A MOMENTARY LAPSE OF REASON

First a caveat: this is one fan who has never been able to sit through "The Wall" (or its unofficial sequel "The Final Cut") for more than five minutes without wincing, falling asleep, or getting pissed off at what Roger Waters did to the memory of the band once known as Pink Floyd.

But now that the dust has long since settled, I'm belatedly taking Water's side in the battle that raged around the group's convulsive separation and unexpected reformation (without him) in the mid 1980s. All ancient history, of course, but in retrospect the band should have been allowed to die of natural causes, rather than continue as the sadly resuscitated corpse on display here.

Pink Floyd was by then a shadow of its former self, reduced to David Gilmour, drummer Nick Mason, and over a dozen guest musicians (including, in a ludicrous demotion, erstwhile Floyd founder Rick Wright). With such a crowd it's no wonder the album has such a generic, corporate halo around it, not helped by an utterly impersonal production job: all spotless digital synths and thudding 1980s drum clichés. This is music designed to be played only in the biggest auditoriums on the planet, and it's a sad reflection of how far the band had traveled from those heady counterculture gigs at the Marquee Club in 1967.

What was it that made recording this album so imperative, besides as a crutch for Pink Floyd's sagging reputation? It was hardly an original effort: every other note was a pre- packaged trade on former successes. The instrumental opener "Signs of Life" (easily the best thing on the album) is an opaque re-tread of "Shine On You Crazy Diamond"; the overwrought "Dogs of War" recalls its namesake from the underrated "Animals" album; and the leaden pace of every track makes the whole package sound like a pile of leftover bricks from "The Wall".

Pink Floyd was always a band that set high standards for itself, and thus deserves the courtesy of being judged accordingly. By that measure this rebirth is at best a halfhearted abortion, living up to its long-winded title in ways the remains of the group never dreamed of. Maybe it would help to regard it more as a Dave Gilmour solo album, in much the same way that the band's previous releases had all been de facto Roger Waters solo projects likewise marketed under the Pink Floyd brand name.

In short, it's a disappointing one-star effort, only partially redeemed by the usual saving grace of Gilmour's classy guitar skills, by itself (and without his singing) enough to push this rating up another notch.