Hear the lark: Pink Floyd and the effect of effects

Roger Waters himself once said that one his favourite of all Pink Floyd sound effects was the rushing wind at the beginning of One Of These Days, the opening track on Meddle.
https://youtu.be/48PJGVf4xqkThere’s no escaping the influence of Pink Floyd on Different Horizons. Or on Storm Warning as a whole. One of Bob’s favourite guitarists was David Gilmour.
We’ve used sound effects in several places, most notably on Stranger and Can’t Sleep For Dreaming. This inevitably puts us in a Floydian space, but they weren’t the first and we won’t be the last.
They never used them for their own sake; they were part of the music, not just decoration. Deep Floyd fans will also know one of the most evocative of all the effects they used: the goose taking off during the instrumental passage in Grantchester Meadows, Roger Waters’ gentle evocation of his childhood landscape, which appears on the Ummagumma album.
Pink Floyd are rooted in Cambridge. Roger Waters (bass), David Gilmour (guitar) and Roger ‘Syd’ Barrett (guitar before Gilmour) all knew each other when they were growing up there.
I can’t remember if Nick Mason (drums) and Richard Wright (keys) also had Cambridge connections. I think they came later when the founding four (David Gilmour ‘replaced’ Syd when Syd succumbed to his mental health issues) met up in London. They were studying to be architects. Syd was an art student, which is important because it was not possible to form a band in England in the 1960s unless at least one person was an art student. It had to be Syd, though.
If you want the full story of Pink Floyd, the only place to look is Nick Mason’s ‘Inside Out’ account of his time with the band. My brother Steve – hello Steve – did an amazing thing when he bought me a signed copy of the book. I still treasure it, as I do the remarkable book of blues photographs and interviews he also bought me.
The point of this story is, of course, my own experience of Pink Floyd. It’s me writing this, so there. Write your own blinkin’ blog.
I’ve never met or set eyes on any of them, which is typical – they are extremely self-effacing. The nearest I’ve come was to meet David Gilmour’s manager, Paul Loseby, who also manages Mick Ralphs. And Mick is close friends with David Gilmour, so that’s another connection. But that’s it.
So possibly the most significant band of my life – in that they woke me up (I’ll post that story someday) – have always been remote and unattainable. Even Led Zeppelin, who made a thing about being mysterious, have been more easily visible. I’ve seen all three surviving members, and Jason Bonham, in various different circumstances. The Floyd remain distant Gods.
And yet. Something about their music, and Syd’s solo stuff, was profoundly personal to me. I think that’s the thing for everyone who loves music, or any kind of art; the stuff that moves you is direct, not just an interest or a collective thing. Your experience of the moments created by these artists is truly part of who you are. Perhaps, it makes you more truly aware of you are.
I know lots of Pink Floyd fans, but they don’t seem to experience it the way I do. I know very few people who are Syd fans (only because I don’t happen to know any, there are loads out there). So, paradoxically, being a fan of one of the biggest bands in the history of rock’n’roll is actually a very lonely existence.
By the way, it’s not an elitist thing. I’m not saying that what I get is right. I’m just saying it’s intensely personal to me, and I’m sure others would say the same: that I don’t get the Floyd the way they do.
Trying to describe this kind of thing is a mug’s game, so I’m not going to. It’s like when artists put those little explanations of their work next to a painting, or give names to abstracts. It’s morally wrong, like shorts on men, and should be legislated against.
But I can tell you what happened, and what the members of Pink Floyd themselves have said, and that might shed some light. It doesn’t matter either way anyway, really, The point about Pink Floyd for me is that I started with Dark Side Of The Moon and immediately went haywire because I think the next album I bought was the Relics compilation, which was absolutely nothing like Dark Side Of The Moon. I suspect lots of people had the same experience, because Relics was cheap – ‘Nice Price’ or whatever it was.
I met Syd Barrett on Relics. Interstellar Overdrive and Bike were on there – can’t remember if other Syd ones were. When I say I can’t remember things, I also mean I can’t be bothered to Google them. I’m increasingly of the Sellar and Yeatman school of history, which is that history is what you can remember, not what happened. I think Google is teaching us to value spurious knowledge over mystery, which is incredibly dangerous. Mystery is far more useful to us as we navigate a constantly amazing world; knowledge is only valuable under very specific circumstances.
Let me know next time you’re in a specific circumstance.
So there I was – and loads of other people were – with two completely unrelated albums, it seemed to me. And then EMI released A Nice Pair, which was the first two Floyd albums packaged up. The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn – the first album and the only full album with Syd – and Saucerful Of Secrets, which introduced David Gilmour and just had one Syd song, the incredibly poignant Jugband Blues.
I once tried to seduce someone to the title track from Saucerful Of Secrets, which, had I had any useful friends, my best friends would have advised me against. It didn’t work, is the point.
Saucerful Of Secrets definitely hinted at Dark Side Of The Moon, if only because the voices were the same now. Gone was Syd’s sharp Englishness. Instead, there were the softer harmonies of Gilmour and Wright together, with the occasional Syd-ish vocal from Roger Waters.
The thing about Dark Side Of The Moon (strictly, it might be THE Dark Side Of The Moon – Google it, if that sort of thing bothers you) is that at about the fifth listening it unlocked a great secret of music for me: that music is part of the fabric of the Universe. I didn’t understand it at the time, but I knew that listening to the guitar solo on Time took me to a place that was far beyond the walls of my bedroom.
And after you’ve experienced that, every track becomes significant at different times. You think that the opening sequence is the defining bit, with that lovely pedal steel guitar, and then you realise it’s Money, with that funky wah wah piano, and then it’s Any Colour You Like where finally it all makes sense. Except that it’s The Great Gig In The Sky that is REALLY the one, but you don’t find that out till you’re older and have suffered a bit. One eternal Truth that you learn from Dark Side Of The Moon is that, whichever track is the ultimate experience in all music, it certainly isn’t Us And Them, which is pretty annoying, even with the fab piano solo.
The next big thing that happened was that I bought another Pink Floyd album and this time it was right in the zone. It was Meddle, with the whole of side two devoted to Echoes. It’s still my favourite Pink Floyd thing, Echoes, and I do know lots of Floyd fans who feel the same way. As with all proper Floyd, there’s a weird bit, and the bit where the organ emerges after the weird bit is still very difficult for me to listen to. It’s just too evocative of too many things. I love it.
Around that time the follow up to Dark Side Of The Moon came out: Wish You Were Here. Nicky Horne played the whole damn thing on his ‘Your Mother Wouldn’t Like It’ radio show on Capital, and I listened on our big (non-stereo) radio.
Nicky Horne said they had matched Dark Side Of The Moon, but they hadn’t. It’s great, Wish You Were Here, but really? As good as Dark Side Of The Moon? Nah. Actually, it wasn’t even as good as the next album, Animals, so there. Again.
I read lots about Syd and Pink Floyd, and I remember Nick Mason saying somewhere, ‘the thing to do is to move people.’ That, it seems to me, is all that matters. If you are making art, and it doesn’t lift people’s consciousnesses, or souls, or whatever, or provoke them, then why the hell are you bothering?
The other thing they talked about a lot was sound. There’s a bit in the film, Pink Floyd Live At Pompeii, where David Gilmour is asked whether or not the band hides behind technology. The director, Adrian Maben, is referring to the tendency at the time (and since) for non-musical people to think that music technology obviates (thank you, Pat Mackreth) the need for musical competence.
David Gilmour replies by saying that someone should give the technology to a non-musician and then see what they come up with. ‘I think we’d make a better job of it,’ he says, and he’s right. The thing with the Floyd, like a lot of the greatest bands, is that they are as much about sound as they are about music – if there is any difference, ultimately. That’s why Dark Side Of The Moon and Echoes sound so good. They treat sound like colour; they know how to vary tones subtly to achieve profound effects.
Then again, Sonny Boy Williamson II does the same with just a harmonica.
Anyway, eventually I bought Ummagumma, which is a double album with two live sides and then a second LP on which each member has half a side each. And Grantchester Meadows is the first part of Roger Waters’ bit.
It’s an example of what I mean about sound. You can be fairly sure that every sound on the track is there because it contributes something important to the experience of the whole piece. Like the squeak of Roger Water’s fingers on the guitar strings, and, of course, the goose. And if you navigate the rivers and fens that surrounded Roger Waters as a boy, you will never see so many kingfishers flashing to the water.
Headphones required.

Bob Moore 1957-2020

Bob was one of the founders of Storm Warning. He, Derek and Ian had long talked about forming a blues-based project together and when they met drummer Roger Willis they knew they had a band. I joined as singer and harmonica player after a few months.
We made two albums together, Breaking Out and Something Real, and we toured the UK and Europe. Always, the focus was on writing our own material and Bob was a boundless source of inventive ideas. He pushed us to experiment with time and to test the standard blues format to the limits. His inspiration came not from the usual blues rock template but from jazz, progressive rock and a vast range of other sources.
Most who heard him play could spot the David Gilmour influence, not because he sounded like Gilmour but because he brought the same disciplined emotion to his playing. It was all about the feel and the clarity and the tone. Jan Akkerman was there, John McLaughlin (again, feel, not speed for speed’s sake) and even Ed Wynne and his space-rocking Ozric Tentacles.
The thing was, for Bob it was all about the sound. We used to rag him about his array of pedals, but they weren’t there for show. He danced across them with a sureness that made every shift in tone or space count. He knew the sound he wanted and he worked tirelessly to find it. I wonder if he ever did?
Roger and I had left by the time the Strategy album was made, with Russ now on drums and Bob’s long-time songwriting partner and friend Steve Norchi writing and singing the lyrics. It’s a fine showcase for Bob’s writing and playing (I still love singing Lonely Guy), as well as featuring one of his distinctive Stratocasters on the front. That’s another thing, why did he always play weird guitars?
Working as The Storms, the band made Funky Basement Blues with American sax man and singer Eddie ‘Blue’ Lester, which was always a favourite of Bob’s. And then I came back and we made Take Cover, our selection of covers that ranged from Jimi’s Stone Free to a disco version of Jack O’Diamonds.
As anyone who has seen Storm Warning in the last year or so will know, our fabled fifth album is in the can and awaiting a few final tweaks from our masterful co-producer and good friend Martin Atkinson. I think we’d done enough for Bob to know we’d done a good a job. I’m glad we got the chance to showcase some of the new material and for Bob to know that it was getting great responses.
We made a conscious decision not to tie ourselves to blues this time and the album is much broader in its scope. It gave Bob a chance to explore his ideas more deeply and we’ve captured some wonderful examples of his majestic and distinctive sound.
Bob and I also worked together in an unplugged duo/trio format, which brought out another part of his eclectic musical vocabulary. I say unplugged; Bob was never completely unplugged and he made effortless use of banks of loopers and delay pedals to create ethereal landscapes of sound that were a joy to explore.
Recently, Bob and his wife Bella, who met when they were working with Steve Norchi’s J Fordaway, were writing together and were planning to play as a duo. It’s one of many sad dimensions to his passing that the project remains unfinished.
Bob was a loving, kind and funny man. He was meticulous and organised and ready for anything. He always had the cable you needed if you’d lost yours and he travelled with two amps and plenty of strings. I never needed to ask him for a harmonica, but I bet he had one in his kit somewhere. With the dark humour that helps us survive the hardest times, we have been wondering if he had a spare of himself in the car.
Our thoughts are with Bella and the whole family, especially Bob’s daughter Sascha and step-daughter Arwen. We’ve lost a great friend and a unique talent. It’s going to be tough. He had so much more to play.
Our second album, Something Real, drew its title from one of Bob’s songs, for which he wrote most of the lyrics as well as the music. I just adjusted them a bit to fit my singing; the sentiment was all his, though it’s one we shared. And right now it’s more precious than ever.
Give me something real
Something I can feel
I need something I can use
Oh how I need the blues
Here it is. Just listen to that guitar.


Getting into Focus

As the recording diary shows, Focus had a big influence on this album. Not because it sounds like them, but just because they reminded us what was possible. We saw them at, of all places, a blues-rock festival in Bude. We were on the bill in the afternoon and they were headlining.

Thijs van Leer and Pierre van der Linden were there from the early days and there were two new guys we didn’t know: Udo Pannekeet on bass and Menno Gootjes on guitar. I only had one Focus album, one of those brilliant Polydor Flashback compilations with the spray can title. I’d just never got round to them, I got distracted by the blues. Bob, however was a massive fan, Focus III being a formative album for him. He was utterly starstruck.

You’re always worried of course. Will it just be a shadow of what it once was, will it be the same without Akkerman, all that stuff. And of course it was soaringly brilliant, a band still in evolution, still finding new things to say but without ever losing its essential… well, Focus. We were exhausted, intimidated and inspired.

Next morning, we all agreed: let’s not try to do a blues-rock album. We’d all compromised a bit to find common ground, me being the slightly hysterical blues purist and metal fan, Russ being the punk, Bob being weird and into all kinds of odd things, Derek being an actual proper musician from when rock was rock, and Ian being utterly inscrutable. But he definitely has a touch of Rick Wright in there somewhere.

So we decided to just let it happen and out came Different Horizons. Not a blues-rock album, but bluesy and rocky and whatever else. I think you can hear the best of five individuals working as a band. Only one harmonica song and that owes more to War than to Sonny Boy. And sound effects and everything.

Not just because Focus re-engineered our consciousnesses in Bude. But it didn’t half help. And I now I have all eleven Focus albums and Focus XI is just as much a kick in the face as Moving Waves.