Nick Mason’s Saucerful Of Secrets
London Dingwalls
Floyd drummer and co. set the controls for the heart of the Syd Barrett-era band, and deliver a stellar performance.
If you can’t wear a paisley scarf on a night such as this, then when? Half a century on from defining psychedelic sonics, Pink Floyd drummer Nick Mason has elected to celebrate his band’s formative era (from 1967’s Arnold Layne to 1972’s Obscured By Clouds) by breathing new vitality into material that’s been badly served by being rarely heard live.
Since Syd Barrett’s fabled departure of ’68, his material has been largely consigned to history’s dusty attic and asphyxiated under a slew of critical plaudits. His extraordinary songs have been treated more like stuffed museum dodos than vital, vibrant entities. These sacred cows, untouchable in their perceived historical import, cry out to be played, celebrated and allowed to work their peculiar life-affirming, inspirational magic. Rock’n’roll is like any other instinctive visceral reflex: you use it or you lose it.
Obviously, to realise tonight’s admirable undertaking with the original dramatis personae would present more than just insurmountable difficulties (the loss of the ever-elusive Barrett and Rick Wright). There are also the potentially ruinous perils that lurk within the intersection of any Venn diagram with sectors marked ‘Waters’ and ‘Gilmour’. The inevitably arena-based magnitude of any Floyd-branded event would suck the small-scale immediacy and intimacy out of material originally formulated and best performed in sweaty clubs. Consequently, Mason has returned to the capital’s clubland crucible of the original Floyd sound with a pick-up band comprising predictable players (longtime Floyd bassist Guy Pratt and his fellow Transit Kings keyboard player Dom Beken) alongside a couple of wild cards on guitars: The Blockheads’ Lee Harris and (doubling as co-vocalist with Pratt), Spandau Ballet’s Gary Kemp. Oh yes indeed, tonight the part of Syd Barrett will be played by the artist formerly known as Ronnie Kray. What could possibly go wrong? Well, since you ask, absolutely nothing.
From the moment the quintet burst out from the lengthy FX longueur of their disconcerting introductory ambience into a sprightly, taut, perfectly judged and encouragingly disciplined Interstellar Overdrive, you know you’re in the safe hands of experts, maestros and fellow aficionados. A cracking assault on Astronomy Domine explodes into a perfectly observed Lucifer Sam, before a hugely in-form and buoyant Nick Mason addresses the audience. Introducing the band, he suggests that, rather than shorten their name to The Saucers or The Secrets, we simply refer to them as The Australian Roger Waters.
As the set continues to unfold (Fearless, Obscured By Clouds, When You’re In), the sheer joy and vigour of the band’s performance is as infectious as it’s tangible. Kemp’s raucous take on Arnold Layne infuses a welcome contemporary bite into the familiar whimsy of the original, before his stinging, stratospheric, glam-channeling, Mick Ronson-styled lead work on a barnstorming romp through The Nile Song provides a foot-on-the-monitor set highlight.
And the excellence continues, Pratt proving luminescent on Let There Be More Light, before a quadruple whammy of Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun, See Emily Play, Bike and One Of These Days knocks Dingwalls’ capacity audience bandy. A sharp encore of A Saucerful Of Secrets and Point Me At The Sky concludes a triumphant debut performance of this beaming, exultant and ultimately utterly unmissable punk Floyd. What a gas, man.