Inside Out (39 page)

We also took our own catering, which was the most effective door opener available. An invitation to dinner for any official
ensured all sorts of benefits. Through our tax adviser, Nigel Eastaway, who also happens to be a trustee of the Russian Aviation
Research Trust, we were able to visit Monino, the Russian air force museum – the largest, and at the time, the least visited
of Europe’s aircraft museums. There we saw some of Igor Sikorsky’s aeronautical inventions, some 1930s Russian monoplane bombers
(from a period when the RAF was still using antiquated biplanes) and a politically correct version of the history of flight,
along with parts from Gary Powers’ U2 spy plane shot down in the 1960s, and the bombers that had circled Red Square during
the May Day parades to convince American observers of the might of the Russian Air Force. We were particularly honoured, as
we discovered that the Air Attaché at the British Embassy had been unable to acquire the same invitation.

The British Embassy gave us a good lunch and we ended up with hundreds of Russian dolls and an array of fur hats. I only wish
I had not asked what they were made of; it transpired some of the fur was baby seal. We also made one visit to the university
to talk about politics, art and life but it degenerated into yet another ‘How did the band get its name?’ session. We left,
commandeering limousines to replace the ones we had arrived in, since we had been gazumped in the commandeering stakes by
someone more important. The equipment was then driven nonstop
to Helsinki with a police escort – by all accounts one hell of a ride (Phil Taylor remembers the experience of arriving in
Helsinki as like going from ‘black and white to Technicolor’).

After the tour was over a live album was mixed –
Delicate Sound Of Thunder –
at Abbey Road, using Studio 3, now completely rebuilt since our last sojourn there. What was particularly gratifying was
that so little repair work to the music was required. Without doubt recording towards the end of the tour had been a good
idea.

Meanwhile, Roger was re-staging
The Wall
in Berlin and we couldn’t help but hear about it. Not least because he made a point of inviting all our ex-wives, although
of course it may be that my invitation simply got lost in the post… Confusion about who played in Berlin still rumbles on,
though why that is I have no idea. It was entirely Roger’s show, but people are always thanking me and telling me how fantastic
it was. I still haven’t worked out if it’s easier to smile modestly and pretend we were there, or to embark on a full explanation
that this was in fact Roger on his own with a cast of thousands. When fans continue to insist I
was
there, I respond with a weak grin and a vacant stare to avoid the confusion.

Just under a year after the last show on the tour (at Marseilles) we took part in the Knebworth open-air concert in June 1990,
a charity event for the Nordoff-Robbins Music Therapy charity. With so little happening in this year after the excesses of
the past three it was almost unsettling to assemble for just the one show. Rehearsals were minimal on the basis that since
it was the same band who had done over two hundred shows they probably could still remember the parts. We did do a couple
of days’ rehearsal out at Bray studios, and brought Jon Carin and Marc Brickman over from America for the show. However, instead
of using Scott Page, who I think was unavailable, we asked Candy Dulfer – the Dutch saxophonist who had recently had a UK
hit, ‘Lily Was Here’, with
Dave Stewart – to perform with us: a nice European touch we thought. As with Scott, the only drawback for a saxophonist is
that they really only get a cameo role; given Candy’s abilities there was far too little time or space to reveal anything
near the extent of her playing.

We had Vicki Brown on backing vocals, as well as her daughter Sam, who was to continue the Brown dynasty when she became a
mainstay of the next tour. Clare Torry, the original performer of ‘Great Gig’, was also added.

After two years of touring in isolation it was a pleasure to see some other people playing, and to have the opportunity to
hang around backstage at Knebworth in traditional rock-god style. It was a kind of geriatric afternoon on Mount Olympus in
musical terms. Mark Knopfler and Eric Clapton were playing along with Elton John and Genesis. Status Quo, Cliff Richard and
Paul McCartney finished up the bill. Rick introduced us to his new girlfriend, Millie, and we all arrived in giant Huey helicopters
like a scene from
Apocalypse Now,
spilling out quantities of family and crew.

We had managed to secure the slot as the last band on, in return for being the first band to commit to the event. Becoming
top of the bill did not pay off. The afternoon was typically English, changing rapidly from sun to rain, but inevitably as
our spot came closer the weather took a turn for the worse and the rain and cold closed in.

Closing the show suited us, since in midsummer we wanted the dark, but as time went by and McCartney started playing yet another
song the old love and peace sentiment began to fray at the edges. We eventually played in the pouring rain, to a crowd who
seemed to enjoy the show, which was fortunate since they could not leave because all traffic was mired in the mud.

A
S FAR
as Pink Floyd was concerned the 1990s nearly didn’t happen. At the start of the decade, there was an incident that was extremely
painful – and potentially fatal – and which almost put an end to any plans we might have had for the future. This was the
result of a decision by Steve, David and myself to take part in the Carrera PanAmericana, which was a rerun of a wonderful
1950s race for sports cars run along the length of Mexico. The modern version, resurrected in 1988, was rather less demanding
than the original flat-out race of 2,178 miles, but it still consisted of a 1,800-mile route from the bottom of Mexico to
the Texas border with competition sections interspersed with long regularity elements. Rick had wisely avoided the excitement
of motor racing and stuck with sailing in the Aegean.

Steve and I had driven in the event a couple of years before. However, on that occasion, when Steve had arrived in Mexico
at the appointed time, casually swinging his crash helmet, the race car he had negotiated to drive failed to turn up, leaving
him trailing the field for a few days in the hope that he could make a magnificent charge from the back of the grid when the
car eventually showed up. As far as I remember the car arrived, but broke down terminally a few miles further on.

This time, perhaps determined to make sure there would be some positive outcome whatever happened, Steve had managed to pre-sell
the rights in a film that we would make. The plan was that the film would underwrite most, if not all of the costs, up front.
Here was a chance, we thought, to have a lot of fun – and get some
help paying for it. I also liked the tenuous connection with my father’s career. In 1953 he had driven another marathon road
race, the Mille Miglia, through Italy with a camera car, and I saw myself as continuing the tradition.

We set off with two replica C-type Jaguars, roughly identical to the cars that won the Le Mans 24-hour race in 1953. We also
took along two camera crews, and a couple of back-up vehicles containing the trusty mechanics who had rebuilt the cars. I
was with a friend, Valentine Lindsay, in one car. The other was being driven by Steve and David. After a couple of days the
event had settled down into some exciting driving, coupled with the inevitable stomach complaints as the European competitors
adjusted to a Mexican diet. Fortunately I had been shown how to treat these symptoms using acupuncture. It was exceptionally
effective: one quick glimpse of my box of needles and people instantly seemed to feel a great deal better.

On day three of the race Val and I arrived at one of the checkpoints to be told there had been an accident. There was nothing
to be done except continue and try and find out the details further on. When we reached the evening stop we finally managed
to discover that the accident had, in fact, involved the other car in our team, which had gone over the edge of a cliff at
80mph. David – who had been driving – was shaken, and seriously stirred, but essentially unhurt bar a few cuts and bruises.
Steve, on navigating duties, had suffered compound fractures of one leg and was laid up in hospital: a somewhat brutal way
to treat one’s manager. On seeing the wreckage of the car the next day, I realised how incredibly lucky both of them had been
to escape so relatively lightly.

Although Val and I managed to finish sixth, we had lost half the cast of our film, and were consequently forced to fall back
on some cinematic cheating that the major Hollywood moguls would
no doubt have recognised. This included recording some footage in a Mexican restaurant in Notting Hill, craftily positioning
the cameras to avoid the passing Number 98 double-deckers and hiding glimpses of Steve’s still plastercast-clad leg. We also
had the luxury of reshooting the pre-race discussions with the benefit of 100 per cent hindsight.

After the event there was a slight twinge of embarrassment about the whole episode, especially from David (although I’m not
sure if that was to do with the music or his driving). But as a visual experience it was lacking. To do justice to the event,
we would have required a Hollywood budget, innumerable helicopters and Steve McQueen. To fully enjoy the low-budget version
we plumped for, you really had to be a dedicated aficionado of 1950s sports cars, Mexican scenery, or cactus plants.

However, there was one bonus from all of this, in that the music for the project suggested a blueprint for recording the next
album: there was no pre-studio work at all. In much the same way that we created
Obscured By Clouds,
the whole piece was concocted during sessions in the large studio at Olympic in Barnes during a couple of weeks in November
1991. It was also, for the most part, recorded with us all working in the studio together. After years of overdubbing in solitary
confinement, it was great fun. We had Gary Wallis, Jon Carin and Guy Pratt from the 1987/88 tour, and fortuitously Tim Renwick,
working next door on a Bryan Ferry album, was available for the odd guest moment.

Starting off with a couple of blues pieces, other pieces were simply improvised. These usually stemmed from ideas emerging
from David trying something out on the guitar – and then being picked up by the rest of us in the studio. If it sounded promising
enough it could then be developed into a suitable form for the film section. We think we managed to avoid slipping into becoming
Hammersmith’s very own Mariachi band despite the
temptation of all those cactus scenes. We had experienced the odd run-in with ethnic music on our first album, as well as
a guitar part on the
More
soundtrack, and I think we knew that this kind of musical colour (as well as funny hats, whether the fez or sombrero) was
not our forte, not even our pianissimo.

Just over a year later we adopted the same modus operandi when we began working on the next Floyd album in January 1993. Again,
the recording process proved to be extremely positive: this time there was a subconsciously conscious attempt to operate as
a band. We would rule off a week in the diary and head over to Britannia Row – which now bore little resemblance to the angst-encouraging
bunker of the
Animals
days. All the rooms had been remodelled to allow daylight to penetrate and, of course, there were now increased areas for
rest and recreation to try and lure clients into using yet more expensive studio time.

Other than booking the time at Britannia Row, we made few preparations for a future release. Nobody had come down to the sessions
with a ‘Here’s one I prepared earlier’ fragment up their sleeves. No more hired guns; just David, Rick and myself, with the
engineer at the desk, a two-track left running – and as much time as we needed. Although bitter experience had taught us to
be prepared for disappointment, and though there was no pressure to come up with anything concrete at these sessions, the
very fact of booking the studio was an indication of our commitment.