Rick Wright - The Pink Floyd sound

There have been a number of articles in the music press this past month paying tribute to Rick Wright, and rightly so, but I suppose none of them for me really touched the spot.

When I was 16 and mad about Pink Floyd, all their qualities seemed fine to me, the languid guitars, the strange lyrics on Piper, the wonderful voices, even Nick Mason's ancient drumming style. But the one thing that shone above all others was the organ playing.

You see, for me, the heart of Pink Floyd was the mysterious and delicate keyboard sound.
Given this was at a time when Mike Ratledge was the driving force behind Soft Machine and the "real" Dave Stewart was fronting the wonderful Egg, even when Dave Sinclair was playing beautiful organ on early Caravan, above all of them Rick Wright stood as the champion of keyboards.

So it happened that he dominated the Umagumma live album and the Live at Pompeii set. All the greatest Floyd tracks in the first (and best) two phases of their career were those with his dark and mysterious playing at the centre. "Set the Controls", "Careful with that axe", "Saucerful", "Cirrus Minor", all had that serene and otherworldy quality that simply nobody else could emulate. At times the playing sounded like some exotic ancient Egyptian jazz, other times like a science fiction score, but it wasn't just his playing but the sounds he managed to find, some so beautiful they seemed for all the world to perfectly capture a "Tales of the Riverbank" childhood. That Syd phrase from Matilda Mother "The dolls house darkness, old perfume" summed in one magical and yet slightly disturbing phrase the cracked childhood tones the band repeatedly evoked, and none more so than Rick.

I read recently an interview with Dave Gilmour who pointed out that Floyd's style of that time was largely the result of none of the group being particularly proficient on their instruments, and I have to say I found this a stunning observation. Almost that, as their playing became more confident and sophisticated, the music went downhill. Not that later Floyd albums don't have their qualities, but those earlier albums captured something they would never find again. On "More" or on "Ummagumma", they didn't sound like a band at all. Instead the music was so closely inhabiting another place that the records evoked a landscape or a place rather than standing particularly as musical artefacts.

The other shocking thing about Dave's remark was that it reminded me of Peter Buck's observation in "International Musician" sometime in the mid-80's when he confessed the first few REM albums sounded the way they did because he was "just learning" to play the guitar.

So for me Rick's keyboards weren't an instrument in a band, those chords and landscapes were Floyd. They defined the Floyd sound. A sound that was thrown away when "Dark Side" came along, of course, but to this day still the sound I think of when I hear about the group.

So I suppose it was the absence of this single fact, the defining nature of Rick's playing, that I missed in all the obituaries.

Of course, they all dutifully remembered the songs he wrote. And in this respect I think Rick had one wonderful and extraordinary song to celebrate, "Remember a day".

This song was almost the epitome of the songs about childhood that Floyd produced in those early days. Most, of course, were written by Syd, but in a way that's why "Remember a Day" stood out so clearly, because it was a truly reflective song, one that contemplated the transient nature of childhood with a longing that few have achieved in our little Rock world. It is a song that can still bring me to tears on occasion, I must admit, and to see Dave Gilmour and his band trying to do it justice on the TV a few weeks ago was especially moving.

As usual, I know nothing of Rick Wright the man. But perhaps he was a man who recognised the greatest loss of all as the loss of innocence.

And it is ok to know nothing of an artist, even at his death, why would I know? I absorbed his greatest gift, and that became part of who I am. When we adore a piece of music it gets stored, full hi-fidelity version, in the corpus collosum, or somewhere real close, so yes, biologically, it is part of me, but much more than that is the mystery, the Egyptian sci-fi Childhood Jazz of his playing that will live on in me. A sound that I search for in every album review, or every time I sit down at a keyboard.

November 2008

East River Pipe - Mel

This album is very special.

Among all Fred Cornog's wonderful albums, this one shines out.

The first time I heard "The club isn't open" was on the John Peel show. I had taped the show and was listening to it in the car. I ended up rewinding and repeating again and again to hear this gem. It is a stunning song, and so short, like a work in progress. Half a song almost. Opening with a gorgeous guitar riff and moving into the song of somebody who has made a magical thing but won't milk it, won't drag it out to a six minute opera. Instead, Fred just delivers a brief dazzling song. One verse, one chorus and that's it.

It is an amazing and brief song, but other songs on here are also transformational. "Take back the days", for example, is just wonderful.

Fred depicts the sad side of life, but there is such beauty that the best songs face loss and bring redemption. There is something unique about Fred Cornog in the way he communicates recovery in almost every song. His voice is a little reminiscant of John Cale, or Lennon, but has a frailty that fits his personal vision.

Another wonderful song, "The way they murdered me" has a lyric that seems to evoke those industrial downturns, but from the human perspective. One of the underlying stories of human damage. It reminds me of an earlier East River Pipe song, "The Firing Room".

The recordings are perfection, too. How he makes this sound in his apartment is beyond me.

Another thing I love is the way he doesn't waste his breath. "The club isn't open" would be twice as long if another band made it. They'd probably repeat all three verses. Instead, at one minute 48, it is a shard of perfection.

So, I love this record. I think that, if you don't like this album, you won't like anything else by Fred. It doesn't get much better than this. But if you love this record, you will love all his work.

I've lent this album to people of all ages and all musical persuasions and it's rare I find someone who doesn't like it. My children like it, my mum likes it, my colleagues at work like it , my friend who loved only ambient techno liked it and my friend's mum likes it. The tunes are simple and there is great pop here too, but it is tender and vulnerable, and worth listening to.

I can't finish without mentioning the last two songs.

"Take back the day" is a long and mysterious song, there is a repetitive phrase that fills out most of the second half of it, with tiny changes to each repeat, yet it is fuelled by a subtle emotional force that gets stronger every time you hear it. Fred's prime instrument is the guitar and he plays these gorgeous phrases over and over again, lulling you, almost hypnotic. This a sad hopeless song though, and one that can bring tears on a bleak day. So it is just as well it is followed by, and the record finishes with, a complete redemption in the song "Life is born today".

This final song is something of a hand in troubled times. After the landscape of human loss it opens a window to a new dawn and reminds you new lives are born every day, that hope is always close by.

I find it hard to properly describe this record. One thing to emphasise is just how beautiful the music is. It's simple. Guitar, some corny drum machines and keyboard parts, a vocal like an unconfident John Lennon... yet the songs are beautifully crafted and these parts come up with new moments of beauty all the time.

I remember years ago I used to visit an independent record store called Parrot Records, and they had a section with all the ERP albums that existed at that time. I saw them repeatedly and thought the covers looked quite lovely. "Even the sun was afraid" and "Goodbye California" looked especially beautiful and I often thought of just experimenting, buy a couple and see what they're like.

Well, I needn't have worried. Fred Cornog, as East River Pipe has made so much sublime music, and Mel is the pinnacle. I challenge you not to love this record.