- 11 Apr 01
Fay Wolftree ponders whether or not attending a Pink Floyd concert was an inspired move or a momentary lapse of reason. Either way, the bell was in Earls Court.
HAVING THOUGHT the impossible had already happened when flares once again became de rigeur on the trendy club scene, it was more than a little disconcerting to learn that the gods of the trance-ambient movement are citing Pink Floyd as their heroes.
Banco de Gaia’s Toby Marks, Bob Dog of the monthly Megadog bash at Rocket and the Orb’s Alex Paterson have all recently gone on the record confessing to their adoration of what was once one of the unhippest bands in the known universe. So has Brett Anderson, who puts his obsession with dogs and pigs down to the Animals album – but then we all know he’s a prat.
These are sad times in which we live. Those too young to remember the excruciating dullness of the post-glam pre-punk seventies and the twin scourges of prog-rock and the concept album, are rediscovering the serious, pompous, muso-shite we had been hoping was gone forever. It says a lot about the current state of the music scene, to say nothing of the eventually desexualising effect of attending too many E-crazed raves.