Because of the Britannia Row sessions, David, Rick and I felt much more like a band on the road. However, with our traditional
reticence, we forgot to relay this to the rest of the band – pretty much the same one as worked on the 1987 tour – and so,
from their point of view, they found themselves in a rather different situation. The positive spirit David, Rick and I were
enjoying threatened to dilute the overall team feel, and certainly changed the dynamic. When, shortly after the tour started,
we decided to take the first bow alone, this, to say the least, did not improve matters. The rest of the band re-created their
own team spirit by establishing a mobile nightclub underneath the staging, below the structure built for the lighting and
sound, which they dubbed the Donkey’s Knob and which became the venue for many an informal after-show performance – and even
an occasional gig during the mid-show interval.
After three shows in Florida and Texas, we headed south of the border for a one-off in Mexico City. This was the first time
we had played in Latin America. The atmosphere was wilder, more exuberant, and the audience considerably younger compared
to the US. This audience was not only seeing a Floyd show for the first time, they seemed to be discovering the music as well.
At the end of the North American leg, and after a couple of nights in New York we flew over to Lisbon and straight on to the
European dates, although we took a short time out in July for David to marry Polly in London.
At the beginning of September we were in Prague (again a new venue for us). The night before playing the Strahov Stadium to
120,000 people, we had dinner with Václav Havel, the playwright and former prisoner of conscience who was now the prime minister.
This was not the ‘slap-up feed’ that the tabloids favour
(why do they insist on this Billy Bunter-speak?), but an informal buffet at a riverside café. A number of us had done our
homework by reading some of his books on the way to show some knowledge of his work – and wondered if Václav had been up all
night with his CD collection. Some of his ministers appeared to have been rock critics in a previous life. I did wonder if
in the new regime the secret police were now doing album reviews.
The actual touring finished in Lausanne on 25th September, or at least it felt like the end of the tour as Nettie and I headed
off to the South of France to recuperate following the last of the stadium shows. However, we still had a series of nights
to play indoors at Earls Court in October. In 1987 we had played Wembley Arena and the Docklands, so it was fourteen years
since we had performed at one of our favourite venues, a place with plenty of character, right in the heart of London. However,
the home venue meant an unconscionable number of people wanting to come as guests. My daughter Chloe was working for me at
the time and had handled the intricacies of tickets and seating arrangements all year. London, however, was her hardest task
of all.
The subtleties of inner-sanctum passes are a degree subject in their own right. Access All Areas means about halfway in, VIP
one level further. A laminate trumps a stick-on and a green dot lets you through another gate. After that it helps if you
are either part of the show, a family member, or have that demented look that ensures that there are always a few lunatics
who make it to where they absolutely should not be. One startled tour manager found a stranger in his office who suggested
he should have knocked first before barging in.
We had decided that the income from the London shows would be given to charity, and had come up with a complex formula to
ensure that the smaller charities with which we had
personal ties would benefit along with the larger ones we all supported. This meant a series of photocalls with each of the
individual charities, who quite rightly wanted to obtain the maximum exposure from the event. Unfortunately in the event none
of them got a look-in, as just before the show started a whole section of seating collapsed.
The house lights had been dimmed and amid the hum of anticipation, I heard what sounded like a roll of thunder. Maybe one
of the tapes had miscued. Word quickly came that a section of seating had sheared away. There was no alternative but to bring
the house lights up immediately and to get help to people trapped and first aid for those needing it. The show that night
had to be cancelled. By the following day, only a few people were still hospitalised, which was a relief to everyone, apart
from those few, of course.
By chance we had built an extra rest day into the series of performances there, and so we were able to schedule the date a
few days later, so that most – if not sadly everybody – had the chance to see the cancelled gig. Despite the events of that
first night, the shows felt a fitting end to the tour. All the previous work ensured the shows were as good as they could
be, and a little glow of charity gave some additional feel-good factor. Douglas Adams joined us on stage at Earls Court for
the 28th October show, an opportunity we had offered him partly as a birthday present, but also in thanks for having come
up with the title for the
Division Bell
album. My one piece of advice to him was ‘Whatever you do, Douglas, don’t look down…’, which in the excitement of the moment
he clearly forgot, as he spent the whole song staring intently at his fretboard.
During the Earls Court shows, one unexpected but very welcome backstage visitor was Bob Klose. I hadn’t seen him since the
Tea Set days of the mid-Sixties, although by coincidence he had married an old schoolfriend of mine from Frensham. It
reminded me that a couple of years later, at the Goodwood Festival of Speed, an even more unlikely arrival from the past had
been our other Regent Street Poly cohort Clive Metcalf. Somebody with a marked lack of tact made the unkind comment to Clive
that, having chosen to leave the band, he must feel like somebody who’d lost the winning lottery ticket. Clive calmly replied
that when he and Keith Noble had decided to jettison the rest of us, they thought they were the ones making the right career
move. As Clive observed, ‘We thought you were losers, anyway…’
Although at the time the Earls Court concerts were simply the end of another tour, they in fact marked a significant cessation
of activity. During the following ten years we did release a live album and a video, both called
Pulse,
from the tour, as well as various anthologies and re-masters of our work in new formats. But we did not tour again or release
any new material.
David would, I think, freely admit that he was the one who was the least eager to return to the fray. He seemed to have little
appetite for all the ramifications of cranking up the whole machinery of touring yet again. But I did hang on to the hope
that this was not necessarily the end of Pink Floyd as an active force. There were various things we had never done. We never
developed the idea David had for a twist on the unplugged concept. We never released the ‘ambient’ tapes from the
Division Bell
sessions. And – to date at least – I have never appeared in the ‘Identity Parade’ round on
Never Mind The Buzzcocks.
After so much relative inactivity, musically speaking, I had been wondering how to end this book. However, I was unexpectedly
provided with the material for a proper postscript, and shortly afterwards by the best of all possible dénouements.
I
N
J
ANUARY
2002 I was taking a holiday with my family on the Caribbean island of Mustique. At the beginning of each year a beach picnic
is held to raise funds for the local school. During the party I suddenly felt a forceful pair of hands grasp my shoulders,
and then my neck. Opposite me I saw Nettie’s eyes widen in surprise…
It was Roger. Seeing me there he had come up behind me and caught me unawares. We had only seen each other a couple of times
during the previous fifteen or so years. I had often wondered what the atmosphere might be like if we happened to run into
each other again, and how I should approach such a meeting. What a waste of all that planning.
Roger and I started talking, carried on talking for a fair amount of that afternoon, and met up a couple more times during
the holiday. After all the water that had flowed under the bridges of the past, it felt terrific to make peace with one of
my oldest friends. A large amount of emotional baggage got dumped at Mustique customs.
Later that year I got a call inviting me to play a guest spot with Roger at Wembley Arena during his 2002 tour. I didn’t say
‘yes’ straight away – the idea felt slightly alarming – but it did not take long to work out that to miss this opportunity
would be something I would regret ever after. I had spent long enough bemoaning the split between us, so it seemed particularly
stupid not to jump at this chance to give a pretty public demonstration of a rather grown-up moment of reconciliation. I played
on only
one number – Roger’s arrangement of ‘Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun’ – but the evening was fantastic. Roger’s band
was enormously welcoming, and a particularly nice touch was the chance to work with Harry Waters, who was on keyboards; apart
from being Roger’s son, Harry is also my godson.
Working with Roger again had been a joy. I loved the rehearsals. Despite many assurances that the intervening years had mellowed
Roger, I was pleased to find that any imperfections in the show were met with the familiar irascible shout from stage to mixing
desk.
And that, I genuinely thought, was that. When
Inside Out
was first published in September 2004, the question about the possibility of Pink Floyd playing together again – with or
without Roger – was an obligatory line of enquiry in every related interview. I faced these questions with a determinedly
straight bat, but still tried to offer at least a glimpse of optimism, since as far as I was aware, our innings had not yet
been declared.
When
Mojo
produced a special edition devoted to the band that autumn, Roger and I were both interviewed. Roger was asked about the
possibility of a thaw in relations with David, a suggestion he politely but determinedly squashed: ‘I can’t think why. We’re
both quite truculent individuals and I don’t think that’s going to change.’ Elsewhere David had compared the idea to ‘sleeping
with the ex-wife’ – it didn’t look hopeful.
In my piece, the final two questions were ‘Will there be another Pink Floyd album?’ and ‘What about a one-off Pink Floyd concert
with Roger Waters for the thirtieth anniversary of
Wish You Were Here?’
I said: ‘I could imagine doing it. But I can’t see Roger would want to. I think David would have to feel extremely motivated
to want to get back to work. It would be fantastic if we could do it for something like another Live Aid; a significant event
of that nature would justify it. That would be wonderful. But maybe I’m just being
terribly sentimental. You know what us old drummers are like.’
Well, stranger things have happened. Six months later someone pointed out a comment made by Bob Geldof in a TV interview in
which he said that he had seen a quote from me about a Pink Floyd reunion being – just maybe – feasible for a big charity
event. Sadly, I can’t take any credit for the final outcome, but clearly a seed had been planted in Bob’s brain as he evolved
the idea of putting together an event similar to Live Aid twenty years on from the original.
I was so unaware of his plans that when my wife Nettie told me Bob was on the phone one day in June 2005, I had no idea why
he might be calling. We had occasionally met at social events and the odd charity committee meeting for the Roundhouse Trust
since his appearance as Pink in the movie of
The Wall,
but we didn’t speak on a regular basis.
The first stirrings of Bob’s efforts to mount Live 8 had not yet permeated my consciousness. Bob now told me about the event
and said that he had spoken to David about the possibility of Pink Floyd appearing, but that David had said no. Bob, as ever,
merely saw this negative response as an inspiring challenge, and said he’d take the train down to David’s house to discuss
it further. Bob had already reached East Croydon when David rang him to say ‘Don’t bother’, but Bob decided he would push
on anyway. However, even a direct and personal plea from a man so famously persuasive still failed to change David’s mind.
What was clear to me was that David had perfectly good reasons for not wanting to regroup for Live 8. The band was not in
a working state, and he’d spent the last few years working on his own solo projects. He knew that if we did play, everybody,
including the record company, the press and our fans, would be clamouring for us to release some new product and announce
a tour. From his point of view the timing was exquisitely poor – and
so, in the light of subsequent events, I think that his was the greatest sacrifice.
Bob asked if I could help broker a deal with David. I said no, simply because I thought that adding my voice to the swell
might not sway him – in fact, it might have completely the opposite effect. As I later remarked, you can take a horse to water
but you can’t make it drink; in David’s case you can’t even get him near the water. However, bringing the Waters to David
might just work…
I felt I had to do something, at any rate mention the idea to Roger. However, I did not want Roger to think I was using our
recently re-established friendship to start calling in favours. Caution was called for. I e-mailed Roger and made the most
diffident of references to Bob wanting us to help him in his endeavours to save the planet. If Roger didn’t reply, so be it.
At least I had given it my best, if rather feeble, shot.
Roger e-mailed me straight back, asking what Bob wanted us to do. ‘To be honest, I’m not sure,’ I replied, reverting to the
same mixture of duplicity and diplomacy that had marked our first conversation in the Regent Street Poly over forty years
earlier. So Roger rang Bob. Despite the distractions of Bob’s domestic life rumbling in the background, Roger managed to establish
that Bob wanted us to re-form. Then the Geldof household took precedence again, and Bob said he’d have to call Roger back.