Albert Magoolie Remembers ended with a chapter that warmed the hearts of many Pink Floyd fans.
(If you haven’t read it I’m not going to make it easy for you. It’s the chapter titled The Post Floyd Dream.)
Several people asked to see the photograph I’d taken of the five Floyds just before I quietly slipped away.
One fan even said having read that story “he could now die happy.”
But clearly, and sadly, things have changed since that momentous meeting. The relationship between Waters and Gilmour has soured once again, with snide remarks and acrimonious comments being slung back and forth through the media.
So what happened, and when?
I must now divulge a secret I’ve kept for (at the time of writing this) the past seventeen years.
Late in 2004 I was thrilled and surprised to receive a letter from Richard Wright. It didn’t take long for the thrill to wear off as I realized the reason he’d written to me.
He had read Albert Magoolie Remembers and wanted to thank me for taking the time to tell my stories.
He appreciated the accuracy with which I recollected so many events, and what he described as “the kind way in which I’d described our relationship.”
But The Post Floyd Dream had left him heartbroken. Not because it was a pack of lies or even mildly inaccurate, not in the slightest! It was because of what took place after I left.
What will follow is a paraphrasing of the highly detailed letter Rick sent me. No doubt he thought that someday down the track I would be writing some further Pink Floyd articles, and wanted to ensure that what was written was what actually happened.
After I’d snuck away from the get-together aboard David Gilmour’s houseboat Astoria it was some time before Wright, Mason, Waters and Barrett realized that I had gone. David had seen me leave, and gave me a nod and a smile. The conversation continued, free and friendly, with the odd howls of laughter and the regular “dissing of each other”.
Syd was comfortable, though not having a lot to say. But he opened up when asked about his painting, and the progress of his book on the history of art.
My disappearance was met with a couple of bemused comments and shrugged shoulders, but little more. I’d headed off to my sister’s place in the Midlands, so it wasn’t like Astoria was my only stop on this trip after all.
But back on the houseboat Roger had excused himself from the conversation, to either get another coffee or colder drink, or go to the loo or something. But as the length of his absence grew, the chatter between the remaining four became increasingly distracted.
Eventually they all decided to see what Waters was up to.
Opening the door into David’s recording room they were shocked to find Roger with headphones on, nonchalantly listening to one of David’s recordings.
With a cheeky smile Roger turned and, in a loud voice asked, “So what’s The Big Spliff?”
Resisting the urge to show outrage at this invasion of privacy, Gilmour dismissed the recording as “a few antiques and curios.”
“For the next solo album, I take it?” Waters probed.
Nick interjected. “It’s some stuff left over from The Division Bell.”
Gilmour: “We may do something with it down the track someday.”
Wright: “That was always the intention… “
Mason: “But other things tend to crop up…”
Waters: “Like driving racing cars?”
Gilmour: “When we oooh’d and ahhh’d, you mean? No, once over a cliff was enough for me.”
Waters: “And for Steve O’Rourke, as I recall!”
There was no mistaking the fact that things were inching inexorably from awkwardness to distinct discomfort. What was needed right now was a Magoolie-esque moment of distraction. But that particular safety valve had removed itself from this stuttering engine.
Gilmour did his best, “I do have a few things in the works for a possible solo record in the next year or so.”
Waters: “But not this Spliff stuff. This sounds like… well… It sounds like what you would call Pink Floyd.”
Mason: “What does it matter what we do with it, Roger?”
Waters: “Come on, Nick! We all know what I’m on about. You, Dave and Rick link arms and climb aboard the Gravy Train for another whistle stop! Tell me this isn’t gonna be another Pink Floyd record.”
It was becoming increasingly evident that this was why Waters had come. Not for some meaningful reconciliation, nor to bury the hatchet with the Magoolie or have some glorious surprise revealed. He wanted to know the status of the band and the brand he’d worked so long and hard at, but then left, erroneously expecting it to retire gracefully and sit as a rock music museum piece, an enduring monument to his genius.
Gilmour: “Look Roger, despite the fact that what we do with what we’ve recorded remains nobody’s business but mine, Nick and Rick’s, the fact is at this moment we have NO plans for it. Having said that, it’s more than likely we WILL do something with it sometime in the future.”
Waters: “For $#%@’s sake, guys! How many more times are you going to go to the well? You gonna keep sucking on the teats of this Cash Cow forever?”
Gilmour: “Hmmm. Methinks I know where this is heading.”
Wright: “Here comes the broken record.”
Waters: “Very well. Invitation accepted. Let’s be honest here, can we? A couple of fraudulent recordings draped in Storm Thorgerson artworks doth not Pink Floyd make!! Come on! All the stuffing about in this houseboat studio, desperately trying to cover for the missing, key ingredient that made the whole thing come together. And then you call it a Pink Floyd record!”
Gilmour: “Seriously Rog! Do you ever listen to yourself? For one thing people loved those albums.”
Waters: “Oh please! Millions of morons who never had a clue about anything stampede the barricades of the local CD stores in order to snap up the latest pitiful attempt to give a long-dead horse a pulse. Pun intended! Not to mention that it’s being propped up by the lyrical talents of the guitarist’s better half! Pleeease spare me!”
Wright: “You’ve never come to grips with the fact that the dead horse wasn’t dead, have you Roger?”
Waters: “The fact, Rick? The FACT is that the vast majority of Pink Floyd fans think that, while the music is nice and Floyd-ish and blah, blah, blah; LYRICALLY it died when I left. It’s become embarrassing.”
Gilmour: “I would contest that the vast majority of Pink Floyd fans got far more out of my guitar playing and Rick’s keyboards than your miserable lyrics. ‘My dad was killed in the war, I’m all @#$%ed up! Woe is me! Damn politicians!’ Give me a break!”
Wright: “It was never about one person, Roger. When are you going to get it?” He turned to Nick Mason, “What’s that thing you always say, Nick?”
Mason: “The sum is greater than the parts.”
Wright: “That’s it. So if you were the key component, how come we were playing to 80,000 people while you could barely half-fill venues with only 6,000 seats?”
Waters: “Oh ok, if we want to talk numbers, what about my Wall show in Berlin? The numbers for that show were absolutely astronomical. Not to mention the TV audiences!”
Gilmour: “That’s cos most people thought it was us!”
Wright: “I still can’t get over the line-up for that show, Roger. Didn’t you think it was odd getting Sinead O’Connor to sing, ‘Mother do you think they’ll try to break my balls?’ seeing she doesn’t have any?”
Waters: “Well I guess it’d be just as odd if I’d got you to sing it, seeing you don’t have any either.”
Gilmour: “Oh bravo! Big, tough Roger beats up on Rick once again!”
Waters: “He should know not to start a fight he can’t win!”
At that moment Rick hastily left the room.
Waters: “See, there he goes.” He calls out to Wright, “Off to look for some testicles are you, Rick?”
He returned just as quickly, ashen faced.
Wright: “No Roger, I’m off to look for something else. In case you hadn’t noticed, Syd’s gone!”
The same horror that had suddenly taken hold of Rick, who had been standing just in front of the silent Syd, took hold of Gilmour, Mason and Waters. They mounted a frantic search of Astoria, before Gilmour went up onto the top deck and the others raced out to the grassy area outside.
There was no sign of Syd. David looked up and down the river on the off chance Syd had jumped onto a punt, and then surveyed the scene as broadly as he could from the lofty vantage point.
Meanwhile Roger and Nick had run towards the roadway in a vain hope of spotting Syd.
The gravity of their mishandling of this reunifying opportunity was beginning to hit home to the four Floyds.
Nick and Roger soon made their way forlornly back to the front of the houseboat, while David came down from the top deck and onto the grassed area. Rick materialised from an area of trees, shaking his head.
“Pity you didn’t come in the helicopter, Nick,” Gilmour lamented. “That would’ve been handy right now.”
Nick didn’t respond, and for several seconds there was the kind of silence that would descend over a
rowdy school classroom when the principal entered unexpectedly.
Nothing needed to be said. The remorse was louder than words.
After a while Nick broke the silence.
Mason: “We’re not going to find him now. What about we give it a day or so then visit his house?”
Gilmour: “He’s never really wanted to see us up until now. Do you think he’ll want to after this?”
Mason: “We stuffed up. I think I’ll be off.”
As Nick started towards his car Roger said, “Wouldn’t be able to drop me back at the hotel, would you Nick?”
“Why not?” shrugged Mason.
Roger looked back at David and Rick, and said, “Thanks for the coffee and the chat. It was fun.”
He turned around and waved his hand in a mocking goodbye, then climbed inside Nick’s car.
David and Rick stood shell-shocked, still punctuating their intermittent eye contact with futile glances around the place hoping Syd would suddenly reappear.
Gilmour: “Dammit Syd…!” He gave a deep sigh, and then said, “Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far.”
More silence, then:
Gilmour: “How’d he get away with that?”
Wright: “How’d who got away with what?”
Gilmour: “Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far? If I’d written that people would be saying a ten year old could write it. Roger writes it and he’s a @!$#%&? genius!”
Wright: “For goodness sake Dave, SHUT UP! Just shut up about it! For twenty years you’ve prided yourself on not letting Roger get under your skin. Now you’re sounding as bitter and twisted as he is!”
More silence descended, before David spoke once more.
Gilmour: “I suppose one would have to concede this was a really bad idea.”
Wright pondered for a short moment, then answered, “No Dave, it was a really good idea… It’s just that… we weren’t good enough for it.”