And the singing throughout is - at last - truly first-rate, clear, impassioned. Longtime Pink Floyd fans will find the requisite number of bone-crunching riffs and Saturn-bound guitar screems ("In the Flesh"), along with one of the loveliest ballads the band has ever recorded ("Comfortably Numb").
Whether or not The Wall succeeds commercially will probably depend on its musical virtues, of which there are many. This is very tough stuff, and hardly the hallmark of a hit album. And its pitiful inmate, by now practially catatonic, submits to "The Trial" - a bizarre musical cataclysm out of Gilbert and Sullivan via Brecht and Weill - in which all of his past tormentors converge for the long-awaited kill. This wall of conditioning finally forms a prison. The halfhearted hope of interpersonal salvation that slightly brightened Animals is gone, too: women are viewed as inscrutable sexual punching bags, and men (their immediate oppressors in a grand scheme of oppression) are inevitably left alone to flail about in increasingly unbearable frustration. In government-run schools, children are methodically tormented and humiliated by teachers whose comeuppance occurs when they go home at night and "their fat and/ Psychopathic wives would thrash them/ Within inches of their lives."Īs Roger Waters sees it, even the most glittering success later in life - in his case, international rock stardom - is a mockery because of mortality. Then there are some vaguely remembered upheavals from the wartime Blitz: The process - for those of Waters' generation, at least - begins at birth with the smothering distortions of mother love. But where Animals, for instance, suffered from self-centered smugness, the even more abject The Wall leaps to life with a relentless lyrical rage that's clearly genuine and, in its painstakingly particularity, ultimately horrifying.įashioned as a kind of circular maze (the last words on side four begin a sentence completed by the first words on side one), The Wall offers no exit except madness from a world malevolently bent on crippling its citizens at every level of endeavor.
The Wall is a stunning synthesis of Waters' by now familiar thematic obsessions: the brutal misanthropy of Pink Floyd's last LP, Animals Dark Side of the Moon's sour, middle-aged tristesse the surprisingly shrewd perception that the music business is a microcosm of institutional oppression ( Wish You Were Here) and the dread of impending psychoses that runs through all these records - plus a strongly felt antiwar animus that dates way back to 1968's A Saucerful of Secrets.
Stretching his talents over four sides, Floyd bassist Roger Waters, who wrote all the words and a majority of the music here, projects a dark, multilayered vision of post-World War II Western (and especially British) society so unremittingly dismal and acidulous that it makes contemporary gloom-mongers such as Randy Newman or, say, Nico seem like Peter Pan and Tinker Bell.
Though it in no way endangers the meisterwerk musical status of Dark Side of the Moon (still on the charts nearly seven years after its release), Pink Floyd's twelfth album, The Wall, is the most startling rhetorical achievement in the group's singular, thirteen-year career.