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Roger Waters Interview w/Chris Salewicz, June 1987
On June 15th,1987 Roger Waters released his second solo album
entitled "Radio KAOS." I believe this interview took place short after
its release and before the Radio KAOS Tour kicked off at Rhode Island,
on august 14 1987.
Roger Waters (RW) was interviewed by Chris Salewicz (CS).
CS: When was the last time you had a single out? It must have
been "Another Brick In The Wall."
RW: No, it was the "Pros And Cons Of Hitchhiking." And the only
other significant single in my career was "Money" from
Dark Side Of The Moon. That was the only other one that made
any impact at all.
CS: What about the early hits, Arnold Layne and See Emily Play?
RW: Well, they were Syd's.
CS: Do you really look on them as that?
RW: Oh yes. They were his songs. Actually, we did release one of
my songs as a Pink Floyd single short after he had left, a
thing called "Point Me At The Sky." And there was a Syd Barrett
failure before that called "Apples And Oranges." But I remember
that by the time we reached the elevated heights that we did not
long after, our sense of snotty purity (laughs) was so great that
we wouldn't even have a single out.
CS: It was very 'uncool' in those days to release singles. Led Zeppelin
always refused to put them out.
RW: Oh yes, it was very uncool. That's why we wouldn't do it. But
we all get older.
CS: When did you asume the leadership of the Pink Floyd? Was it
when Syd went?
RW: Yes, It was straight after we had split up with Syd. I'm sure you
would get arguments about that from the other 'boys', but I simply
took responsibility, largely because no-one else seemed to want to
do it, and that is graphically illustrated by the fact that I started
to write most of the material from then on, I'm perfectly happy being
a leader. In fact, I know I can be an oppressive personality because
I bubble with ideas and schemes, and in a way it was easier for the
others simply to go along with me. We rarely used to see each other
socially, although I used to get on with Nick Mason alright. For a
limited time, in the early days of the group, we did mix socially.
Because there is something rather appealing about a group together on
the road. But that soon palls. And things like families make sure that
cycle comes to an end.
CS: Was it difficult replacing Syd as a leader of the Pink Floyd?
Did you feel very much in his shadow?
RW: Well, replacing Syd as leader of the Pink Floyd was OK. But Syd
as a writer was a one-off. I could never aspire to his crazed
insights and perceptions. In fact, for a long time I wouldn't
have dreamt of claiming any insights whatsoever. But I'd always
credit Syd with the connection he made to his personal
unconscious and to the collective, group conscious. It's
taken me fifteen years to get anywhere near there. But what
enabled Syd to see things in the way he did? It's like why is
an artist an artist? Artists simply do feel and see things in a
different way to other people. In a way it's a blessing, but it
can also be a terrible curse. There's a great deal of satisfaction
to be earned from it but often it's also a terrible burden.
In spite the fact that he was clearly out of control when making his
two albums, some of the work is staggeringly evocative. Dave Gilmour
and I worked with him on the first one [The Madcap Laughs];
there was a backlog of material he'd written before he flipped.
It's the humanity of it all that is so impressive. It's about
deeply felt values and beliefs and feelings. Maybe that's what
Dark Side Of The Moon was aspiring to. A similar feeling.
That's what I get from the musicians who I really care for:
Bob Dylan, John Lennon, Bruce Springsteen, Neil Young - that
intense passion.
CS: What is Syd Barrett doing now?
RW: I last saw him about ten years ago. But my mother still lives
in Cambridge and I get to hear about him from time to time.
He's not doing very much at all.
What happened with Syd was that we were being managed by Andrew
King and Peter Jenner of Blackhill Enterprises, for whom I
still have a very soft spot. When Syd flipped I had this theory
that we could go on with Syd still being a member of the group
if he could become Brian Wilson and simply be a backroom boy.
But Syd had other ideas: he wanted to get in two sax-players
and a girl singer. To which we resolutely said no!
But Peter and Andrew both thought it couldn't happen without
Syd and stuck with him. Which is how the Pink Floyd came to be
managed by Steve O'Rourke. Bryan Morrison was our agent when we
were with Blackhill, and Steve O'Rourke was a booker who worked
for him, Bryan Morrison wanted to sell the group to NEMS (Brian
Epstein's Company), but we'd never had an official contract
with him. So the night before the deal with NEMS was to go
through, he persuaded us to sign a contract: "just a legality,
boys - we won't be able to legally book the Amarican tour
otherwise, so you'll never tour the States." The next day he
sold the agency. One lives and learns. Steve O'Rourke went to
NEMS as part of a package. He ran a management department at
NEMS, and when we left NEMS we took Steve with us. After all,
he was about ten times cheaper than a Robert Stigwood - those
were the days when managers would try and get forty per cent of
the gross.
And it all worked very well for quite a long time. Steve is an
effective hustler, a man in a man's world. And we should be
jolly pleased with each other. And to give him his due Steve
O'Rourke never gave up his job of trying to get me to fill
stadiums. But his attitude was rather summed up when I saw him
giving an interview on TV, when he was still managing me. He'd
taken on the task of managing a British Le Mans racing team.
Steve said (adopts Arthur Daley-like voice), Management is
management. It doesn't matter whether it's a pop group, a
motor-racing team or biscuits. I thought, 'Oh, you arsehole.'
He'd obviously got a little carried away with his role.
CS: Why do you think Dark Side Of The Moon was such a colossally
successful record?
RW: It's very well-balanced and well-constructed, dynamically and
musically, and I think the humanity of its approach is
appealing. It's satisfying. I think also that it was the first
album of that kind. People often quote S F Sorrow by The Pretty
Things as being from a similar mould - they were both done in
the same studio at about the same time - but I think it was
probably the first completely cohesive album that was made.
A concept album, mate! I always thought it would be hugely
succesful. I had the same feelings about "The Wall". Towards the
end of the studio work, at about the time I'd be putting the
tracks together, there was a very good feeling of satisfaction
on both records. You'd stand back from them and they'd each
feel very complete.
But of course, Dark Side Of The Moon finished the Pink Floyd
off once and for all. To be that succesful is the aim of every
group. And once you've cracked it, it's all over. In hindsight,
I think the Pink Floyd was finished as long ago as that.
CS: Apart from that, what were the main problems associated with
such immense success?
RW: Mainly the one of what to do with all the money! You go through
this thing where you think of all the good you could do with it
by giving it away. But, in the end, you decide to keep it!
CS: How comfortable are you about making solo records? Does it concern
you that you will probably not be as succesful pon the same immense
scale as the Pink Floyd?
RW: Yes, but it's a concern I try to resist. But I confess that I
harbour a fantasy that there might be enough in my writing -
because my writing is so passive - that has something to do
with some sort of group unconcious that I might make another
record that would appeal to millions. I always feel it is a
kind of extraodinary coincidence that it happened twice with
the Pink Floyd, with Dark Side Of The Moon and The Wall.
CS: You didn't see that as a logical continuation?
RW: Well, no . I mean, yes I do, I see it very much as a logical
continuation in terms of the writing involved. But the fact
that those records got to far more than the 8 to 14-year-olds
that are supposed to be the record market, that they both
reached some part of human beings that made them rush out and
buy them in unbelievable quantities, is extraodinary. And you
can't explain it simply by the fact that each had a hit single
and that they had some good tunes. There are masses and masses
of records that have good tunes.
But very occasionally you get a record that strikes some chord
that transcends generation gaps. Rock 'n' Roll is growing up,
and its original audience is getting older with it. And if you
can provide stuff that is simulating enough for grown-ups to
buy then they'll buy it.
CS: I find it interesting that you define your work as "passive":
that certainly is one of its dominant qualities - it doesn't
bludgeon you around the head.
RW: I wouldn't say the work is necessarily passive, but the act of
the writing is extremely passive. And at certain points on each
record that passivity seeps through. The activity is certainly
passive. I never come steaming in here and say (Basil Fawlty-
like voice), 'right, I'm going to write a song about Margaret
Thatcher.' If I get up in the morning and I'm lying in the bath
and I can feel myself going into a strange, detached, glazed-
over state, then I know it's worth coming in here and sitting
quietly with the biro and pad, and whatever instrument - well,
it's always a piano or a guitar. And I just sit here until the
song appears.
I can write at almost any time of day. But it's almost never late
at night. It can be difficult for the people who are around
you, because you have to be very blank as far as anyone
else is concerned.
CS: You were talking about how your "passive" writing comes from
the unconcious. Do you read much philosophy or psychology?
RW: No. I'm quite interested inthose areas but I was put off books
early on, and I find it very difficult to read. As a child I
never got into the habit of reading. I went through a period
when I was a teenager of reading people like James Joyce,
because it was hip to do so. Then I got a very basic grounding
of what there was in literature that might be enjoyable. But
now, if I'm sitting on the beach I'd rather be reading A Ship
Must Die or something of the nature. I'm very fond of those
very involved English Second World War naval stories in the
Hornblower tradition.
CS: You studied Architecture. Were you good at Art?
RW: Not at school, no. Now I can draw a bit. I feel quite strongly
about education. I went to school in Cambridge, one of those
grammer schools that Thatcher is going to bring back, where I
was considered without question to be a complete twat at almost
everything, particularly English. And the Art teacher was so
ineffectual that he was practically not there at all.
Most of the teachers were absolute swines, and the school was
only concerned with University entrance, particularly Oxbridge.
It was a real battery farm. I hated it. All they would do was
look at your most obvious aptitude and cram you into that
pigeon-hole. I found Physics and things like that quite easy to
cope with and so I was pushed down that road. When I left
school I was all set to go to Manchester University to do
Mechanical Engineering. But suddenly the thought of another
three years of the sixth form was more than I could stand.
So I took a year off. My career choice was made by the National
Institute of Industrial Psychology where I took a whole bunch
of aptitude tests - so I was completely passive about that as
well. They told me I would do well at Architecture, which
didn't sound as dull as Mechanical Engineering. So I said OK.
Then I had to learn to draw, because they wanted a portfolio of
drawings for your interview.
CS: They didn't say anything about music?
RW: Oh no, they didn't spot that. But music is only mathematics
anyway. It is another way of interpreting maths. Musical
intervals are also mathematical intervals. If you double the
frequency of a note it rises by an octave. We call it music,
but our brain is going, Oh, that's twice as fast as that!
But let me say that I never saw any music in maths. It was all
complete drudgery to me. I was completely uninterested in it.
I could never see the beauty of mathematical relationships.
I started studying Architecture but they slung me out after two
years for refusing to attend History of Architecture lectures.
I was very bloshie. I must have been horrible to teach. But the
History lecture that I came up against was very reactionary,
so it was a fair battle. I said I wouldn't do exams because
the guy refused to talk to me. He'd tell us to sit down and
copy a drawing off a blackboard. And I asked him if he could
explain why, because I couldn't see the point in copying
something off a blackboard that he was copying of a
testbook. It was just like school. I couldn't handle it. I'd
hoped I'd escaped all that. When you go to university, you
expect to be treated like little grown-ups.
But there are architects who are involved in natural materials
and in domestic architecture, especially in America where there
is that woodsy thing which has developed from the California A-
frame mentality, which is very easy to sneer at but is actually
very good.
I mean (he touches the wooden frame of the mixing desk), this
piece of mahogany here, for example: it would be very nice to
be in this house for twenty years and watch its wear and tear.
You can derive great pleasure from looking at a piece of wood
if you live with it all the time. That's what is so attractive
about bread-boards hanging in kitchens - they really look very
nice as they begin to gradually get hacked and worn. There's
something very nice about the human body slowly eroding a piece
of timber. I always like pieces of wood that are worn from
having had horses tethered to them and that have become lovely
and smooth, allowing you to see the grain.
CS: There's a rather obvious connection to be made here- the
architecture student who went to compose The Wall...
RW: Well, maybe. Maybe the architectural training to look at things
helped me to visualise my feelings of alienation from rock 'n'
roll audiences. Which was the starting point for The Wall. The
fact that it then embodied an autobiographical narrative was
kind of secondary to the main thing which was a theatrical
statement in which I was saying, "Isn't this fucking awful?
Here I am up onstage and there you all are down there and isn't
it horrible! What the fuck are we all doing here?"
CS: I thought that, as a theatrical work, The Wall was
marvellous. When I saw it at Earls Court, I thought it was the
first rock 'n' roll show I'd seen that made full and proper use
of one of those arenas.
RW: I put it together with Gerry Scarfe, who designed all the
puppets and made the animation with me, and of course with Mark
Fisher and Jonathan Park, who did all the detailed design work
of the set. They designed the brick; they built the wall; they
designed the man lifts that went up and down at the back so
that people could actually build the thing. Mark designed the
way it fell over, and Jonathan did all the engineering, Gerry's
puppets and animation were half of the show.
We were all working furiously up until the first night. And
first time we had the wall up across the arena with some fil
on it was four days before the first show. I went and walked
all the way around the top row of seats at the back of the
arena. And my heart was beating furiously and I was getting
shivers right up and down my spine. And I thought it was so
fantastic that people could actually see and hear something
from everywhere they were seated. Because after the 1977 tour I
became seriously deranged - or maybe arranged - about stadium
gigs. Because I do think they are awful.
They are about statistics. For the public, it seems to me, the
enjoyment comes from two things. I think it's partly that they
are in the presence of the legend - whether it's Bruce
Springsteen or another proven brand name doesn't really matter
so long as it's the presence of someone you can identify as
being 'legendary'. There's also the statistical thing of being
able to say, Yeah, there were 85,000 of us here: you couldn't
move. You couldn't get to the bar (guffaws with laughter). We
all had to piss standing up, crushed together. It was fucking
great!
And, of course, onstage and backstage all that's going on is,
Do you know how much we've grossed, boys, how many T-shirts
we've sold? That's absolutely it. That's all it's about -
money. And you go down in the Guiness Book Of Records for
having played before the biggest audiences ever blah-blah-blah.
And...oh dear, fuck that, I mean, alright, I can understand
that motivation. But I don't like it.
CS: When was the first time you ever played stadiums?
RW: 1977
CS: How did that actually feel? Which was the first one that you
ever played?
RW: I honestly can't remember, (pause). We did Anaheim, JFK,
Philadelphia...a whole load of them. And the final one was the
Olympic Stadium in Montreal. Before that we did Soldiers' Field
in Chicago. Before the gig started I went up and stood on the
bleachers at the back of the stage and looked down at the
audience. And Steve O'Rourke came up and stood beside me and he
said, Guess how many people are in here? I said, I dunno. And
he said, sixty-three thousand. But by this time I'd done enough
big shows to know what sixty thousand people looked like, And I
looked down and said, No. There's at least eighty thousand, if
not a hundred thousand. He said, I'll go and check. And the box
office told him it was completely sold out to an audience of
sixty-three thousand.
So we immediately rented a helicopter, a photographer and a
attorney and photographed it from the air, with affidavits from
the helicopter pilot and the attorney, sworn, sealed and
delivered. And it turned out that there were ninety-five thousand
people there. So where were the thirty-two thousand people?
Six hundred and forty thousand dollars!
CS: But I heard that the rest of the Floyd wanted to do The Wall
tour in stadiums. And that was one of the reasons you
ultimately knocked the Pink Floyd on the head...
RW: Yes, in 1980 when we finished in New York, Larry Maggid, a
Philadelphia promoter - I remember him promoting us there at
The Electric Factory when we were supporting Savoy Brown -
offered us a guaranteed million dollars a show plus expenses to
go and do two dates at JFK Stadium with The Wall. To truck
straight from New York, where we'd been playing Nassau
Collosseum, to Philadelphia. And (laughs) I wouldn't do it.
I had to go through the whole story with the other members. I
said, "You've all read my explanations of what The Wall is
about. It's three years since we did that last stadium and I
saw then that I would never do one again. And The Wall is
entirely sparked off by how awful that was and how I didn't
feel that the public or the band or anyone got anything out of
it that was worthwhile. And that's why we've produced this show
strictly for arenas where everyone does get something out of it
that is worthwhile. Blah-blah-blah. And, I ain't fuckin'
going!"
So there was alot of talk about whether Andy Bown could sing
my part. Oh, you may laugh - this is what's happening now,
isn't it? And in the end they bottled out. They didn't have
the balls to go through with it at that point.
CS: So that was presumably a crucial incident in terms of the
ultimate break-up of the group.
RW: Ummm...I didn't see it as that at the time. It was just the way
the band was. I always made those decisions, so it didn't seem
strange at all. Now, of course, you can see the irony of it.
But at the time it seemed perfectly natural.
CS: In fact, the live Wall show did seem like a real piece of
conceptual art, which would have been impossible to reproduce
in a larger setting.
RW: Certainly that's how I saw it. There was an attempt made to put
it on to video, and I have consistently stamped on any moves to
get that video out because it does not do justice to what was a
very theatrical event. Maybe in twenty years time, as sort of
archive material, I might be prepared to release it. But I
quite like the fact that the people who went to the shows
copped it for what it meant to be, where it was meant to be,
and nobody has been allowed to sell a third-rate, tacky
version on video.
CS: Of course, almost from the very start the visuals, the total
presentation, were part of the Pink Floyd's live presence.
RW: It's always been there. I remember the Games For May concert we
did at the Queen Elizabeth Hall in May 1967. I was working in
this dank, dingy basement off the Harrow Road, with an old
Ferrograph. I remember sitting there recording edge tones off
cymbals for the performance - later that became the beginning
of Saucerful Of Secrets. In those days you could get away with
stuff like chasing clockwork toy cars around the stage with a
microphone. For Games For May I also made "bird" noises
recorded on the old Ferrograph at half-speed, to be played in
the theatre's foyer as the audience was coming in. I was always
interested in the possibilities of rock 'n' roll, how to fill
the space between the audience and the idea with more than just
guitars and vocals.
CS: Then there was the giant inflatable pig in 1977 that slipped
its moorings at Battersea Power Station and was spotted by an
airline pilot at 40,000 feet.
RW: The pig was specifically for the concerts that went with the
Animals record. Actually, I think the 'boys' thought I'd gone
the way of Syd when I said that we needed a giant inflatable
family and a load of inflatable animals.
CS: You've always been perceived as a bit miserable...
RW: I don't think the humour of the work has ever really escaped in
the way it might have. The political subject matter on top of
it has been generally dour. I suppose I have always appeared as
a rather melancholy person. But I'm not. My situation is like
the opposite of the cliche of the comedian who when he's not
performing is a miserable sod.
Hopefully this Radio KAOS show will have a similar effect to
The Wall. It's the same team, although Gerry Scarfe isn't
involved in this one. I've toyed with the idea of playing in a
legitimate theatre but I've shied away from it because I
suspect that to me rock 'n' roll would seem just as
uncomfortable in a 1,500 seater with a proscenium arch as it
does in an 80,000 seat stadium. The arena feels like a good
place to be. You can put a decent-sized sound system in and
make it loud without hurting people. It's going to be a
travelling radio show. So it will be like being in Radio KAOS
with Jim Ladd providing links between all the songs, and my
Bleeding Heart band being the live band inside the radio
station. We hope to have a dialogue with the audience who'll be
able to make calls to the stage from phone booths in the auditorium.
CS: What is the central theme of the Radio KAOS album?
RW: Included in this program is a map of the northern hemisphere,
showing all the western listening devices, where they are and
what they are, and including an exploded map of South Wales
where BILLY, the main character, comes from, and an exploded
map of LA, where he goes to. It's a bit like the map in the
frontispiece of Winnie The Pooh, in that it has dotted lines
showing Billy's route, where great-uncle David's house is, and
where Radio KAOS is in Laurel Canyon. It is lend credence to
the idea that in there somewhere is a story, if you care to
search for it.
To answer your question of what the main themes of the record
are, Ian Ritchie, who produced the record, is quite distressed
that I didn't call it Home, which for a long time was the
working title, because one of the things that the record is
about is what home is. Is home keeping out of the weather?
Being reasonably well fed? Being safe? Is home doing those
things in the context of a family? We all think we understand
what we mean by the idea of home. But is home the most
important thing to a human being in the sense of belonging to a
certain thing or person? Having that sense of security and the
feeling you are not going to be moved on or blown to pieces?
The feeling that you have the right to a continous existence
within the context of the society to which you belong from the
moment you are born to the moment you die in order to arrange
yourself into a good shape to die in?
I don't know. I know there is a utopian idea that the
possibility exists for communities to exist where people try to
look after one another, and co-operate with one another, in the
hope that they can get from the cradle to the grave, and at
some point along the way feel fulfilled. And that we can reduce
the percentage possibility of some truly appalling trauma, be
it the Bomb, AIDS, a minor invasion, or simply being told you
have no worth, we don't need you, piss off. I just feel we
could be doing a lot better than we are if we off-load the idea
that the only route to progress, the cause of human happiness,
is competition.
I'am concerned with the idea in this piece that rampant,
unrestricted market forces are trampling over everybody's
fucking lives and making the world a horrible place to live in
and also increasing the potential risk of us all blowing
ourselves up because we've become so frustrated in our efforts
to compete with each other. Which is why I have great concerns
about the proliferation of nuclear weapons and why I think it
essential that Europe becomes a nuclear-free zone. Because one
of these people who think they're not getting a fair slice of
the cake is going to get hold of these weapons and fucking well
let them off. What's Reagan going to do if one of his frigates
is blown up by Gaddafi using a nuclear weapon? I hate to think.
They've already gone out and quite happily bombed Tripoli. In
the preamble to this record I talk about that, because one of
the other parallel concerns in the record is the idea of
politics as entertainment. The idea that by isolating the high-
profile enemy like Gaddafi you can entertain the electorate
into polling booths to put the X in the right place is what I
call the soap opera of state.
CS: Your first record after Pink Floyd was The Pros And Cons Of
Hitchhiking. How did that sell?
RW: The record sold six hundred thousand copies. But the Hitchhiker
tour sold appallingly in Europe. Even in London I had to use
almost all the money in advertising to get people to buy
tickets. I cancelled loads of shows. And my budget was based on
selling out loads of shows. So I was about four hundred grand
down at the end.
CS: You had that tax problem with the Pink Floyd. Did that
severely hit you?
RW: Oh yes, It was a company called Norton Warburg, run by a guy
called Andrew Warburg. The idea was to take gross income and
run it through a finance company to protect it from the
immediate payment of tax on the grounds that it was being used
to finance venture capital situation. It was all legal. But
what Norton Warburg did was to move money from account to
account and take huge management fees each time they moved it.
We were going bankrupt. We lost a couple of million quid -
nearly everything we'd made from Dark Side Of The Moon. Then we
discovered the Inland Revenue might come and ask for us 83 per
cent of the money we had lost. Which we didn't have.
So we had gone from fourteen-years-olds with ten quid guitars
and fantasies of being rich and famous, and made the dream come
true with Dark Side Of The Moon, and then, being greedy and
trying to protect it, we'd lost it all. So on those grounds we
decided to go abroad to make the next record, The Wall, and try
and get some cash to pay this potential tax bill. Mind you,
Rick Wright left in the middle of that, in mid-1979. That was
the decision of all three of us. I see that he's back with the
others now, to make it all seem kosher, like a proper group.
But he's on a wage.
CS: There was a story that I heard that was used to illustrate
the differences between yourself and the rest of the Pink Floyd.
Supposedly, during the making of The Wall, the rest of the
members were in the studio somewhere, whilst you stood on a
hill in the south of France, playing your instrument which was
bounced by satellite into the studio.
RW: That's apocryphal, I'm afraid.
CS: You say you felt very satisfied after completing Dark Side Of
The Moon and The Wall. But do you generally feel reasonably
pleased with what you've done?
RW: I think Radio KAOS is some of the best stuff I've ever done.
Pros And Cons was bitty. The Wall I was very happy with. The
Final Cut was absolutely misery to make, although I listened to
it of late and I rather like a lot of it. But I don't like my
singing on it. You can hear the mad tension running through it
all. If you're trying to express something and being prevented
from doing it because you're so uptight...It was a horrible
time.
We were all fighting like cats and dogs. We were finally
realising - or accepting, if you like - that there was no band.
It was really being thrust upon us that we were not a band and
had not been in accord for a long time. Not since 1975, when we
made Wish You Were Here. Even then there were big disagreements
about content and how to put the record together.
CS: When did you realise it was finally the end?
RW: Well, there are those who contend it's not over, of course
(laughs wryly). But making The Final Cut was misery. We
didn't work together at all. I had to do it more or less
single-handed, working with Michael Kamen, my co-producer.
That's one of the few things that the 'boys' and I agreed
about. But no-one alse would do anything on it.
It sold three million copies, which wasn't a lot for
the Pink Floyd. And as a consequence, Dave Gilmour went on
record as saying, "There you go: I knew he was doing it wrong
all along." But it's absolutely ridiculous to judge a record
solely on sales. If you're going to use sales as the sole
criterion, it makes Grease a better record than Graceland.
Anyway, I was in a greengrocer's shop , and this woman of about
forty in a fur coat came up to me. She said she thought it was
the most moving record she had ever heard. Her father had also
been killed in World War II, she explained. And I got back into
my car with my three pounds of potatoes and drove home and
thought, good enough.
CS: What was your favourite period of the Pink Floyd?
RW: It's hard to remember that far back. But I think probably pre-
Dark Side Of The Moon. In those days it was a band. I'm sure
that at that point we all agreed about the same things, like,
We'll only play the new material. We won't play any of the old
material anymore. We'll only do this album and the one before,
and that's it. There was a certain integrity and what was
important was the work. And that is still exactly how I feel
now, although I do confess I do old tunes onstage now.
Nevertheless I feel exactly the same about the work. I just
don't (laughs) have to argue with anyone about it now.
I can just get on with it.
CS: What is your artistic purpose?
RW: There is no purpose. We do whatever we do. You either blow your
brains out or get on with something.