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The view from the rear	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 731 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the members of Pink Floyd. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-The view from the rear
- 1
“Rog, I’m not really sure what you mean by your comment.”

My delivery is deadpan, but we’ve known each other for a near-lifetime, and Roger knows I am setting him up for the cheek.

“It’s one word, Nicky, without myriad interpretations,” he replied, dry as burnt toast.

“It’s the best of my recollection.”

“Which is likely inherently flawed.”

I won’t argue the point because if there’s anything Roger Waters knows how to do, it’s win an argument. One might be bruised and bleeding and begging for mercy hours (perhaps even years) later, but he will prevail. And I’m content continuing to extend him victory to my grave, because he is the Alpha and Omega of my professional life, and I do adore him, though I can’t tell him that, naturally. Can you imagine handing a sniper that kind of ammunition? One might as well do the honour of shooting himself in the foot and be done with it.

Camden, 1970
“So…has it really sunk in yet?”

I looked over at Roger, who grinned in that particularly maddening way of his, across the kitchen table as we drank beer and ate pork scratchings, the sounds of a match on the radio the only audible accompaniment.

“What, dear?” I asked, waiting for whatever sardonic tease was forthcoming.

“That you’re going to be responsible. One of them. The breeders.”

I remained blasé though the subject was making me nervous, it was true. When Lindy told me, in blushing tears and hysterical laughter, I had been elated but it was the kind of elation which lasts momentarily, then fades like the aftermath of a particular intoxication. I knew Roger and Judy had been trying to conceive as well, and this was merely Roger’s way of sublimating his jealousy. Strange to think of Rog – intelligent, articulate, sharpest knife in the drawer Rog – piqued over something which anyone could do, even the lowliest of us.

We were friends, yes, enduringly loyal friends, but I knew he considered me beneath him in a sort of benign way. . .not from spite, but an acknowledgement of superiority. And I could concede it when necessary because without Roger we were decidedly less than.

Less than what we could be.

“S’pose not,” I said, neutral and mild as I’d always been, protective coloring and easy diplomacy. “Imagine, me a dad, isn’t that a lark?”

“Rather.” He smirked and took a drag on his cigarette. “Thought of names?”

“Haven’t thought of anything ‘cept how we’re going to manage.”

“The hens are all rather fluttery, aren’t they?”

It was my turn to smirk, as Roger would never use that term in earshot of Judy and live to tell the tale.

“It’s the moment of Glorious Womanhood,” I quipped, taking advantage of their very absence to do so.

Roger frowned, then trimmed the ash with fastidious attention in a saucer.

“Rick and Juliette do well enough.”

“Yes, it will be most helpful to have the benefit of others’ experience. And you’ll be next, y’know, you’ll have us all to pester with questions.”

He didn’t smile, exactly, but the frown did retreat.

“You? When I need to know what’s wrong with my car I ask you. But that’s as far as I go, lad.”

I pretended to be wounded by his appraisal, but that was our game. I hoped Roger’s mood would pass in time…but if nothing else his extremely competitive nature meant a certain spouse was going to be bedded that very night for another chance to seed the garden, as it were. And because I cared I hoped that it would take this time.

More green highlighter, but this time the lines were neat and precise, meaning the corrections and suggestions were rendered by a more emotionally sedate individual. David was always rather quiet, and as we were all quiet in our ways it must have driven people mad: four people who conversed when they wished, but communicated very rarely.

After pleasantries with Polly I was able to speak with our titular leader.

“Alright Nicky, what did I do wrong now?”

It was a mock grumble, but he knew…he knew he was holding the deck.

“No dear, it’s quite lovely, actually. I’m just happy you didn’t send back an injunction.”

We laugh, but it’s a little brittle around the edges.

“It’s all very amusing, lad. I didn’t think I’d laugh as much as I did, but then again you are the soul of wit, aren’t you.”

Dave’s got a wicked tongue when he cares to, I know I’m being gently lampooned.

“One tries, dear. But honestly, I just wanted to thank you for taking the time, and all that.”

“My pleasure, sir.”

We hem and haw, asking after families, do a little business, and then he’s off, the demands of his young family taking precedence. And I’m grateful the highest hurdle is passed, though if you had asked me thirty years ago I never would have imagined David Gilmour in such a lofty position.

London, 1967
Well of course I knew David, positively everyone in Cambridge knew David. I won’t tell you what they used to call him, but yes…he was quite infamous in his way. But we were actually famous, in a manner of speaking.

So when I saw him at the RCA gig I knew he wasn’t a mere spectator. I assume his interest had to do with Syd because they were friends. But as Syd was rather the problem by then it seemed an episode of Providence, to place a solution in my immediate sight.

I remember I stammered as I spoke, not only from the drama of the situation but also from the sheer power of his presence. I tried to imagine David singing our songs, and it didn’t jell, but I knew that he would be a coup…plenty of other people wanted him, even if they didn’t know quite what to do with him after that.

In a manner of speaking, that is.

We talk electronically, Rick and I. He sails his boat around in a circle, I suppose, in the same paths of the Caribbean Sea, comes ashore about once a week or so, gets online and reads my email. His replies are usually terse, but always kind.

But he faxed me dozens of pages, rendered in a delicate hand, filling in gaps I hadn’t known existed prior. Stories which might have pained him, opinions which he had kept to himself for a very long time.

James encouraged me to “confirm” Rick’s true contribution to The Wall; recalling that he himself had made a few pointed comments regarding other people’s recollections (he also quipped that he wasn’t merely an engineer when he came into our lives, but it took me another year to realize what he was referring to), but Rick simply said no comment to my repeated requests to elaborate regarding what really went on during the sessions at Super Bear.

That part of his life was likely the focus of his ongoing therapy, a burden he carried around with the English capacity for stoicism. But I could see it weighing him down every time a certain bassist’s name was mentioned. He would literally twitch and I would feel a hidden empathy for having suffered so much with his usual quiet aplomb.

But I believe of late Rick feels redeemed, and knows that as bad as it was, it is what he can, and will, be remembered for; his unique talents and above all, as the sensitive one.

I suppose one of us had to take that role, and in him it is most becoming.

London, 1969
Rick is the oldest of us, and I always believed he was too sensitive for life. Even the most artistic types usually grow a nice thick rind about their psyches, shielding themselves from the grimy indifference of the world. But not Mr. Wright, doe-eyed and quiet except in those situations in which he rendered a decided opinion or answer and then there was no more deliberation. In the course of our young communal life Roger was forever cross with him for not immediately handing over whatever he desired (though I wasn’t much of a help in that respect either), but Rick had his limits, as did we all.

His mother, a very charming woman, was always encouraging him to sing. She thought his best ability lay in that direction, citing that Welshman were known for their wonderful voices and he would quietly and seriously reply that he was only half Welsh.

I would snicker, and he would smile. Sometimes all you could get from Rick was a smile.

“Mr. Mason, to what do I owe this great honour?”

The voice is still the same pleasant placid tone, but the accent somewhat degraded by two decades residence across the pond.

“Guthrie you still owe me twenty quid from 1979 and I mean to have it, boy!”

Teasing laughter. “But Nicky you cheated! And even adjusting for inflation, the pound is rather in the shitter, isn’t it? S’pose I say all manner of complementary things for the book and we call it even, hmm?”

“You’ve never said a nasty thing in your life, I wager.”

“Not that you’ll ever know.”

I chuckled. “Good thing. But seriously, what I meant to ask is that you send me a photo.”

“Of what?”

“No, of whom. Of you.”

“Whatever for?”

“To put in the book. Can’t be merely snaps of us, that would be boring. Need to acknowledge all the unsung heroes.”

“Who were thankfully not unpaid.”

We like to make each other laugh, me and the boffin.

“Oh goodness, I s’pose I can dig up a photo somewhere, but I’m surprised you don’t have any in the Archive.”

“How could I, when every moment you were declaring stop pointing that bloody camera at me. And I don’t want any of the photos from the live show, those were already used. But possibly…one of you and your baby?”

“So you can give it a smartarsed caption ‘bout how you’re a better driver? I think not. I’ll not have the reputation of the Pantera besmirched, thank you.”

We continued on in this manner for a while, talking cars and other things and true to his word (which is worth its' weight in any precious metal) a photo arrived by express mail two days later. I’d no idea of the origin except the accompanying note indicated it as taken in 1982. Naturally James picked a shot where he is not the focus of the picture, standing left-of-center, guarded as always, with a squint and a smile rivaling the Mona Lisa’s for enigmatic subtext. This naturally led me to wonder about the circumstance, but as we are both English one does not pry…one merely speculates and keeps it dark.

Los Angeles, 1979
Ah James…patient James. Mr. Guthrie had thankfully assisted me in making Fictitious Sports cohesive, after listening to the rough mixes with a kindly frown, if such a thing is possible.

“It’s…uh…interesting, Nick, but it’s rather lacking in –“

He paused, with a blush. Sometimes I reckoned James was even a more of a diplomat than I, in that he had strong opinions but never shared them unless it was his specific task to do so. But that’s why we liked him, after all, because he knew when to shut up.

“Go on,” I urged. If anyone could make this thing sound good it was our boffin.

“Lacking in direction, I’d say.”

“Is it salvageable?” I asked. I had really been excited with the project while working on it, but I did fear the end result might be deemed too esoteric.

“Well anything is salvageable, I imagine,” he quipped, and we laughed.

We had a special relationship, he and I, because drums were very important to James. He felt drumming was the key to any good rock song, and although I imagined this a specific prejudice as James was a drummer himself, our initial collaboration on The Wall was the first time I’d ever worked with anyone bearing that point of view. I almost began to feel needed again, as the others had a particular habit of leaving me out unless I asserted myself.

“Does it sound okay, though? Mike and I ran the board, of course, and while I know my way ‘round a console I s’pose I’m not of the professional calibre to which we are accustomed.”

Another chuckle. “It’s fine, boss, nothing too awful.”

“Oh good then.”

Our mutual capacity for diplomatic understatement never failed to amuse.

Steve. People just don’t realize how grand a figure Steve was, unless they actually knew him.

Some liked to say “that bastard O’Rourke,” or merely “that gangster,” and I suppose he did come off that way at times, because he would fight tooth and nail, clean and dirty, to the very end, to ensure we got what we wanted. He considered us that important and valuable, and there are very few artists who can say they have the same attention these days, when entertainment management firms are international conglomerates with hundreds of bands on the roster.

But I like to think he fought that hard not only out of duty, but love as well. We were friends – he knew any number of my secrets, as did I of his – and we kept them each to the other. He was my repository of memory, my bullshit detector, my boon companion.

We never raced for cash, or any other object of material worth. Only for bragging rights which we would lord over the other until the tide turned and the other won.

There are so few people remaining who remember the times, who I could call any time of the day or night and say “remember when –“ and yes, they did remember.

I used to tease him, play tricks on him, bitch to him, blame him, and laugh at and with him. Perhaps that’s why I miss him most of all, because he was only a man, but a man of many abilities, and roles, to our mad gang of troubadours.

London, 1970
“So you like to go fast, do ya Nicky?”

Steve is eying my Lotus in a rather alarming manner, as if he’d have it for himself.

“S’in my blood. I’m the son of a son of a driver.”

“Ah, I never had the luxury of indulging the passion, but I always wanted to.”

“Well come to Silverstone with me sometime. Get you going ‘round the track and then you’ll wonder how you’d ever lived without it.”

“Yeah? Easy as that, eh?”

I made a sort of humming sound I was known for when attempting humility. “Not exactly, but one can’t learn how to race from a book, after all.”

Our manager nodded gravely, then that broad grin which I found comforting appeared.

“Say, if I win our first race you’ve got to help me get back at Rog for putting dog food in my dinner the other night.”

I laughed. “Well you can’t say you were unfamiliar with the taste.”

He grimaced. “I wouldn’t have minded except it wasn’t the brand I sold!”

I tell you, till that moment I don’t think I’d ever laughed so hard in my entire life.
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The view from the rear