THE FINAL CUT

This record ought not to have been made. WATERS has already had his say ad nauseam about the war and the death of his father: from 'Corporal Clegg' on 'A Saucerful of Secrets', barely an album has gone by without the obligatory war reminisce. But a whole album of off-casts from 'The Wall' does nothing but establish that WATERS has far less to say than he thought.

Here's what's wrong with this album. First, it's bereft of musical ideas, substituting the tedious, repetitive sudden shift in dynamics from piano to fortissimo for the gradual build that made PINK FLOYD listenable. Soft, loud, soft, loud, ten times a song. Here's a tip, ROGER, we've got the point. I can barely believe this gifted man has become a one-trick pony, but it's true, as evidenced by this and his first solo album. Where's the subtlety in this? The enjoyment? Second, what music exists is second-hand, having been culled from 'The Wall': throughout the album we hear motifs 'The Wall' reprised. Listen to 'The Hero's Return' and the rhythm guitar straight from 'Another Brick'. Third, the singing. There isn't any. WATERS in turns either whispers or shouts. Appalling. Fourth, it's just so damn obvious. How about some sound effects that make us think, rather than bludgeoning us over the head? This feels like the musical equivalent of watching one of those naive History Channel docos. I'm anti-war, but this is just so one-sided it's not credible. Fifth, and most damning, the rest of the band are invisible. WRIGHT has been fired, replaced not by a keyboardist, but by an orchestra. GILMOUR is dusted off to do the odd truncated solo and gets to sing for a few seconds. MASON slaps the skins like a metronome, bored with the proceedings.

WATERS is a hypocrite, protesting the selfish actions of politicians ripping the world apart while acting like a tyrant and dictator as he destroys his band. But we're well beyond hypocrisy here. This stuff is puerile. Infantile. Simplistic. His megalomania is breathtaking: he designed the album cover, played many of the guitars (clearly GILMOUR wasn't good enough), got drummers in to do some of MASON's parts, and even had his brother-in-law make a video of four tracks from the album. And on the back cover he graciously admitted that PINK FLOYD helped him perform it. Staggeringly, he later admitted that 'there was no band' (Mason, Inside Out). Why not?

I'm not going to bother talking about the musical highlights, because there aren't any. The songs pass by in a melange of simplistic orchestrations and soft/loud dichotomies. The album has a definite highlight, however, a moment that rises well above the rest. It's the appalling moment when someone shouts 'Get your filthy hands off my desert!' I guess WATERS meant for it to be funny, but the incipient racism is breathtaking, as though a desert couldn't possibly be worth fighting over. People live in them, ROGER.

To sum up, the album is an unmitigated stinker. And yes, I'm coloured by my deep disappointment on purchasing this record. Others find merit in it, though I cannot. Look in the dictionary under 'self-indulgence' and you'll see a picture of ROGER WATERS singing 'The Final Cut.'

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