“Pink Floyd at Pompeii – MCMLXXII”: A volcanic reminder of their greatness

By: Neil McCormick, rock critic
Translation: Telegrafi.com

“Some people think we’re a relic of the past,” admits Pink Floyd drummer Nick Mason, looking calmly into the camera. The irony is that Mason was only 28 at the time – at the peak of his youth and energy – but, surprisingly, he does look like a relic. The big mop of curly hair and long handlebar moustache define the film’s date almost as much as keyboardist Rick Wright’s incessant smoking.

The year is 1972, marked with the Roman numerals MCMLXXII for this lovingly restored concert documentary – Pink Floyd in Pompeii [Pink Floyd at Pompeii]. The rock quartet was at the height of their psychedelic phase, but had not yet exploded globally with the release of the album. The Dark Side of the Moon, which would be released a year later – for which the film offers some tantalizing glimpses. Director Adrian Maben came up with the unusual idea of ​​having the band perform their experimental and epic repertoire of intergalactic rock in front of the empty steps of a ruined amphitheater in Pompeii, with no audience – except for a shirtless film crew burning in the scorching sun.

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At the time, the film was considered a slightly pretentious arthouse film, an impression deepened by the footage of the band hiking the slopes of Mount Vesuvius and gazing at pools of boiling lava, while David Gilmour's distorted slide guitars echoed across the barren volcanic landscape. Fifty-three years later, the film looks simply magnificent – ​​a glorious recording of a band at the height of its power, one that will delight any old rocker and is a must-see for any aspiring musician.

From today's perspective, the location suggests not so much antiquity as timelessness and classicism, implying that Pink Floyd deserves to be seen beyond rock history, as part of a much broader spectrum of creativity. There is something about the absence of an audience that gives the performance a special intensity – art created in the moment, for its own sake, not to please the public.

Progressive rock master Steven Wilson has remixed the music for 5.1 surround sound, which is perhaps the greatest pleasure of this restoration, because it sounds immersive, incredibly vibrant, and yet completely unusual. The Floydians themselves look very young, while Gilmour, shirtless and with long hair, plays with the effects equipment and produces sounds that run the gamut from the ethereal to the sensitive and heavy.

His future nemesis, Roger Waters, wears a slim black vest and clutches his bass guitar with taut, muscular arms, building shifting – and at times almost funky – rhythms amidst vast spaces of sound. The later cynic seems to be genuinely enjoying himself. Rick Wright smokes quietly in the background and effortlessly creates warm landscapes of piano, organ and synthesizer, sounds that float through all the gaps in the songs. When he joins Gilmour on vocal harmony on Echoes, then you really hear that wonderful and characteristic sound of the band Pink Floyd.

But the star of the film is not Gilmour with his Adonis-like appearance, and certainly not the enthusiastic Waters. It is Nick Mason, his arms fluttering around the drums in a state of constant activity, his head swiveling to connect with the other band members. His playing, loose, stylish and with a rhythmic sensibility, is at the heart of it all, holding together the band's imaginative flights. He clearly adores his cymbals, which shine and ring even in the quietest moments.

I am struck by how rarely cymbals are heard in modern music, reduced to an effect by the metronomic logic of rhythm machines and digital programming. The experimental song Saucerful of Secrets It remains completely astonishing – even more so when you see these four young people creating it from nothing.

Discussing their “addiction” to technology, David Gilmour looks at the camera with disdain. “Devices don’t think about what they’re doing. They can’t control themselves,” he says. Now music is entering an era where devices can control themselves – where artificial intelligence threatens to wipe out all human invention and spontaneity from musical creation. This extraordinary film shows us what the price of that can be, because a band like Pink Floyd would find it difficult to exist, and certainly not thrive, in this reduced and standardized age of digital streaming on the internet.

The volcanic action is occasionally interrupted by scenes filmed at Abbey Road Studios during the recording of the album. Dark Side of the Moon, which offer incredible glimpses of the greatness to come – especially when Waters plays with a synthesizer that is now considered a classic, until the instrumental sequence suddenly emerges from it. On the Run, and he looks up to ask if anyone is recording this moment. Wright sits in a cloud of cigarette smoke, his fingers floating over the piano keys, like a jazz master in the song Us and Them.

These scenes were apparently staged for the camera and do not represent the actual recording sessions, but they nevertheless offer intriguing insights into the rifts that would later tear this tight unit apart. While recording a solo for Brain Damage, Gilmour makes a sour face when Waters repeatedly interrupts him from the control room, complaining about the feedback. “Don’t worry about that,” Gilmour mutters. “What would rock and roll be without feedback?”

“We have some pretty heated arguments from time to time,” Gilmour admits with an innocent smile, oblivious to the bitterness and bitter clashes that would come later. He and Mason were present at the film’s London premiere [at the BFI IMAX], and could be seen laughing at this restored version of their younger selves. At 79, Gilmour has the calm of a Vesuvian landscape. At 81, Mason looks less like a rock star and more like a retired banker. But both still make exciting music and still pursue it with an old-fashioned dedication to technical mastery.

Wright has been dead for nearly seventeen years. Meanwhile, Waters, absent from the event, continues as a controversial touring superstar, reshaping the band's legacy from the later stages of his lyric-dominated albums while also fueling an ugly and public feud with Gilmour.

Pink Floyd in Pompeii takes us back to a time that reminds us why we loved Pink Floyd. It perhaps doesn't reach the spontaneous intimacy of the documentary. Get Back of the Beatles, but it's a joy to see and hear this extraordinary group at the peak of their youth – elegant, focused, and performing with all their heart. Every young musician should see this film and then shut down their artificial intelligence tools and learn the joy of creating with work and effort. Bring back the cymbals! /Telegraph/