Album Review: A Saucerful of Secrets by Pink Floyd
So the other day I read an article on Vulture that attempted to rank every Pink Floyd song from worst to best. Now I love these kinds of lists, arbitrary as they may be, and Vulture has done some really interesting ones— I would highly recommend their ranking of Bruce Springsteen's discography to any fan of his. As a huge Floyd fan as well I was quite excited to dive right into it, but as I ventured further down the list I was struck by the seeming disregard shown towards the vast majority of their catalogue.
Obviously, for any exercise like this there are going to be disagreements on individual rankings or opinions — “Speak to Me” above “Time”; “On The Run” at number 18, what? — but I was more struck by the distinct lack of praise even within the upper tiers of the list. When seeing songs within the top 40 being praised as “really [not] terrible”, I began to question: does this guy even like Pink Floyd? Maybe I’m just remembering the Springsteen list where even entering the top hundred, songs were receiving nothing but praise in their write-ups, as if their position was less about their own flaws and more about the inevitable jostling when an artist just has too many top-tier tracks. I would also argue that Pink Floyd has always been an ‘albums’ band, rather than one focused just on ‘songs’, perhaps explaining the slew of criticism when songs are now having to be judged purely on their own merits. An album like The Wall has several tracks that exist to serve the record's narrative rather than to function solely as songs in their own right. Still though, did they really not have that many great songs?
Now I just want to be absolutely clear that this is not any kind of attack on the author of this particular article, Bill Wyman. I love reading takes that are so different from my own — it would be boring if everyone had (correct) tastes like mine—and this list was honestly a great read, with the little reviews of each song affording even the deepest cuts the analysis, however brief, that they seldom receive. I’ve probably read more about “Two Suns in the Sunset” here than I ever will anywhere else, and I love it. I’m not going to go and write an angry comment over what is just one person's opinion — although I did read the comments and they did not surprise me in the slightest — and anyway, his individual preferences of certain songs or albums weren’t what I was thinking about anyway.
No, the part that really caught my attention was during his review of “Seamus” (at number 154, if you’re interested) in which he stated:
“Pink Floyd was so bad when it started (the first album aside) that even with exponential growth it took five or six efforts before they released a listenable album.”
Now, yes, upon reading this my first reaction was to clutch my pearls in horror and scoff at such an outlandish accusation, but when I really started to think about it I began to panic. Pre-Meddle, which he acknowledged was decent thanks to its opener and closer, and post-The Piper At The Gates of Dawn, what exactly are the great albums here?
Well… there are the two soundtrack albums, More and Obscured by Clouds, nice enough but nothing great — just soundtrack albums though, so maybe they don’t count. And of course, Ummagumma is just “the bad one” we all know that; a disc of four meandering, indulgent solo projects with an admittedly pretty enjoyable live half tacked on the front. Atom Heart Mother? The suite starts off okay but, alright, I think it drags for far too long… and the less said about “Alan’s Psychedelic Breakfast” the better. The three acoustic tracks that constitute the actual songs of the record are pretty enough, sure, but far too soft and limp to be anything memorable. And… fuck.
I wouldn’t go as far as Bill and describe these albums as unlistenable, per se, but you’ve got me: they’re not great either. It was a pretty damning realisation. I guess I just haven’t ever listened to these albums critically, they were Pink Floyd albums, so they had to be good, right? This list really made me evaluate their early music in a whole new light… which just leaves their sophomore effort: A Saucerful of Secrets. It’s the only album produced by the band as a five-piece and the record that, at a push, probably stands as my favourite from their discography. Maybe not as “good” as their golden 70s albums, nor a classic in the same vein as Piper, but a great record that I’ve always had a soft spot for. It had been a good while since I last listened to it properly, so I (nervously) queued it up and wondered if it too would reveal itself as simply another subpar collection amidst their bigger and better offerings.
‘Let There Be More Light’ opens the record, and I challenge any listener not to get immediately caught up in that infectious bass and cymbal rhythm as the keyboards begin to build behind them. Such a propulsive intro is rather clumsily discarded just over a minute into the track, but the song is no less enchanting for this change of pace; the swirling keyboards and chanting voices make for an eerie atmosphere, certainly bringing to mind the kind of visual imagery one would expect from a Pink Floyd show at this time.
In the context of Piper, however, it sounds like a completely different group. Piper, even in its densest moments always sounded fun, like it didn’t take itself too seriously. I don’t mean that as an insult, and non-serious doesn’t automatically mean silly; Piper is glorious and carefree in its whimsy — as if to say “who cares” at anyone caught sniggering at what they perceive to be merely childish nursery rhymes. The genius of songs like “Astronomy Domine” or “Lucifer Sam” is in their marriage of Barrett's gleeful witticisms with such heavy, powerful music, all while maintaining that sense of fun, energy and giddy excitement that makes these songs so infectious to listen to. This, by comparison, sounds serious. Brief Beatles reference aside, the lyrics are opaque and cryptic, whilst the choruses ascend to booming heights upon thick, hulking slabs of keyboard noise and choral vocals. It’s gloriously melodramatic in the best possible way, but a far cry from Piper.
This is a review of A Saucerful of Secrets, so I don’t want to keep harping on about Piper, but if I might be allowed one final comparison I would hasten to note that for any criticisms one could level towards the album — too silly, overlong “Interstellar Overdrive”, etc — it was never boring. I bring this up, because the next track, Wright’s eerie “Remember A Day”, easily bucks the trend of their preceding album, and not in a good way. As the track begins, and the immersive salvo of bass, piano and synth fold into view, I’m reminded of the opening minutes of “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” where various beeps, warbles and other synth noises are panned on either side to give a feeling of immense space amidst the rising of the wine glasses. It’s like that… just nowhere near as good, and in service of a far weaker song. Sorry Rick.
The melody simply meanders along, much like the instrumentation, never reaching a concrete hook, instead serving as a mast on which to hang various sounds and effects. It feels like an impressionist painting: forgoing much in the way of concrete substance, instead offering little flourishes of colour around its skeletal frame in the cultivation of a general mood — a vibe, if you will. The drums are enjoyably bouncy, and the occasional acoustic guitar strum is very much appreciated, but it’s certainly open to individual criticism when taken at face value. As for Wright’s voice, I love its soft, lilting quality, but I can see how someone might find it too weak, especially compared to someone like Gilmour.
To the definite detriment of the album, if only for their multitude of similarities rather than their own inherent problems, many of these comments could be easily repeated when discussing the penultimate track, ‘See-Saw’. It’s another slight, enjoyable-enough song — preferable to the former in my opinion — that offers little in the way of excitement or interest. They're songs that are easy to enjoy whilst wrapped up in them, but once they’ve finished I’m left not only cold, but scratching my head at their inclusion at all: the album is only seven tracks long, and the two songs you choose to sound the same are these?
I hope you were paying attention to those complaints because they could all be levied at the next track, Waters’ even-eerier “Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun”, yet this song emerges as one of the two absolute highlights on the record. Yes, the melody is basic and repetitive; yes, more attention is instead given to a rising tide of noises, sound effects and strange instrumentation; and yet somehow, it all works here.
Let’s start with the melody. Rather than being long and winding, never reaching much of a destination, here it is the opposite: short and repetitive. It feels very much in the vein of “Another Brick in the Wall”, particularly in the verses. It acts here as an anchor, whilst its shorter length means that, unlike the previous track, it’s far easier to get locked into. That bassline slowly coils around you, loop after hypnotic loop whilst rising up every now and then to keep you interested.
As for the strange noises, unlike their seemingly random inclusion in other tracks, here they exist to complement the melody, rather than to cover up for the lack of one through sheer atmosphere alone. In particular, the joint introduction of the drums — specifically with the use of the timpani mallets — and the vibraphone seem to increase the space of this recording tenfold, a definite example of ‘less is more’.
Even just the name of the song— superficial, I know — conjures up such vivid images and sounds that the song itself definitely compliments. More bouncing, spacy drums; a lew of strange keyboard sounds; hushed backing vocals whispered with quiet, but fierce, intensity; this track is just fantastic from start to finish. A definite album highlight, and probably the finest example of this looser, Barrett-less Floyd; ironic enough, considering that this is the only track on which all five members of the band appear.
In his review of “Corporal Clegg”, the author notes how such a seemingly humorous approach to the military is somewhat at odds with Waters’ later stance on the subject, suggesting perhaps that a deeper meaning is at play here, albeit hidden under all of the mock-Salvation Army kazoo noises. The idea of this old Burma veteran having “won” a wooden leg during the campaign, or that he’s been excused from parade because of it, makes for some amusing lyrics though, and even if the observations and commentary are all very surface-level, it’s still enjoyable. The only issue here is that they can’t seem to make up their mind as to the angle of the song: the fact that he found his medal “in a zoo”, that's quite funny, in a silly, handlebar-moustache, Victoriana kind of way. I know he’s a WW2 vet but I just think of him in this red colonial uniform, picking up a medal from the floor with a little “hullo, what’s this then?”. Maybe that’s just me. Contrast this with the fact that since coming back from the war he’s “never been the same” and suddenly it’s more of a critique of the effect of war on those involved, á la “The Hero’s Return”.
The music, admittedly, doesn’t help. The verses are punctuated by these lengthy kazoo breaks, the final one of which engulfs the song in a seemingly-endless cacophony of squeaky noise. If it’s meant to be ironic, it’s way too on the nose. If not, then I’ve got nothing, and I don’t know about you but if I was going to pick an instrument to adorn my attack on the military system that killed my father during the Second World War, the kazoo would not be my first choice. I’d probably go for the slide whistle. Just kidding.
I can’t hate this song though. For all of the musical whiplash and confusing messaging, the second that the title kicks in I’m hooked. Most of the music here really is quite good; the riff at the start leads into this mix of guitar, drums and backing vocals that I just adore. It also holds the distinction, shared with the opening track, of being the album's best—read: only — “rock” song, and for the most part, this is a compliment. It’s a bit stodgy in a way that “Interstellar Overdrive” never felt, but the interplay between the guitars is great stuff, and I just love Mason’s high-pitched, nasally responses during the verses. Basically everything apart from the kazoo bits.
The album's most frustrating moment arrives in the form of its eleven-minute instrumental title track, handily separated into four, ahem, distinctive sections. Let’s just say, ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’ this is not. Maybe I just don’t get it; maybe it really is just to pad out time; maybe it sounds better when you’re stuffed full of LSD and drooling in front of a stage awash with psychedelic projections; all I know is that a random assortment of guitar feedback, drum fills and I-don’t-even-know-what-else is not my idea of a great track. I respect it for its bravery, and I’m not saying to don’t find the strange noises somewhat beguiling, but taken as a song in its own right it can’t help but feel like filler content (which it sort of is).
I ultimately describe the track as frustrating, however, because seemingly out of nowhere the percussion gives way to a rising tide of choir and keyboard, and for the final three minutes you’re listening to one of the most beautiful pieces of music the band ever committed to tape. I’m serious, that whole final section is just stunning, with its rising chords and a beautiful blend of organ and angelic backing vocals that just build and build to a heavenly climax. Perhaps that’s the whole point, to demonstrate that these guys could indeed create incredibly moving instrumental music, that their excursions into the avant-garde were not just feeble excuses for incompetence or lack of creativity. The three sections that precede the finale ultimately present something of a catch-22 because the closing section would feel meaningless without them. It represents a glorious ending to a less-than-glorious piece of music, and you can’t have an ending without, you know, a beginning and a middle.
For those unaware, the track was rather hastily cobbled together near the end of recording much to the chagrin of their producer, Norman Smith, after Waters allegedly blocked two Barrett originals for being ‘too dark’. As such we are left with this gaping black hole of a track, one part stunning to three parts schlock and one in which its best moments only serve to highlight the lacklustre nature of everything else that’s on offer.
In defence of the title track, the two Barrett-penned tracks that seem to have been forsaken in its place are admittedly not incredible. ‘Vegetable Man’ is as muddy and dense as it is dark and brooding, whilst ‘Scream Thy Last Scream’ is a (somehow?) softer sounding ‘Corporal Clegg, albeit with amusing sped-up backing vocals and some pleasant keyboard noodling in the coda. They’re preferable to the first two-thirds of ‘Saucerful’, and including more of Barrett’s material on his final Floyd album could never be a bad thing, but they hardly represent a creative highpoint, especially compared to what he did write for this record.
And here it is. The final track, both for this record and for Barrett as a member of his band. The song starts up straight away: “it’s awfully considerate of you to think of me here, and I’m most obliged to you for making it clear that I’m not here”. Prophetic? Perhaps. Self-aware? Maybe, probably not. Beautifully written in Barrett’s distinctive, off-kilter cadence that sounds like he could fall off of the rhythm section at any moment, and yet somehow manages to naturally lead the whole track back to its lovely, sing-a-long chorus? Absolutely.
Barrett is such a minimal presence on this record that I sometimes forget that he’s even here — pun not intended — amidst the sound of a band desperately trying to figure out how to make music without him. It’s only when the lilting “Jugband Blues” veers into focus that I’m reminded of just what a unique talent he was and how much of Pink Floyd’s early identity was tied to his one-of-a-kind artistry.
The song itself is simply a masterpiece. The mournful tin whistle that heralds Barrett’s introduction sets the mood straightaway, and though the song eventually rises into a seemingly jubilant chorus, this sense of distant longing permeates throughout. Aside from the opening few bars, the best moment is the final 30 seconds following a false ending. A weaker, solo acoustic guitar slowly fades into a hazy focus, adorned with only a simple echo whilst Barrett muses to himself — “what exactly is a dream, and what exactly is a joke?” — in a hollow, whistful voice so far removed from the assuredness of his opening lines. Atmospheric doesn’t come close to covering it. It’s simply beautiful.
Lyrically the song is typically cryptic, but not obtuse in the way that many earlier efforts are, and hearing him ask such questions as “I wonder who could be writing this song” is just heartbreaking. It’s as if he doesn’t recognise the man who used to write such breezy classics with ease.
Or… maybe not. I appreciate that there are several, often conflicting, narratives surrounding Syd Barrett alongside an unhealthy amount of urban myth and retroactive fatalism, so I shall forgo any further attempt to facilitate such an analysis, but one thing that cannot be denied is the talent that is clearly on offer here.
Not only that but hearing this track in comparison to something like ‘Corporal Clegg’ really demonstrates Barret’s talent for writing the kinds of songs that he did. Pink Floyd have produced some incredible music, of course, and Waters has proved himself more than capable of writing beautiful lyrics (“Wish You Were Here”, anyone?), but it’s obvious why they gave up on trying to emulate Barret’s style pretty quickly. It’s only upon trying to replicate his seemingly random assortment of jumbled words and phrases that one realises how clever he was being all along.
I know that there are those who just find Barrett’s work too silly or nonsensical to enjoy, and I completely understand that. With an artist as idiosyncratic as Barrett there are going to be detractors, particularly towards songs that indulge his more whimsical side (*cough*, “The Gnome”, *cough*). But a track like “Jugband Blues” demonstrates, in my view, a definite progression from the first album which I don’t think was ever explored further, even in his solo work. Don’t get me wrong, his debut solo effort The Madcap Laughs is excellent from start to finish, but its charm lies in its rougher, lo-fi approach, whilst “Jugband Blues” benefits from this lusher arrangement, courtesy of the rest of the band that are no slouches either when it comes to the excellent music on this record. I feel like I’ve maybe given them a hard time in this review, I guess it’s easy to praise Barrett’s contributions when they represent his last work for a band that would themselves go on to produce better music than what they do here.
But at the same time, that’s probably what draws me to this album more than anything else, that sense of uneasy cohesion between two very different bands seen literally in the joint offering of Barrett’s last masterpiece for the group alongside Roger’s first great song in “Set The Controls…”. It’s a murky, dense, spacey album that whilst not a classic record in the vein of their later masterpieces, is absolutely more than the sum of its parts and well worth a listen for anyone wondering how the light of the Dawn dimmed to the Dark Side of the Moon.
