His brainal area pummeled by too many YooHoos
Today James Lileks today ruins Pink Floyd for future generations by giving into his inner-Lester Bangs and what spills out isn’t pretty:
But all these years later: hats off to David Gilmour; I assume heâ€™s responsible for that great crashing riff at the end that blows away the entire dour dank mood of the album like an atom bomb. All in all, I prefer it to anything else in the Floyd oover; Dark Side is brilliant, in the sense that music for the headset stoners can be brilliant, but itâ€™s also overplayed and suffers from the usual lyrical deficiencies of the genre. Say, did you know that people often turn to religion and / or worldly pursuits to dull the pain of existence, with its attendant constant intimations of mortality? Sâ€™true, man. â€œWish You Were Here,â€ the much anticipated followup, is one of those albums that seems made for concerts. By which I mean you can get up and leave your seat and go take a leak and buy a beer and come back and theyâ€™re still going on about it. Oh, and itâ€™s about Syd Barrett, who took acid and went nutters on everyone, which was apparently a great tragedy for Western culture akin to J. D. Salingerâ€™s silence. â€œAnimalsâ€ is just as long, but somewhat better. The target of the massively wealthy rock groupâ€™s scorn, however, seems to be men who are reasonably content in their office jobs. If there was any justice the world would have best-selling authors who took time off as a middle manager to write brilliant scathing novels about bitter stick-thin tyros who parlayed three chords and fashionable scorn into a license to get his groinal area pogoâ€™d by interchangeable doxies while he suckled on a magnum of good champagne. Nightly.
And now you know what a literary runaway train looks like as it goes off of a cliff …