Sick of the Mess on the Desert Stage
Can the Floyd's music make sense of senseless times
Until recently, I used to take my daily jog sans music. I would generally listen to a song while I stretched, trying to get it sufficiently lodged in my head that it would stick for the duration of the run. Usually, though, I'd forget some part of it get stuck on one particular part, and wind up repeating it in my head to the point of distraction. On one memorable occasion, I actually managed to forget how the lyrics of "Money" start, and the lapse (pardon the pun) drove me nuts until I finished.
Fortunately, while rummaging through my closet recently, I discovered my old Sports Walkman, which, for those in the audience born after 1980, is what we used to listen to before portable MP3 players. Unfortunately, I seem to have gotten rid of all my cassettes, save PULSE, which I kept because it has "One of These Days" and the pre-concert soundscape on it, which are available nowhere else, plus it comes in that nifty "brick" packaging.
Pink Floyd isn't really always the best jogging music--the plodding or sometimes non-existent beat, the laid-back and often gloomy tone--but it's familiar and frees my mind to think of other things. One song in particular, however, has proven to be more difficult than others to push into the background during my run. "A Great Day for Freedom" was never my favorite song off The Division Bell--in fact, it ranked somewhere near the bottom consistently enough that I would frequently skip it on the CD, a luxury I don't have on my tapes--though I grew to appreciate it more over time.
During one recent run, however, I opted not to fast-forward past the song, instead choosing to meditate on it. I focused on the dynamics of the music first, and then delved into the lyrics--as much as I could while attempting to keep my pace and not trip on the jagged concrete. Along the way, I free-associated with memories and sensations that the song brought to mind, and I was struck by how apt the lyrics are to the conflict in Iraq, particularly now that the ground war has ended and the difficulties of rebuilding are beginning to become apparent.
Now, David Gilmour was never the best lyricist, and his weaknesses are never more evident than when he attempts to don his political hat. The lyrics of "A Great Day for Freedom" suffer from being too "on the nose," as they say. Even so, the story he tells in the song is frighteningly apropos to the situation the world now faces with a "liberated" Iraq:
On the day the wall came down
They threw the locks onto the ground
And with glasses high we raised a cry for freedom had arrived
On the day the wall came down
The ship of fools had finally run aground
Promises lit up the night like paper doves in flight
The first two stanzas express a cynicism at the rush to declare victory when, in fact, the hard part of war still remains: the reconstruction the rebuilding, and the healing. We, the conquering army, promise not to forget the Iraqis, but practically the same promises were made to the now-sidelined Afghan people barely a year ago. Once the fickle public has moved on to other concerns, will anyone notice if the promises are kept?
I dreamed you had left my side
No warmth, not even pride remained
And even though you needed me
It was clear that I could not do a thing for you
Here is where Gilmour wisely avoids giving us another "Cruise": by moving the lyrics from the political (general) to the personal (specific), we are given the opportunity to ponder what, if any, relationship the two situations have to do with one another. I have always said that great art lies not in what it tells you, but what it leaves out. Picasso's Guernica would be far less powerful if it were rendered in photorealistic style; Kubrick's 2001 leaves it up to the viewer to decide what the film's theme and metaphors are; and, a Gilmour solo, as has often been observed, evokes far more emotion with just a few notes than many more technically-accomplished guitarists manage in a hundred.
During the fighting in Iraq, one of the more heart-wrenching stories I encountered was of a young boy who had been orphaned in the war. He had the horrible misfortune to live very close to a number of military targets, and an errant missile hit his home. His father and pregnant mother were killed, along with all his siblings and an aunt. The truly awful aspect, however, for me, was that he had lost both his arms, as well as his will to live. He told the reporter that he wished he still had his limbs so he could end his life.
I used to think of those lyrics from the perspective of a fearful lover, but now I cannot help but think of that boy. (I am reminded of another Gilmour lyric: "He's haunted by the memory of a lost paradise/In his youth or a dream, he can't be precise...") The lyrics do not directly relate to him, of course, but will he or the thousands of others who lost loved ones ever find comfort?
Perhaps, but not without the compassion of others. And that, it seems, is hard to come by:
Now life devalues day by day
As friends and neighbors turn away
And there's a change that even with regret cannot be undone
Now frontiers shift like desert sands
While nations wash their bloodied hands
Of loyalty, of history, in shades of gray
We're back in the general arena, speaking of politics again, and the question I'm left with is what is the "change" he speaks of? In the fourth stanza, the other lyrics are fairly easy to decipher, but there's little clue as to what exactly Gilmour is referring to here. Is it the change from flag-waving patriots to post-war isolationists? The next stanza may offer some clue. Things have not gone as planned, the borders shift as in-fighting takes over, but nations are "washing their bloodied hands" of loyalty to the ones they pledged to support.
Call me a cynic, but it's hard not to foresee that happening in Iraq. Take the former Yugoslavia as a perfect example of what happens when a dictator is removed: the country fragments and ages-old tribal rivalries erupt into savage war over land and dominance. This sort of thing is just waiting to happen in Iraq, with the Shiite majority having long been oppressed by Hussein's regime. And then there's the Kurds, who control much of northern Iraq... You can imagine where this is headed. There is no easy answer. There is no black and white, only--you guessed it--shades of gray.
I woke to the sound of drums
The music played, the morning sun streamed in
I turned and I looked at you
And all but the bitter residue slipped away... slipped away
But the political is always dwarfed by the personal, as the focus here returns home, to the promise of comfort from a loved one. But the comfort is bittersweet, guaranteed to be temporary, somehow, as though politics, war and fear are just waiting to intrude again.
During the bleakest days leading up to the war, I instinctively reached out for my copy of Roger's Amused to Death, which in turn drew me to The Division Bell as well. (The two will always be indelibly linked for me.) I was seeking not just comfort, but also hoping for someone to help me make sense of the chaos that was going on around me. I had much the same urge in the dark aftermath of September 11th, when I knew Roger was indeed preparing material for a new album. I wanted that album now. I craved his insight to give me perspective on everything. It's hard not to imagine Roger having strong viewpoints on the paranoia, anxiety, and rage that seems to dominate so much of the world now, as, indeed, he has had much to say on those very topics in the past.
Yet nothing has been forthcoming, and though I suppose it's naive to expect a pop musician to bring order back to the world, I know that it would provide tremendous reassurance to me to know that, if nothing else, I am not alone. The best music can do that, and indeed, the members of Pink Floyd, past and present, have shown an uncanny ability to be masters of expressing that sentiment.
So while new music relating specifically to present situations and dilemmas may not be on its way, the emotions and concerns themselves are universal constants, and as such, it's fortunate that we have the "classics" to cling to. Indeed, they wouldn't have become classics in the first place if they hadn't provided so many with the kind of emotional touchstones that we all ache for. And it's probably somewhat selfish to hope for something new when the old is already there, just waiting to be rediscovered and revisited.