THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON

I wanted to review a Pink Floyd album, and I thought this was a good place to choose, because it's somehow a pivotal moment, the axis on which a great career became a monumental one. I always had a fondness for Floyd, right back to the freaky days of the UFO club when what they did seemed more odd and idiosyncratic than brilliant, and when Syd seemed like a mad genius instead of just mad.

I noted how much this stuff influenced Sergeant Pepper, and I began to get annoyed that this wasn't said more openly, but then, that's often the fate of pioneers, they do the spade work, but don't get the spoils. Then Syd was out the band, out of mind, and the band began to make more headway. You could argue that they used Syd's unique visions but forced them into conventional paths that made it all more acceptable to the public, just odd enough to be different, thanks to Syd, just straight enough to be sensible, thanks to the rest of the band.

It sold millions, especially after this cunning piece of work. Waters is no fool, and all the guys are intelligent, consummate musicians, who nevertheless are suspiciously artisan rather than artistic, a bit like the Rolling Stones, having sucked the life out of Brian Jones, the innovator, they could happily build a career round the plain ordinary while retaining all the charms of the former rebel.

This isn't intended to be entirely negative. I like all the Floyd albums, but there is that missing danger, that chasm of the unexpected isn't there. Just the mere hint of it, like spices or aromas on a cheap ready-made meal, or a whiff of expensive perfume on an unwashed whore.

Perhaps it's a sad indictment on our musical society that it works a treat.