David Gilmour: On An Island

DAVID GILMOUR: ON AN ISLAND (2006)

1) Castellorizon; 2) On An Island; 3) The Blue; 4) Take A Breath; 5) Red Sky At Night; 6) This Heaven; 7) Then I Close My Eyes; 8) Smile; 9) A Pocketful Of Stones; 10) Where We Start.

General verdict: Quiet, uneventful, but tasteful meditative bliss for all those who have nowhere to go and nothing to do — a fairly apt listen for 2020, as it turns out.

For almost 12 years after the release of Division Bell, Gilmour had largely stayed silent as an artist, and, all things considered, it was a good thing: Division Bell was not particularly bad, but it did show that Dave had few new ideas, and releasing another record of softly moping, mildly depressing ballads would do little good to either Pink Floydʼs or his own reputation. The man had nothing to prove to anybody, no contractual obligations and no need to keep the memory of Pink Floyd in the public eye with new product. This situation alone means that when he re-emerged in 2006 with his next solo album, it actually meant something to the 60-year old guy.

Artistically speaking, On An Island is David Gilmourʼs Double Fantasy (the comparison made even more legitimate by the fact that his wife, Polly Samson, collaborated with him lyrically on a few tracks): an album by somebody who has finally found inner peace and happiness and would like to share them with you. Slow, bluesy, melodic, atmospheric, lonesome, introspective, it has all the trademarks of most of Daveʼs solo as well as Dave Floydʼs products, with one important exception: bleakness and depression have given way to a special blissful melancholy. No longer wishing to get angry or desperate about the evils of the world at large, David Gilmour now drowns his memories of it in the solitary wonders of natural beauty. This is where his passion for flying and sailing comes to be fully understood — the man is a natural-born escapist, and On An Island is arguably his most clearly pronounced statement of escapism ever.

If you know anything about Pink Floyd and David Gilmour, you might probably be able to figure out how the record sounds just by glancing at the song titles — ʽCastellorizonʼ, ʽOn An Islandʼ, ʽThe Blueʼ, ʽRed Sky At Nightʼ, ʽThen I Close My Eyesʼ... clearly, this is going to be a romantic musical fantasy, inspired by all the lonely and exotic places that Mr. Gilmour had had the opportunity to visit by way of globalization and an impressive bank roll. Fortunately, Mr. Gilmour is an accomplished artist, rather than Hugh Hefner or Emperor Tiberius, and On An Island is a lovely and exquisite, if not too memorable, sonic painting, rather than just a standard piece of ornate muzak that you could play in the lounge of a five-star resort hotel without fear that anybody would ever start paying any attention to it.

The link to the old universe of Pink Floyd still stays strong: ʽCastellorizonʼ is a classic Floyd-style opener, with a long and careful buildup of smoky synthesizers, ghostly sound effects, unexpected overdubs (at one point, a rusty lo-fi banjo appears out of the blue in much the same way as the lo-fi acoustic guitar on ʽWish You Were Hereʼ), and, eventually, a blistering assault of deeply cherished sustained guitar notes rising out of the synth waves. The tonality and the guitar tone are reminiscent of ʽShine On You Crazy Diamondʼ, but this is not the music of mourning for a departed friend, this is more like an emotional interpretation of the ocean at night — a nature soundtrack whose expressivity goes far beyond any average soundtrack, but cannot pretend to rise to any sort of tragic heights. This is what you are going to get all the way through — a musical painting of decidedly and intentionally limited ambition as painted by a certified genius painter. Like a Renoir landscape or something.

The good news is that On An Island stands to repeated listens — surprisingly, many of the tracks are slow growers whose calming, soothing effect accumulates over time. At first, you might not be grabbed at all, because the melodies flow by in a lulling, hookless fashion; but once you get used to the slowness and smoothness, the subtle contrast between the verse and chorus melody of the title track — with guest stars Crosby and Nash joining David for that extra feel — reveals the difference between pleasantly sucking in the night atmosphere (verse) and having a romantic epiphany (chorus). Itʼs all small scale, nothing truly shattering in either the instrumentation or the vocal harmonies, but there is a nice dynamic here. More importantly, Davidʼs guitar sounds closer to the listener than it has in ages — one of the worst aspects of all his early solo albums was that the guitar was really deep down in the mix, distant and almost deliberately refusing to be involved in your emotional centers. On An Island might just be the first of Gilmourʼs albums in a long, long time which eliminates that issue by putting the guitar, crisp and clear, on top of everything else. These are far from Daveʼs best solos — precisely because his best solos involve desperate emotional turmoil, which is not the case here — but boy do they sound good.

Not all of the record sounds like a lullaby: just like on Double Fantasy you can come across an ʽIʼm Losing Youʼ to remind you that you do have to earn your right to blissful happiness through suffering, On An Island has stuff like ʽTake A Breathʼ, a mid-tempo psychedelic rocker which disrupts the calm flow with distorted guitars, loud echoey vocals, and sinister lyrics teaching you self-reliance in the face of grim odds: "If Iʼm the one to throw you overboard / At least I showed you how to swim for shore". (Arguably the best thing about the song is its mid-section, eerily reproducing the feeling of being dragged underwater). In a different vein, ʽThis Heavenʼ is a slow blues-rocker driven by a nice little acoustic riff, with a slightly raggedy arrangement that one could expect from some early 2000s indie-rock outfit like the Black Keys (or the White Stripes?); however, it also breaks the immersion effect, and I am not sure if Iʼm really a fan.

In the end, I shall not lie to you about being in love with any of the individual songs; perhaps the closest you can get is with ʽThe Blueʼ, which you could define as "Alan Parsons trying to write his own ʽUs And Themʼ" — with Rick Wright on vocals, a melody that imitates a steady rowing pattern and the most Zen-like arrangement of ʼem all if you are in the mood for it. But then again, I was never deeply in love with peacefully blissful Pink Floyd, such as ʽFat Old Sunʼ — a song that was arguably the closest in spirit to Gilmourʼs vision for this record (and, not coincidentally, resurrected for his tour in support of it); I just thought this music was written in order to be likable, and I dutifully liked it. I dutifully like this album, too, and I certainly think Gilmour has earned the right to make a point with it — at the age of 60, oneʼs chances of capturing the subtle beauty of nature are probably a little higher than making a rousing social statement.

For the record, besides Crosby and Nash on the title track, the sessions feature quite a few notable guest stars, including Phil Manzanera (who is largely responsible for the «iron» sound of ʽTake A Breathʼ)  and Robert Wyatt (whose elegant, but somnambulant cornet playing on ʽThen I Close My Eyesʼ is, unfortunately, somewhat lost here). Nevertheless, the lionʼs share of all playing credits still go to David himself, who plays most of the guitar, bass, and percussion parts — now thatʼs what you call true escapism. In the end, it doesnʼt really matter how much the final product matters to me, you, or anybody else; what is important is that On An Island really produces the impression of a grateful love letter from the artist to his Creator, and this alone makes it fully meaningful even if you do not have the wish to replay it over and over. Then again, I am writing this review in the era of COVID lockdown, and as we all end up stranded on little islands of our own, God only knows how strongly this kind of music could resonate with anybody right now.