“This song and music video are dedicated to the current administration. You will not build walls in our children’s hearts.”
Seems like the actor who plays our orange fuhrer could’ve shaved his Chuck Todd goatee, but who asked me?
Warning for those viewing at work or offended by the human body: there’s brief nudity.
“Mother” is the least subtle song on The Wall and establishes its central metaphor. I can remember the stoners in high school talking about the movie and saying you “had to be high to understand it.” That might be true if you have a half a brain cell to work with but the plot is pretty fucking obvious, and as a guy who was raised by an overprotective mom after his dad died young, I feel qualified and obligated to mock Roger Waters about it. Boo hoo. Poor you.
Of course, as with everything terrible, the current political climate puts a new spin on it. And things that seemed dopey and juvenile now appear insightful and heavy. Being forced to re-evaluate The Wall might not be the absolute worst outcome of the events of 2017, but jeez, it’s certainly the most unexpected.
Far better music critics than myself have both panned and praised Pink Floyd‘s The Wall ad infinitum since the releases of the album and film by the same title roughly 30 years ago. At this point, most music aficionados have well defined opinions of Pink Floyd, Roger Waters, and The Wall, so I’ll leave all of that alone.
What I will say is that the concert I attended last night still has me trying to figure out what the hell I just saw. I mean that in the best way possible.
The news came out today that Roger Waters will be taking Pink Floyd‘s “The Wall” on the road this fall. I distinctly remember kids in school saying you had to be stoned to “get it.” Maybe you do, if you’re the type of braindead dipshit who thinks Jim Morrison is a major American poet. I mean, I was a half-bright fifteen-year-old virgin when I first saw it, and even I caught the obvious central metaphor. It’s the shallowest, least subtle concept album of the original rock opera era. It’s frankly just kinda dumb.
But don’t tell that to Roger Waters. Dude has milked his dead dad and overprotective mom for the last 30 years. Boo hoo, your teachers were mean! Fucking crybaby.
So now he apparently feels he needs to justify hauling out his guaranteed cash cow: “This new production of The Wall is an attempt to draw some comparisons, to illuminate our current predicament, and is dedicated to all the innocent lost in the intervening years.” Dude, it’s okay to do it for the money.
The Flaming Lips (along with Wayne’s nephew’s band Stardeath and the White Dwarfs) have seemingly taken a similar approach to Pink Floyd‘s Dark Side of the Moon and channeled that landmark effort into a vaguely reminiscent cover album. It’s a pairing that surely will grab the attention of fans of either band with supporters of the Lips’ unique blend of weirdness probably getting the award for higher tolerance.
It was a beautiful day at the end of July, a perfect combination of blue skies and subtle heat. Definitely an uncommon event for Iowa during the summer as July usually proves to be oppressively sweltering.
Instead of enjoying this rare afternoon of tolerable sunshine, I was down in the musty darkness of my parent’s basement, rummaging through Dad’s toolbox. Before long, I located the item I was looking for: a box of Red Devil single-edge razor blades that he used for scraping paint. I brought one blade up to my bedroom, but not for any wood restoration. On this wonderful summer day, I was going to use the blade to cut my wrists.
The reasons why are not important; suicide is a selfish act and, since I’m writing this, I obviously didn’t go through with it. What is curious is the soundtrack that I chose to end my own life to: Pink Floyd‘s The Final Cut.
You may think that there was something metaphoric between my selection in both the music and method of killing myself. The reality is that Pink Floyd was my favorite band at the time and The Final Cut was my favorite album. It wasn’t just my “Favorite Album by Pink Floyd,” it was my “Favorite Album Ever by Anyone.” I know, it should have been have been something better, and even the band’s own Dark Side of the Moon or The Piper at the Gates of Dawn would have been a better critical choice. But during my time of hopelessness, I considered The Final Cut to be the rock music’s crowning achievement.
I was sixteen years old when The Final Cut came out, twenty-five years ago this week.
Kris pulled her 1978 Firebird up to the stoplight on Main Street and idled next to my car in the other lane. I reached over to roll down my window and talk to her, ultimately agreeing to her suggestion that I ditch my ’68 Plymouth Fury at the parents’ house and ride with her. Besides, my Mopar only had a factory AM radio in it, whereas her Firebird was equipped with a kickass Pioneer cassette deck that I helped install earlier that summer.
Looking back on our relationship now, Kris was what would be described as today as a “fuck buddy.” She was generous with her ride, her drugs, and her vagina. The fact that I maintained steady relationships outside of the late night encounters with her never seemed to bother Kris. Years later, of course, I learned that this wasn’t the case; the fact that I essentially used Kris during those high school years wasn’t lost on her. After I left my hometown for college, the time apart provided her with perspective to consider the dynamics of our relationship and realize that I was pretty much a complete dickhead.