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 he’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 it’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? S’true, man. “Wish You Were Here,” 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 they’re still going on about it. Oh, and it’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. Salinger’s silence. “Animals” is just as long, but somewhat better. The target of the massively wealthy rock group’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 pogo’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 …



Yeah. Like I would tell you....