Richard Wright: Broken China

RICHARD WRIGHT: BROKEN CHINA (1996)

1) Breaking Water; 2) Night Of A Thousand Furry Toys; 3) Hidden Fear; 4) Runaway; 5) Unfair Ground; 6) Satellite; 7) Woman Of Custom; 8) Interlude; 9) Black Cloud; 10) Far From The Harbour Wall; 11) Drowning; 12) Reaching For The Rail; 13) Blue Room In Venice; 14) Sweet July; 15) Along The Shoreline; 16) Breakthrough.

General verdict: A conceptual art-rock record about the trials of depression in name, an intentionally uninspired adult contemporary album in nature.

I have always admired Rick Wright as a personality — the «quiet» member of the band, almost a symbol of amicable humility, a consummate musician with none of Gilmourʼs flash or Watersʼ political ego, and a classy gentleman who looked more like a university professor onstage than a member of a rock band. Unfortunately, all these things always worked best within the context of Pink Floyd than on their own. Wet Dream had already shown that a Rick Wright solo album was not such an exciting idea; and to expect something more from a follow-up project in the «Dave Floyd» era would be a rash thing indeed.

Allegedly, Broken China is a concept album whose main theme is «inspired» by Rickʼs then-current wife Mildredʼs then-current battle with depression (he had only married her one year earlier, but I suppose he knew what he was doing). I think it is relatively safe to say that the record would sound something like this regardless of the circumstances in which it had been produced — it is definitely a little more somber in tone than Wet Dream, but not by much, and, like almost any Floyd-related piece, its melodies and arrangements combine notes of pessimism and gloom with elements of hope for the future and consolation in beauty. Everything here is quite true to Wrightʼs vision and personality. It is just that the music itself is deadly dull.

The album is awfully long, clocking in at just under an hour, and once it is gone, remembering any specific moments from it is hard. In general, itʼs the same old atmosphere: somber, bass-heavy melodies, ranging from rhythmic and danceable (ʽNight Of A Thousand Furry Toysʼ) to minimalistic synth-assisted heavenly prayers (ʽBlue Room In Veniceʼ). About half of the record is instrumental, with Rick himself singing on most other tracks and inviting Sinéad OʼConnor to take lead vocals on two of the key tracks, including the album closer ʽBreakthroughʼ; however, the vocals throughout are used in the same way as any other instrument — very even, very monotonous, consistently bent on generating steady atmosphere rather than emotional jolts.

There is an attempt at modernisation, too, with some of the tracks featuring trendy trip-hop rhythm tracks (ʽRunawayʼ) and a few even bordering on house (ʽSatelliteʼ) — but in the end, all of the album should really be described as «adult contemporary» due to the absolute lack of energy and ecstasy; an intentional lack, but one that is not compensated by any extraordinary chord sequences, sonic combos, or even lyrical revelations (the lyrics, by the way, are mostly taken care of by Anthony Moore, Floydʼs resident lyricist in the post-Waters era). Guitars are handled by Tim Renwick, Steve Bolton (largely known for his work with late period Atomic Rooster), and Stingʼs sideman Dominic Miller, so nothing to write home about. Bass duties are given over to Pino Palladino, who is obviously good (anybody who has been chosen to replace John Entwistle for the Who has to be) but isnʼt really given a lot of chances to shine, other than hold down a nice, steady groove on the recordʼs more danceable tunes. Gilmour is noticeably lacking, though he did play on the original recording of ʽBreakthroughʼ — after which Rick decided that was not what he wanted, and re-recorded the song, which is really all you need to know about the level and the functions of Broken Chinaʼs musicianship.

I have no idea what to write about individual songs, seeing as how there are absolutely no stand-out themes or ideas on any of them — and, in fact, even most of the positive accounts of the album I have seen rarely concentrate on the musical aspect, instead going off on all sorts of tangents about how the experiences processed on this album really relate to their own problems etc. etc. Well, as somebody who also has to face depression on a regular basis, I must say that I feel very little in common with these softly sanitized moods; I am not sure how exactly this musical equivalent of watching paint dry is supposed to count as therapy, but probably for some people it does. Nor do I find the lyrics particularly hard-hitting: hearing Sinéad OʼConnor deliver the lines "But sooner than wake up / To find it all unchanged / Iʼll sleep through the day ʼtil the daylight ends" in her familiar icy tone just brings on a feeling of predictability.

Of course, there will always be people swearing by this record as some sort of forgotten, defiantly un-commercial masterpiece of subtle, but immense psychological depth; to me, though, it is just another sign of how desperately Rick needed the assistance of his bandmates to bring genuine life and beauty to his cold and hollow Apollonian structures. The motives behind this record are more than noble; the end results, alas, amount to little other than morose sonic wallpaper.

Richard Wright: Wet Dream

RICHARD WRIGHT: WET DREAM (1978)

1) Mediterranean C; 2) Against The Odds; 3) Cat Cruise; 4) Summer Elegy; 5) Waves; 6) Holiday; 7) Mad Yannis Dance; 8) Drop In From The Top; 9) Pink's Song; 10) Funky Deux.

General verdict: Nice MOR soundscapes, but not really worthy of a Pink Floyd graduate.

Rick Wright's first solo album was, in some ways, even more of a rebellious reaction against Roger's full artistic control of Pink Floyd than Gilmour's self-titled debut. After all, there was plenty of David on Animals: his knack for angry blueswailing fit in well with Waters' penchant for mean aggression, even if altogether, as a person, Dave was far more friendly and less cynical. But there was very little Rick Wright there — that particular Rick Wright with his love for idyllic, soothing, meditative, subtly transcendental keyboard passages and vocal harmonies, the kind of Rick Wright without whom there would be no ʽEchoesʼ or ʽUs And Themʼ. In a world according to Roger Waters, there was no space for this attitude on Animals. And thus, it is even less sur­prising that once the Animals tour came to an end, Rick finally decided to break it out on his own. In fact, recording sessions for Wet Dream began even before the sessions for David Gilmour — it simply took Wright far more time to get Harvest to release it.

Very honestly, this is not a Pink Floyd album; this is a Richard Wright album. The two principal side players enlisted for the session were guitarist Snowy White (who would also perform as «backup» guitarist on The Wall tour, and briefly served in Thin Lizzy during its final years) and sax and woodwind veteran Mel Collins, of King Crimson fame. Although both get plenty of studio time, with Wright nicely allowing both to stretch out on guitars and saxes whenever they like, they do not steal the spotlight away from him — provided, of course, that you can actually call this a spotlight. As a whole, the album gives much the same impression as David Gilmour: nice, tasteful, perfect for background usage, but not in the least memorable.

Four out of ten songs here have vocals, but the record still feels largely «instrumental», because Rick's vocals have a way of blending into the general woodwork. And technically, the instrumen­tals do not depart too far away from Floyd-style: slow, stately, melodic, minor-key-favoring rivers of sound, typically with guitars and saxes soloing over bluesy or jazzy piano or organ rhythm tracks (more rarely, the rhythm tracks are based on acoustic guitar, with Rick adding keyboard embellishments throughout — that's how it goes with ʽWavesʼ). Towards the end of the album, the band gets a little funkier, first on ʽDrop In From The Topʼ with its jumpy bassline, and then on the give-it-away-titled ʽFunky Deuxʼ; even so, the rise in «danceability» does not really disrupt the calm, soothing flow of the album.

And that, of course, is also its major problem. Calmly and soothingly flowing keyboard-based music can be magnificent in the hands of a genius such as Brian Eno, who knows exactly how to get to the core of things and make the listener get there together with the artist. But Wright, on his own, does not have that kind of depth, and his solo instrumentals never pierce the barrier that separates pleasant from breathtaking. The opening track, ʽMediterranean Cʼ, is a prime example of that style, with both Mel and Snowy taking turns to solo over Wright's piano melody. Every­thing is professional, but the atmosphere is... well, maybe fit enough to be used for a cheesy romantic dinner (champagne, candlelight, evening gown, and whatever follows — hey, the record isn't called Wet Dream for nothing!). There is nothing even remotely reminiscent of the turbulent ups-and-downs of ʽUs And Themʼ here — the point is to stay cool and calm, with a humble pinch of happy-sad, all the time.

The vocal numbers preserve and cherish that atmosphere, with the theme of parting being central to most of them: "Something's gotta give / We can't carry on like this / One year on and more unsure / Where do we go from here?", starting off ʽSummer Elegyʼ, was probably regarded as Rick's farewell menace to his Floyd buddies, but it does not even sound like a menace, because the melody and the vocals are so relaxed — a bit sorrowful, but still friendly in the long run. If there is deep, soul-tearing torment here, one must assume that Richard Wright, the polite and well-bred gentleman as he is, thought it way beneath him to let it show; and while that decision, if there really was such a decision, might command admiration on its own, it just does not make for a particularly harrowing listening experience.

It is interesting to note that one of the vocal numbers is named ʽPink's Songʼ — and no, it does not have anything to do with The Wall, since that project was not even on the horizon at the time of recording. Rather, it is a fairly obvious musical tribute to Syd ("quiet, smiling friend of mine / thrown into our lives"), as if, for some reason, ʽCrazy Diamondʼ was not enough and Rick just couldn't live without paying his own individual respect to the man. Alas, like everything else on here, the slow, sorrowful ballad, adorned by Mel's flute solo, is tepid at best, and when Rick draws a subtle parallel between Syd and himself, implying that he, too, may have to follow his own path eventually ("and I must go, be on my way... let me go, I cannot stay"), this is delivered so quietly and with so little expression that even the fabled «less is more» principle remains unapplicable. At the very least, my heart does not cry out for him the way it should.

In a way, all of this is predictable, yet it is still vaguely amusing how two out of three key ingre­dients in the Pink Floyd sound, within the exact same year, went all the way to demonstrate just how insignificant each of these ingredients is on their own. In comparison, one might get seriously irritated by the individual styles of early solo John Lennon or Paul McCartney, but at least what those guys did in 1970-71 was take those individual characteristics and amplify them all the way to eleven. Gilmour and Wright, on the other hand, made the surprising choice to take them and turn them all the way down — as if they were so nervous about coming into the studio on their own that they each had to swallow a bunch of sedatives in preparation. It must take a really, really dedicated Floyd fan to want to immerse and lose oneself in these lukewarm sonic pools — though, I am sure of that, after a while even lukewarm might seem to become the new searing hot or ice cold, if you work hard enough on your reaction.