air concert in June 1990, a charity event for the Nordoff-Robbins Music Therapy charity. With so little happening in this year after the excesses of the past three it was almost unsettling to assemble for just the one show. Rehearsals were minimal on the basis that since it was the same band who had done over two hundred shows they probably could still remember the parts. We did do a couple of days’ rehearsal out at Bray studios, and brought Jon Carin and Marc Brickman over from America for the show. However, instead of using Scott Page, who I think was unavailable, we asked Candy Dulfer – the Dutch saxophonist who had recently had a UK hit, ‘Lily Was Here’, with Dave Stewart – to perform with us: a nice European touch we thought. As with Scott, the only drawback for a saxophonist is that they really only get a cameo role; given Candy’s abilities there was far too little time or space to reveal anything near the extent of her playing.
We had Vicki Brown on backing vocals, as well as her daughter Sam, who was to continue the Brown dynasty when she became a mainstay of the next tour. Clare Torry, the original performer of ‘Great Gig’, was also added.
After two years of touring in isolation it was a pleasure to see some other people playing, and to have the opportunity to hang around backstage at Knebworth in traditional rock-god style. It was a kind of geriatric afternoon on Mount Olympus in musical terms. Mark Knopfler and Eric Clapton were playing along with Elton John and Genesis. Status Quo, Cliff Richard and Paul McCartney finished up the bill. Rick introduced us to his new girlfriend, Millie, and we all arrived in giant Huey helicopters like a scene from Apocalypse Now, spilling out quantities of family and crew.
We had managed to secure the slot as the last band on, in r
eturn for being the first band to commit to the event. Becoming top of the bill did not pay off. The afternoon was typically English, changing rapidly from sun to rain, but inevitably as our spot came closer the weather took a turn for the worse and the rain and cold closed in.
Closing the show suited us, since in midsummer we wanted the dark, but as time went by and McCartney started playing yet another song the old love and peace sentiment began to fray at the edges. We eventually played in the pouring rain, to a crowd who seemed to enjoy the show, which was fortunate since they could not leave because all traffic was mired in the mud.
AS FAR as Pink Floyd was concerned the 1990s nearly didn’t happen. At the start of the decade, there was an incident that was extremely painful – and potentially fatal – and which almost put an end to any plans we might have had for the future. This was the result of a decision by Steve, David and myself to take part in the Carrera PanAmericana, which was a rerun of a wonderful 1950s race for sports cars run along the length of Mexico. The modern version, resurrected in 1988, was rather less demanding than the original flat-out race of 2,178 miles, but it still consisted of a 1,800-mile route from the bottom of Mexico to the Texas border with competition sections interspersed with long regularity elements. Rick had wisely avoided the excitement of motor racing and stuck with sailing in the Aegean.
Steve and I had driven in the event a couple of years before. However, on that occasion, when Steve had arrived in Mexico at the appointed time, casually swinging his crash helmet, the race car he had negotiated to drive failed to turn up, leaving him trailing the field for a few days in the hope that he could make a magnificent charge from the back of the grid when the car eventually showed up. As far as I remember the car arrived, but broke down terminally a few miles further on.
This time, perhaps determined to make sure there would be some positive outcome whatever happened, Steve had managed to pre-sell the rights in a film that we would make. The plan was that the film would underwrite most, if not all of the costs, up front. Here was a chance, we thought, to have a lot of fun – and get some help paying for it. I also liked the tenuous connection with my father’s career. In 1953 he had driven another marathon road race, the Mille Miglia, through Italy with a camera car, and I saw myself as continuing the tradition.
We set off with two replica C-type Jaguars, roughly identical to the cars that won the Le Mans 24-hour race in 1953. We also took along two camera crews, and a couple of back-up vehicles containing the trusty mechanics who had rebuilt the cars. I was with a friend, Valentine Lindsay, in one car. The other was being driven by Steve and David. After a couple of days the event had settled down into some exciting driving, coupled with the inevitable stomach complaints as the European competitors adjusted to a Mexican diet. Fortunately I had been shown how to treat these symptoms using acupuncture. It was exceptionally effective: one quick glimpse of my box of needles and people instantly seemed to feel a great deal better.
On day three of the race Val and I arrived at one of the checkpoints to be told there had been an accident. There was nothing to be done except continue and try and find out the details further on. When we reached the evening stop we finally managed to discover that the accident had, in fact, involved the other car in our team, which had gone over the edge of a cliff at 80mph. David – who had been driving – was shaken, and seriously stirred, but essentially unhurt bar a few cuts and bruises. Steve, on navigating duties, had suffered compound fractures of one leg and was laid up in hospital: a somewhat brutal way to treat one’s manager. On seeing the wreckage of the car the next day, I realised how incredibly lucky both of them had been to escape so relatively lightly.
Although Val and I managed to finish sixth, we had lost half the cast of our film, and were consequently forced to fall back on some cinematic cheating that the major Hollywood moguls would no doubt have recognised. This included recording some footage in a Mexican restaurant in Notting Hill, craftily positioning the cameras to avoid the passing Number 98 double-deckers and hiding glimpses of Steve’s still plastercast-clad leg. We also had the luxury of reshooting the pre-race discussions with the benefit of 100 per cent hindsight.
After the event there was a slight twinge of embarrassment about the whole episode, especially from David (although I’m not sure if that was to do with the music or his driving). But as a visual experience it was lacking. To do justice to the event, we would have required a Hollywood budget, innumerable helicopters and Steve McQueen. To fully enjoy the low-budget version we plumped for, you really had to be a dedicated aficionado of 1950s sports cars, Mexican scenery, or cactus plants.
However, there was one bonus from all of this, in that the music for the project suggested a blueprint for recording the next album: there was no pre-studio work at all. In much the same way that we created Obscured By Clouds, the whole piece was concocted during sessions in the large studio at Olympic in Barnes during a couple of weeks in November 1991. It was also, for the most part, recorded with us all working in the studio together. After years of overdubbing in solitary confinement, it was great fun. We had Gary Wallis, Jon Carin and Guy Pratt from the 1987/88 tour, and fortuitously Tim Renwick, working next door on a Bryan Ferry album, was available for the odd guest moment.
Starting off with a couple of blues pieces, other pieces were simply improvised. These usually stemmed from ideas emerging from David trying something out on the guitar – and then being picked up by the rest of us in the studio. If it sounded promising enough it could then be developed into a suitable form for the film section. We think we managed to avoid slipping into becoming Hammersmith’s very own Mariachi band despite the temptation of all those cactus scenes. We had experienced the odd run-in with ethnic music on our first album, as well as a guitar part on the More soundtrack, and I think we knew that this kind of musical colour (as well as funny hats, whether the fez or sombrero) was not our forte, not even our pianissimo.
Just over a year later we adopted the same modus operandi when we began working on the next Floyd album in January 1993. Again, the recording process proved to be extremely positive: this time there was a subconsciously conscious attempt to operate as a band. We would rule off a week in the diary and head over to Britannia Row – which now bore little resemblance to the angst-encouraging bunker of the Animals days. All the rooms had been remodelled to allow daylight to penetrate and, of course, there were now increased areas for rest and recreation to try and lure clients into using yet more expensive studio time.
Other than booking the time at Britannia Row, we made few preparations for a future release. Nobody had come down to the sessions with a ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier’ fragment up their sleeves. No more hired guns; just David, Rick and myself, with the engineer at the desk, a two-track left running – and as much time as we needed. Although bitter experience had taught us to be prepared for disappointment, and though there was no pressure to come up with anything concrete at these sessions, the very fact of booking the studio was an indication of our commitment.
If nothing came of the exercise we were committed to a process of either seeking outside help or waiting for the individuals to come up with songs at their own pace, which historically had tended to be very slow. We had also spent some time maintaining that together we did create something unique. Failure now to produce anything would be deeply wounding to our egos as much as anything else and might well result in abandoning the project. While the world held its breath we sent out for more sandwiches.
After the very first day, however, we realised that we would be able to produce some good material, and after a couple more sessions we brought Guy Pratt in to play bass. This immediately added a stronger feel to the playing but we also found that an interesting phenomenon occurred, which was that Guy’s playing tended to change the mood of the music we had created on our own.
Serendipity was equally important. At one point David, frustrated at being unable to get one particular idea directly out of Rick, recorded hi
m tinkering away on the keyboard, unaware that the tape was still running. From this ad-lib session we retrieved another three possible pieces, including one piano part which we were never able to re-create quite as well in any other of the recording sessions and finally ended up using his original Britannia Row piece just as we had done with the Asdic note on ‘Echoes’.
The improvisations we were coming up with were not, though, meant to be mood-pieces like the doomed ‘Nothings 1–24’ we’d tried to produce before Meddle. Instead we would sift through the results captured on the two-track for nuggets of musical ideas – the core of ‘Cluster One’ and ‘Marooned’ emerged and lingered through to the final album. But the truly significant thing was that each improvisation represented a kick-start to the creative process. That was – as we had always found – our most problematic hurdle. And by allowing ourselves to play whatever came into our heads, with no taboo or no-go areas, I had the impression that we were expanding a field of vision that had become increasingly narrow over the past two decades.
After two weeks we had taped an extraordinary collection of riffs, patterns and musical doodles, some rather similar, some nearly identifiable as old songs of ours, some clearly subliminal reinventions of well-known songs. These – which we would identify as ‘Neil Young’, or whoever seemed to be the originator – were easy to knock out of contention. But even having discarded these, forty ideas were available. Given that in the past some of our records had painfully gestated from a month’s work to provide a single useable note, this was a positive fund of potential pieces. At our usual work rate that was enough to keep us recording until well into the twenty-first century. We eventually ended up with enough left-over material that we considered releasing it as a second album, including a set we dubbed ‘The Big Spliff’, the kind of ambient mood music that we were bemused to find being adopted by bands like the Orb, although – unlike Gong’s Steve Hillage – we never received any invitations to join this next generation on stage.