is waiting

for the cure

for the hatred

for the indifference

no one should

ever endure

they want

to make you


they want

to make you


this is

one more


that is not




to the rain

it is the voice

of spring


winter’s ashes

revitalizing everything


to the rain

another day

is coming

its fingers

on the windowpane

nervously drumming


to the rain

it is not always sad

do not listen

to me

i have nothing

more to add

Which one’s ‘Pink?’

In January 1968, David Gilmour, Nick Mason, Roger Waters, and Rick Wright — what is regarded by many as the classic lineup of Pink Floyd — were on their way to a concert.

The question was raised as to whether they should pick up Syd Barrett, who had been the band’s guiding force, writing its early hit singles and most of the band’s debut album, The Piper at the Gates of Dawn.

Someone — no one is sure who — said ‘let’s not bother.’

That fateful decision wrestled control of the band from Barrett.

Fateful in that it wouldn’t be the last time that ‘Pink Floyd’ would fight over whose band it is.


That first fight was understandable.

Barrett wasn’t well by any stretch of the imagination.

But he apparently didn’t take it well, showing up at a few concerts and staring at Gilmour.

I think I read somewhere once that Barrett said, ‘That’s my band.’

Over the next few years, Pink Floyd lurched around a bit, trying to define itself.

It was relatively democratic.

Although Waters tended to have more songs on albums like the soundtrack to More, several songs were either full band collaborations or solo works by Wright, Mason, and Gilmour.

But with Dark Side of the Moon, things started to shift, with Waters writing all of the lyrics.


By the late 70s, it was Waters writing most of the band’s songs, and Pink Floyd pretty much became his band.

There are differing stories about that evolution.

Waters has claimed the rest of the group weren’t contributing anything, particularly during The Final Cut.

But by then, the band was little more than a name, with Wright having been dismissed, or quitting, depending on which account you read, during the acrimonious recording of The Wall and other Mason mainly busying himself with the album’s sound effects.

Even Gilmour, who had been a prominent vocalist in the band, only shared lead on one track, the NSFW Not Now John.


There’s a certain irony to Waters’ complete control over the band.

After all, The Wall is not just about a musician who builds a wall between himself and his audience, and the world, but also a musician who, even more so in the film version, embraces fascism.

Although Waters clearly intended it as a cautionary tale — Pink does tear down the wall at the end of the The Wall — you could argue he didn’t necessarily heed it.

Whether you believe the other members left it to him to do the heavy lifting or that he gradually consolidate control, The Final Cut was the seeming end of the band.

Waters announced he was done with Pink Floyd.

Gilmour had other plans.

As Waters tried to have the band legally dissolved, Gilmour recruited writers and musicians to help him make a new Pink Floyd album, 1987’s A Momentary Lapse of Reason, including Wright, although he and Mason made limited contributions, effectively making it a Gilmour project.



By the end of 1987, the legal wrangles were resolved and Gilmour and Mason had secured the rights to continue on as Pink Floyd.

Wright continued on with the band, but was not a contractual member.

Although Gilmour has demurred, the 1994 album The Division Bell, an album about the complexities of communication and co-existing, seemed to be, in part, about his contentious relationship with Waters, particularly  Lost for Words, where he (and lyricist/wife Polly Samson) present himself as the aggrieved party in a dispute with a hostile person clearly not willing to let bygones be bygones.


Waters never held back on his feelings for these surrogate band albums, which likely didn’t help matters much.

All of which brings us to the current feud over ‘Pink Floyd.’

This week, Waters took to Twitter to tell fans that he would love to keep them updated on his activities through the band’s website, but Gilmour has denied him access to it.

And you have to wonder what is the point of all this anymore?

Apart from the Live 8 reunion and the release of archival material from the 1994 Division Bell sessions that paid tribute to Wright, Pink Floyd has effectively been over for years.

Sure, there is a lot of money and prestige still tied to the Floyd brand and ownership of it.

I mean the Dark Side of the Moon is still selling enough to make the Billboard charts nearly 50 years later.

And Wish You Were Here, a song of longing for some absent someone, has become an anthem for our pandemic times.

But given the band’s history and heated battles over who, or what, is Pink Floyd, it seems strangely appropriate Gilmour and Waters are just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, running over the same old ground.




Hillard ‘Sweet Pea’ Atkinson

There have been so many obituaries of late in the world of music, I haven’t really felt like commenting on them, because they have all felt more acute in this era of pandemic.

Little Richard

Betty Wright

Florian Schneider

Matthew Seligman

Hamilton Bohannon

I may take up one or two, but I wanted to say a few words about Sweet Pea.

Sweet Pea could, by all rights, have been an Atlantic or Stax vocalist.

You can hear it in his voice.

He had an almost ineffable quality that elevates singers to a level where they are discussed in reverence, but suffice to say he had grit, warmth, and fervor.

And he applied all of that mainly in the service of two wiseacres from Detroit:

David and Don Was.

Don met Sweet Pea one night after the vocalist had wrapped a rehearsal with his then band.

At the time, Atkinson was working at Chrysler, but he had dreams of being a singer.

In Sweet Pea, David and Don found someone who had the ability to take their off-kilter lyrics and prevent them from sounding like novelty songs.

Where Did Your Heart Go skirts with conventional tropes of heartache just enough that, if you don’t listen too closely, you miss the odd little details, like sharing a can of corn.

Or the anthropomorphization of the river.

Sweet Pea’s impassioned delivery makes it all work, so much so that Wham! covered the song a few years later as if it was an R&B classic and nearly got a Billboard top 40 hit out of it.

You can find that same delivery on Knocked Down, Made Small (Treated Like a Rubber Ball), which finds Atkinson recalling how the rejection of his father led him to a life of crime over a new wave treatments rejig of the Motown sound.

In a way, it’s a kind of Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone epic, but weirder, with more ramifications, and with the word ‘corn.’

On Was (Not Was)’s breakthrough What Up, Dog? – the album with Walk the Dinosaur, Atkinson tore up Can’t Turn You Loose like he had been waiting all his life to demonstrate his bona fides, and you can really hear how he could have had a career like that of Otis Redding if he’d just been born a few years earlier and had moved from Ohio to Memphis.

Although the Was bros. went their separate ways in the early 90s, Atkinson kept busy as a backing vocalist with everyone from Bonnie Raitt to Lyle Lovett, whom he spent 10 years touring with.

Which brings me to this overlooked nugget from Atkinson’s career.

In 1997, Atkinson reconnected with Don Was for a short film and album that drew on the works of Hank Williams.

My favorite moment on the album is when Atkinson (who stars in the film) sings the song Forever’s a Long, Long Time, a slow, sultry, noir jazz take on the track that provides probably the best showcase he had as a vocalist, allowing him to lean into that honeyed burr of his as he ruminates on the vagaries of loving someone – anyone – for a lifetime.

I kind of wish that Was had made another album or two with Atkinson in this vein, as it really suits his voice, even if there is an extended instrumental passage between his verses.

But that kind of adds to the tension in Atkinson’s voice the way that tension built at the start of Papa Was a Rollin’ Stone, so that when he does slip back in, there’s a bit more urgency, a bit more gruffness, but also a little more vulnerability.

Atkinson paired with Was collaborator Randy Jacobs in a band called The Boneshakers, and he released two solo albums, the most recent in 2017, but also one in 1982 that was also produced by Was and Was, which you might also enjoy if you liked W(NW) as the same humor is on display, with a few interesting covers, like this take on General Johnson’s Don’t Walk Away.

Atkinson’s legacy may be small, but it is rich.

A vocalist who made the absurd go down easy, he pretty much is a tonic for our times.

Fiona Apple – Fetch the Bolt Cutters

Fetch the Bolt Cutters, Fiona Apple’s first album in eight years, feels pent up.

You can hear it in the chorus of the title track.

You can hear it in Shameika’s buoyant beat and whiplash lyrics that reach back to her childhood to work out the bullying she encountered at school.

And you can hear it in the stories she tells – hers and those of others – that have shaped the #MeToo movement.

That said, Fetch the Bolt Cutters couldn’t feel more of the moment.

An album articulating societal pandemics for our pandemic times recorded entirely at home with little embellishments that are the equivalent of your cat jumping into frame during a Zoom meeting.

In that way, it is a bracing work, and one that COVD-19 has made it possible to really spend time with, having shut down society in so many ways.

Even so, I suspect I’d be sitting with it quite a bit under any circumstances.

Although Fetch the Bolt Cutters plays, at times, like a catharsis, it is surprisingly bouncy and energetic.

In an interview with Vulture, Apple noted that walking and hiking have been constants in her life, not just for rumination but also for her craft.

And you can really hear that here.

Songs wind like mountain paths.

It’s all somewhat bumptious, but once you find your footing, the album is forgiving, in part because her melodic sense is still strong.

Listen close enough and you can still hear echoes of early work like Shadowboxer, a song that suggested she could be a torch singer for our times.

But that torch is being wielded here in a different way.

Apple is shining a light on lovers real and imaginary, the ways we hold ourselves – and others – back, and the way that men pit women against each other, or just destroy them through manipulation and violence.

It should feel claustrophobic, but it isn’t.

In part because the music is so kinetic, so elastic, so restless.

But also because Apple sounds like she is in a good place after troubled times.

Every song, every line, feels like hard-won wisdom.

A testimony of survival.

All of it suffused with a sense of adventure and playfulness.

That comes through in the last song, when she not only shrugs off an error but announces she moves not to prove anything but just for the sheer joy that she can move.

It’s a notice that she is living on her terms, something that comes through in every note and word.

In that way, it feels healing, like a balm for all of us who are cut off, shut away, trying not to get sick in a world that is very, very sick.

Each rollicking, wordy song, as evocative in some ways of Scott Walker’s lyric-driven approach to music as it is to Laura Nyro’s fearless refusal to hold fast to conventional song form, acts very much like a set of bolt cutters, in that it has the potential to liberate you from your situation if you listen long enough.

And I’ve listened long enough that it feels like the year’s best album.


poem: heart beat

the first time

you heard

your heart beat

did you know

you were complete

or did you

go looking

for another

assign it

to a string

of lovers

and when

you were done

following it about

did you modulate it

count it out

what is it

about that sound

that resonates more

than any word

that is

so intent

on being heard