I think this may be the longest transcription of an article that I have ever done. But it is from a great period of time from a great band. The journalist is not very positive at all to the new songs – I am sure that he later must have corrected himself for calling “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” a dull song, as it is one of the greatest songs ever recorded, well, at least in my opinion. Have a good read!
“Richly they merit their place among the symphonic overlords of today`s popular heirachy,” wrote Derek Jewell in the Sunday Times. “At Thursday`s opening they reeled off, apparently effortlessly, a performance with musical textures so ravishing and visual accompaniments so surprising that, for once, the thunderous standing ovation was completely justified.”
So how do you argue with that (and with more than 30,000 apparently satisfied customers)? Answer: you don`t. Not unless you`re looking for trouble – or feel, as did Nick Kent and Pete Erskine, a fair amount of anger and bitter disillusion concerning “symphonic overlords” and “ravishing musical textures” when it`s clear and admitted by FLOYD`S Dave Gilmour that Wembley was plainly a bad gig. On this showing, say our men, it`s time to get the Floyd back in perspective. Nick Kent, at Wembley, and Pete Erskine, talking to DAVE GILMOUR, attempt to do just that.
FLOYD JUGGERNAUT…THE ROAD TO 1984?
On November 14, 1974, approximately 7,000 people washed their hair and traveled down to the Empire Pool, Wembley, to witness the Pink Floyd live. Almost everyone, that is, except David Gilmour – his hair looked filthy there on stage, seemingly anchored down by a surfeit of scalp grease and tapering off below the shoulders with a spectacular festooning of split ends.
Rather like Bill’s locks, in fact.
Bill was sitting next to me throughout the concert y’see. Said he came from Hayward’s Heath, Sussex – and well, anyway he did have something of the patent Gilmour style about him: stringy unwashed hair parted in the middle and furrowed behind the ears, an earnest compliment of peach-fuzz masquerading as facial hair, plimsolls – the lot, in fact, even though his face lacked Gilmour’s bully-boy well-formed features, substituting a kind of bleary-eyed doggedness which wrinkled up every time he took a blast off one of a constant series of “cool jays”.
“Good stuff, this,” Bill muttered. “We get it from this spade guy down in Brighton. Straight off the boat it comes.”
Bill said he didn’t go much on any other kinds of stimulant.
He also didn’t like too much music. Said it almost boastfully. Only a few albums. And the Floyd of course. “I’ve got a good stereo, mind. Big speakers.”
So what does he do with it?
“I’ll tell you. I mean I like to get really, y’know really stoned – spaced, y’know, and I put on me Floyd…ah, `Meddle` or `Dark Side of the Moon` – that track `Great Gig in the Sky`, and I’m laying there between the speakers really spaced, getting off on the stereo crossovers.”
“Yeah, y’know, when the sound goes from channel to channel. Phasing and that. Those are the bits I like best.”
Bill’s girlfriend “Jiff” thinks the Pink Floyd are the best group in the whole world. “They’re taking music to this whole new level. It’s really…”
“Yes, that’s just what I was going to say.”
“One thing I’ve always taken into consideration, and which sums up, for me anyway, the fundamental personality crisis inherent in the old Floyd is that Syd (Barrett) was an artist and the other three were all student architects. I think that says an awful lot, particularly when you study the kind of music the Floyd have gone on to play since that time.”
That quote came courtesy Peter Jenner, who confided the same to me some months ago. I’d almost forgotten it until about halfway through the Floyd’s Wembley set, straight after the three new numbers had been performed.
At 7.55 p.m. I’d entered the Empire Pool toting healthy expectations for a thoroughly enjoyable evening of entertainment at the very least, already.
At 10.45 p.m. I left the same hall possibly more infuriated over what I’d just witnessed than I can ever remember being over any other similar event. Angry and rather depressed.
It was hell. But let’s begin at the beginning.
At 8.20 p.m. or thereabouts the four members of Floyd saunter onstage. It is not a spectacular entrance. In fact they wander on rather like four navvies who’ve just finished their tea-break and are about to return slowly to the task of tarring a section of main road.
After approximately five minutes of slightly labored tuning up, the band start their first number of the set – a new composition entitled “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.” It is very slow, rather low on melodic inventiveness, each note hanging in that archetypically ominous stunted fashion that tends to typify the Floyd at their most uninspired. The song itself is dully revealed to be of very slight mettle; the chords used are dull, as is the pace.
The song distinctly lacks ‘form’. And then there are the lyrics.
“Come on you raver, you seer of visions / Come on you painter, you piper, you prophet, and shine,” sings Roger Waters at one point, his voice mottled by a slightly squeamish, self-consciousness of timbre, not to mention the fact that he also appears at this point to be somewhat flat. The lyrics are not very good, you see. Pretty much like sixth form poetry – prissy, self-conscious and pretentious.
“You were caught in the cross-fire of childhood and stardom/Blown on the steel breeze/Come on, you target for far-away laughter/Come on you stranger, you legend, you martyr and shine.”
The song is for and about Syd Barrett. He could have deserved better.
The thoroughly unimpressive beginning is duly followed by the second of the three new numbers to be showcased in this section. “Raving and Drooling” is motivated by a rhythm somewhat akin to that of the human heart-beat with further references gathered from numerous Floyd stylised devices.
Wright drags some suitably Moog-oriented “primal-screams” from one of a mighty arsenal of keyboard instruments, Waters manipulates a stolid simplistic bass-pattern, Mason plays one of the two or three standard rhythms he habitually employs -usually incorporating much emphasis on the tom-toms and cymbals – while Gilmour blithely chunks out a “One of These Days” rhythm stab on his guitar.
The song is again of incredibly minor import, Waters doing his whole “Careful With That Axe, Eugene” tormented horse -faced routine – “Raving and drooling I feel on his neck with a scream/He had a whole lotta terminal shock in his eyes/That’s what you get for pretending the rest are not real” etc., etc.
Pretty undistinguished stuff except for the fact that yours truly noted that the first line was wrenched out in much the same way that Barrett sang “Wolfpack” on his second solo album. Otherwise more identikit Floyd bereft of any real originality or inspired conceptualized connaissance.
So then there was “Gotta Be Crazy”, the magnum opus of this dubious triumvirate for which Waters had regurgitated the old “Dark Side of the Moon” study of society-and-its-destructive-pressures gruel to even more facile conclusions.
One could of course begin by pointing out that the song features a fairly decent melody – a fetching minor chord progression strummed out by Gilmour who also sings over it Waters’ lyrics – “You gotta be crazy, you gotta be mean/You gotta keep your kids and your car clean/You gotta keep climbing, you gotta keep fit/You got to keep smiling, you gotta eat shit!”
Boy, what an indictment on the whole bourgeois high-pressured schism of our time!
But then again, who better than the Floyd to commandeer such a grievous lambasting of the aforestated life-style when after all I can’t think of another rock-group who live a more desperately bourgeois existence in the privacy of their own homes.
And whaddyamean, people in glass houses shouldn’t throw stones… Waters hasn’t even begun yet! I mean, here he is concluding this mighty epic with a potent list of bland psychological causes for his hapless victim’s doomed condition – “Who was born in a house full of pain/Who was sent out to play on his own” – when only a few verses prior to this he avidly gloats over the poor bastard’s decline and fall – “And when you lose control, you’ll reap the harvest you have sown… So have a good drown and you’ll go down alone.”
There’s obviously something here that doesn’t, how you say, correlate. Not to mention a very perverse sense of morality at work.
So there are the lyrics – which I personally find quite offensive – and I still haven’t mentioned the song’s musical construction beyond that pleasing opening strum section which I forgot to mention sounded like the kind of chord structure the old Wyatt-Hopper-Ratledge Soft Machine used to do wonders with way back when.
Unfortunately, the Floyd, as always, let the song sprawl out to last twice as long as it should, summoning the aid of some of the most laboured bouts of aural padding imaginable. I mean, the very least one would expect from a song like this would be a tight, incisive structure, but then again incisiveness has never been something the post-Syd Floyd have prided themselves on, and so one has to wade through laboured sections of indolent musical driftwood before lo, the plot is resumed and one is sent careering back to our Roger’s bloated denunciation:
“Gotta be sure, you gotta be quick/Gotta divide the tame from the sick/Gotta keep some of us docile and fit/You gotta keep everyone buying this shit.”
“Buying this shit”???
Explain Mr. Waters, if you please. The song ends, as I stated earlier on, with a mildly potent “J’accuse” blast of postured psychological cause-and-effect ranting, leaving the audience with a 20 minute interval in order to gather themselves for a further assault.
The second half is, of course, taken up by the whole “Dark Side of the Moon” presentation. Visuals for the new numbers had been muted to a minimum: two sets of spotlights tastefully flanking the stage throughout, while three mirror-balls were put into operation during “Raving and Drooling”. But “Dark Side” was to be graced by the projection of a special film made as a visual complement to the music.
Again the Floyd light into the first section of the effort. More assured…but God, they look and sound so uninspired.
Wright’s solo Moog doodling signals the first reel of the film being unleashed on the audience – random shots of a plane taking off viewed from the cockpit, a garish cartoon segment of touch-down on an alien planet ending with a section of total incendiary destruction.
S’all right, mind you. Very obvious and that, but it keeps you engaged if not enthralled. It’s only when you’re informed by an intimate of the Floyd’s entourage that the likes of Lindsay Anderson and Nicholas Roeg – i.e. the best film directors in the country – were at the outset interested in helping out on the film until they actually came up against the Floyd and immediately made their excuses in order to opt out that it all starts to fall into perspective again.
It’s also around this time that you start realising how incredibly limited the band seem to be as musicians. As a rhythm section, Mason and Waters are perhaps the dullest I’ve ever witnessed filling a large auditorium, the former going through his tedious tricks most of the time, and falling apart at those unscripted junctures when the band are forced to involve themselves in attempts at spontaneity. (These junctures of course are very few and far between, due to the situation of the whole show being moulded around the constrictive dictates of the visual presentation which depends ultimately on stop-gap timing).
Waters is not a very imaginative bass player, and doesn’t improve things by incorporating a tone akin to the dull atonal thud one gets when hitting the strings of a piano with a rubber hammer.
Rick Wright is merely an adequate keyboard player, and always seems uncomfortable when forced to take action (at one point he attempted some gospel-tinged pianistics to complement the fine performance of Venetta Fields and Carlena Williams’ “Great Gig in the Sky” segment and muffed it badly).
This weakness creates numerous watersheds in the music which just scream for some inspired interjection, whether in the form of a Ratledge-styled piece of inspired doodling or even one of those quasi-Herbie Hancock soft-jazz flurries which every young dolt in an up-and-coming progressive unit seems perfectly adept at pulling off these days.
Wright really hasn’t improved that much since the old Floyd days; only the arsenal of keyboards has been added to.
Finally there’s Gilmour – who, although an adequate guitarist, projects little personality in his playing, well-doused as his solos are in the blues guitar school traditions.
Here again a lack of inspiration fails to perceive vast holes in the music which could so easily be cemented in by some tasteful rhythm work or a short-tight solo such as he is capable of.
So anyway the Floyd battle on with their films (more obvious footage of currency for “Money” plus some shots of “political leaders” for “Brain Damage” – is this a political statement, boys? – and their tapes and their perfect P.A. system, and the audience are loving it.
Those still awake, that is. Our Mr. Erskine was being flanked by somnambulant corpses on his side of the fence while I noticed a few bedraggled-looking souls dozing off in my corner.
Even our old mate Bill – remember him? – was rendered inert for some ten minutes until the applause for “Money” brought him around.
Finally the “Moon” set is completed and the band walk off to ecstatic applause. They eventually return for an encore – no “thank-yous” or anything…I mean that would be just too much to ask, now wouldn’t it, and the band do “Echoes”.
Visuals are now relegated to luminous green orbs of circular light projected on the big screen (they never seem to really be spinning properly), while towards the end the band’s ankles are engulfed in – wait for it! – “dry ice”.
The above constituted what could easily be the most boring concert I’ve ever been forced to sit through for review purposes. Mind you, the Floyds themselves were reportedly none too enamoured by the event either: apparently there was a nasty fight between the band after the set which culminated in a sound man being sacked and some guy from Island Studios being brought in at short notice to replace him.
Having been informed of this, we decided to curb the venom long enough to give the band a second chance and go back on the Friday night. This time the sound had indeed improved beyond all recognition and the first half went pretty smoothly until there arose some “contretemps” betwixt Roger Waters at his most morose and someone who dared yelled “Get on with it!” during yet more laboured tuning up in order to preface “Gotta be Crazy”.
“We’re going as fast as we can,” muttered Waters derisively, sounding amazed that this young upstart actually dare criticize them.
If that weren’t bad enough, someone yelped out, of all things, “1967,” straight afterwards.
This was too much for Waters. “It’s not 1967, it’s 1974,” he snapped back.
Anyway, Friday’s show still pinpointed how poor the band are at jamming or really sustaining either drama or dramatics, flailing around to little avail in their attempts to pad out what are at the best of times minor works. And the band’s musicianship was, as before, questionably mediocre.
OK, boys, now this is really going to hurt.
What the two Floyd shows I witnessed on Thursday and Friday amounted to in the final analysis was not merely a kind of utterly morose laziness which is ultimately even more obnoxious than callow superstar “flash”, but a pallid excuse for creative music which comes dangerously close to the Orwellian mean for a facile, soulless music that would doubtless rule the air-waves and moreover be touted as fine art in the latter’s vision of 1984.
David Bowie, on his “Diamond Dogs”, unwittingly (as far as I can see, anyway) hit upon something which totally invalidates the rest of his similarly facile theorizing on a computerised cruel future planet when he plays, of all things, “Rebel Rebel”.
“Rebel Rebel”, you see, is the ultimate identikit diluted series of computerised rock gestures – the mechanical Stones riff, the brainless lyrics – real “1984” rock. The Pink Floyd are even closer to that though. Over the last few years the band have in fact come to establish themselves as the total antithesis of what they started out representing: the whole Brave New World school of rock musicianship which broke loose back in ’66-’67 and brought about real masterpieces like “Eight Miles High”, “Revolver” and “Piper at the Gates of Dawn”.
The Floyd in fact now seem so incredibly tired and seemingly bereft of true creative ideas one wonders if they really care about their music at all anymore.
I mean, one can easily envisage a Floyd concert in the future consisting of the band simply wandering on stage, setting all their tapes into action, putting their instruments on remote control and then walking off behind the amps in order to talk about football or play billiards.
I’d almost prefer to see them do that. At least it would be more honest.
Still, the Floyd can content themselves on one score. They are definitely the quintessential English band. No other combine quite sums up the rampant sense of doomed mediocrity inherent in this country’s current outlook right now. “Hanging on in quiet desperation is the English way.” Just delete “quiet desperation” (Thoreau, for one, will be pleased) and choose your own depreciative little phrase as an amendment and we’ve got it all pigeonholed very nicely thank you, squire. And there’s absolutely nothing “cosmic” about any of it, really, now is there?
David Gilmour is almost by accident probably the most proficient musician in the Floyd – without, in terms of his guitar work, ever imposing any kind of “personality” on the group. Past history reveals his style and approach as being, to say the least, malleable.
Gilmour joined the band in `67 as replacement for Syd Barrett. They`d all known each other from the band`s embryonic Cambridge days. Prior to this Gilmour had been gigging in France and was, on his own admission, a fairly stock rock guitarist whose roots extended no further back than Hank Marvin.
“At the time,” reports the Floyd`s then co-manager, Pete Jenner, “Dave was doing very effective take-offs of Hendrix-style guitar playing. So the band said, `play like Syd Barrett`.”
The familiar slide and echo-boxes were purely of Syd`s invention.
Subsequently, in an interview conducted last year, Gilmour stated that his joining such an apparently disparate unit as the Floyd was in no way anything more than a minor wrench for him. Which is possibly why he finds it so easy to fit in with such other apparently disparate elements as Unicorn, Sutherland Brothers, Quiver and Roy Harper. Hence the term “malleability” may also imply (a) a lack of personality in musical style and therefore (b) a suspicion of an “it`s-only-a-gig” philosophy.
In a way, you could say that Gilmour was a geezer who struck lucky – which is why, I`ve always felt, he`s regarded the band – and his role within it – with a certain tinge of cynicism. It`s almost as if the Floyd, having loafed about half-seriously in the beginning as “The Architectural Abdabs” (sic), garnered their persona from Barrett and, when he dropped out, for want of anything better to do clung on to the momentum he provided. Until – in a manner of speaking – success crept up from behind and goosed them.
Sometime in between, of course, they must have realised, that they were On To A Good Thing.
The Floyd are nothing if not shrewd.
More, even, than Brian Eno, they`re well aware of the benefits of concocting a low-profile Emperor`s New Clothes` syndrome – which is why, I`d guess, Roger Waters makes no little show onstage of his apparent disdain for their audiences. And why, too (you`ll have noticed) that the band do few interviews and, when they do, try and avoid discussing the intrinsic grits of their music too much.
They like, you see, for you to make your own deductions – and with intellectual paranoia in the ascendant (possibly as a result of The Rise Of The Reefer) how can they fail?
Thus confronted, Gilmour`s attitude remains uniformly laissez-faire.
“Cynical?” he says querulously. “No. I mean, last night on stage I was just hung up. Because it wasn`t very good.”
At one point – the night before the Thursday gig – the first of their Wembley gigs – he`d raised his eyebrows as if to say, let`s pack it in and piss off home.”
BUT NOW it`s Friday morning and we`re camped down in the bedroom of his recently-renovated Notting Hill Town house.
Concert licks first, please Dave, how about the gaps between numbers – Roger stalling over lighting a cigarette with this “well-we-can-do-this-we`re-Artists” attitude?
“Oh yeah. But I don`t really think that`s what it`s down to. It`s just…ah…well, I dunno…Roger likes smoking cigarettes. He can`t get through a gig without a few straights.”
He is, however, more than willing to admit that Thursday night`s gig was “probably the worst we`ve done on the whole tour.”
“The first half…” he continues languidly “…when that wasn`t very good it didn`t particularly worry me because they`re all new things and we`re not doing them very well yet. But we have done them better than that. I thought the second half would click into place because it has done on a couple of other nights when the first half wasn`t good.”
The standard of musicianship was very low – for example Rick Wright`s solo on the end of “Us And Them” which didn`t approximate to the recorded version in any way.
“In the first half…the sound wasn`t very good and the vocal mikes were pretty terrible – which makes it that much harder to sing and that much harder to work. And also it didn`t sound as if there was any bass and drums. Unless there`s a bit of that `ooomph` you can`t really get off…it was just one of those nights were you bumble around and don`t really get anything together. It sounded ragged all the way through.
“It doesn`t worry me particularly, it just happens sometimes. Just chemistry really, innit?
Well, okay, was the audience`s response an accurate one, then?
“I think they enjoyed it reasonably – but I think a lot of people didn`t really think it was very good. There`s a difference between going home and thinking it was pretty good and going home and thinking `wow`. And I know we do get that pretty often. More nights than not I know that most of the people there are going to go home and say `what a groove!` I think they probably want to convince themselves that they DID have a groove just so that they don`t think they hit on a bad one…and wasted their money.”
Right. On to the Big Picture. The band has reached a level now – with “Moon” – where, inevitably, when you`re at a party, someone will put it on and everybody will say `Jeepers, THE FLOYD!` – almost as a conditioned reflex. i.e. whatever the-Floyd-do-is-hallowed. How do you feel about it?
“It`s a drag.”
It`s almost as if the band could put out a double album of Roger tuning his bass and it`d sell.
“I`m sure there would be people who`d react that way – but I`m sure sales figures would reflect a bad album in the end. But I don`t mean that 100 per cent. I`m sure that if we put out an album of pure tripe it would sell vastly more than lots and lots of other band`s records. But in relation to our sales, a bad record would sell badly. It has done in the past.”
“Well, `Atom Heart Mother`. I`d say that was the worst record we`ve made. I didn`t like it and I don`t like it much now. I`m not very keen on `Umma Gumma` either.”
Well, how about “Moon?” Did its musical content really merit its universal popularity – or was it the Floyd album that coincided with the peak of interest in the band?
`Quite possibly. You may be right. But it certainly was a very good all-round…uh…package. Everything about it was very well done. It was one continuous idea. It was recorded well, it was pretty well mixed, had a good cover and all that sort of stuff.
“But I`ve always felt, right from the word Go, that the musical side of it wasn`t that hot in some parts. And I still feel that. Some parts are a bit weak. We`d have a lyrical idea but no real idea of a musical piece to put to it, so we`d just make something up and take the first thing that came – rather than being critical about the musical side as it was being done. But then some of those bits got knocked out during the months we were playing it onstage before we recorded it. The original travel section we played for months onstage and even recorded it before deciding to scrap it and start again.”
Yes. But getting back to this bland acceptance thing…surely the band is to blame? Onstage the music is almost moving towards a kind of Automaton Rock, towards a kind of non-participatory non-thinking music – where all the audience has to do is walk in, sit down and watch it all exploding in front of them. In terms of presentation you could be getting to the point where you walk on stage, throw a few switches and walk out. Will it come to that?
“Oh I don`t think so, no. I don`t think that the audience have a very great participation in what we do but I don`t think that`s a bad thing necessarily.”
Don`t you think it promotes Bland Acceptance?
“No. Listen,” he says (perhaps beginning to get a little riled), “we still have to get off. I mean YOU know what the difference is between a good gig and a bad gig. And it`s not mechanical. We`re quite capable of blowing a gig and we`re also capable of doing a great gig.”
But in the main it tends to glut the listener`s faculties, promoting a glazed `okay feed-it-to-me` attitude (which, taken to its fullest extent, I might add, is positively somnambulist. I personally noted four people sound asleep in my row.
“You think so?” he replies (perhaps stalling a little). “I think it`s up to them. I think they`re free to take it any way they want. A lot of people don`t though. We had someone the other night who must`ve known that we`re football fans who was shouting `cyyyyomon you Floyd!!!` just like they do on the North Bank.”
The new material sounded a bit recycled – like some of the more tangible stuff on “Moon”. Does that mean you`re having trouble sorting out new ideas?
“Umm, yeah. I don`t know…uh…`Raving And Drooling` – the middle one of the three – sounds a bit recycled to me, but they`re not there yet. I`m not very keen on that one at the moment…but, I dunno, these things get worked into shape. I know that one or two of them are gonna sound great recorded. I think the last one, `Gotta Be Crazy` is very different to a lot of stuff we`ve done, but I don`t think the words go right at the moment.
“I mean, the singing thing`s been worked out a bit too quickly. Roger wrote the words to fit over a certain part and I`m not sure that we did it quite the right way.”
But how can you equate doing something like “Gotta Be Crazy” – or “Money”, even – from the relatively secure position you`re in as a band?
“Well, `Money` is obviously a satire on…money. And it is a self-satire. Obviously. It`s easy to tell that because a lot of the lyrics relate specifically to things that various of us have done, but I mean, I don`t think we`re as capitalist as…I think it mocks us, the song says that we`re more than we are, in fact. It just keeps us aware of it all.
“You Gotta Be Crazy` is about business pressure really. It does relate to us – I`m sure – you`ll have to ask Roger really, he wrote it. The way I understand the words is that I guess you have to harden yourself up to – uh – you know Make It in this world…if that`s what you call Making It…”
The other thing about the new material is that it sounds “safe”. It`s years since the band`s taken any musical risks which, for a group that claims its main appeal is that it “sounds different” from any other, is a little incongruous.
“Ah well,” replies Mr. G. “I think that`s all down to what you want to do. I mean, I certainly don`t WANT to do a lot of things we did earlier on. I`m just interested in actually writing music and getting the music done that we do.”
“…You know I think that everyone`s interests have gone more towards that sort of thing rather than some of the old rubbish that we used to do. Although it was good fun.
“But I dunno, I don`t think anyone`s got any great interest in it now. You can`t do that sort of thing for ever. Like there are lots of things we used to do. Like we used to do an encore where we`d just go on and not decide what we were going to do until we`d started…”
How long ago was that?
“Oh, four years ago, at least. But I don`t really want to go through that thing of doing five loads of rubbish and just once getting something that`s pretty good and new. Or getting a half-hour number with about three minutes of worthwhile music in it.”
But don`t you think that if you`d have kept on progressing from the original improvising basis that by now you could`ve achieved a personal empathy that would alleviate most of those duff patches?
“I don`t know. I really don`t know…I`ve just got memories of standing onstage farting about, plonking away on stuff and feeling terribly embarassed for long periods of time – and looking across at everyone else realising that they were all obviously feeling the same way.
“Maybe guaranteeing that what you play is something that you`ll enjoy is `playing safe.` But I don`t think we`ve got an intentional play-safe policy.”
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This number of New Musical Express also contains articles/interviews with these people: Stacia (Hawkwind), Lynyrd Skynyrd, Jethro Tull, Pilot, David Essex, Queen, Deke Leonard (Man), Jeff Beck, Frank Zappa, Jimmy Savile, Herbie Hancock, Kevin Coyne.
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