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Interpretations	By : luna65 Category: Singers/Bands/Musicians > Pink Floyd Views: 622 -:- 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-Interpretations
- 1
1970
The members of Pink Floyd sat in a circle in a rehearsal room on folding chairs, drinking tea and listening to demos. The primary centerpiece of the record had already been decided upon (a composition they had performed officially earlier in the year) and they were mulling over a few shorter songs to fill the remaining space, but Rick noticed that David and Roger had been particularly bitchy regarding the process.

“What’s that?” David asked, crinkling his nose in an approximation of what appeared to be horror. “I can’t tell because it sounds like you recorded it in a dustbin.”

Roger made a gesture which was considered obscene in several countries, emphasized by his thin fingers. “Like you brought anything better.”

“I always bring something that can actually be used.”

“Then spool to the next one, and stop being a pissant.”

The next song was stark in contrast, just Roger singing and playing basic chords. It was the kind of ballad David was more likely to write, in that his compositions tended to be utterly simplistic in their raw form. Rick made to say something positive during the bridge, but David silenced him with a raised hand. He seemed to be listening very intently.

“Well?” Roger demanded, and the other two knew the question was meant for only one.

“I like it,” David replied quietly, looking his bandmate directly in the eye. “It’s really good.”

“Well Rick, what did you bring?” Nick asked. Rick almost laughed, god bless ole Nick he always knew to intervene when things became too strange. Like now, how Dave and Rog were staring at one another as if they were still talking, or the other two had suddenly disappeared. Ever since they returned to London once the remaining American dates had to be cancelled, they seemed to be in each other’s pocket, both in terms of empathy and enmity. No matter the actual mood, they remained joined at the hip, so to speak. They had even taken to sitting next to one another at every possible opportunity, although Rick supposed it was a bit of a stretch to assume too much from that development; some things were in the lap of the gods, after all.

For the moment, they faced one another across the distance of actual space and also perspective. But it seemed Roger had built a bridge with his simple song, not bad for an architectural dropout.

As Rick cued his tape on the machine, David got out of his chair and crouched down in front of Roger and they began to whisper, but not low enough that Rick couldn’t hear them. Though he could admit he was trying more than usual.

“Two ballads, maybe too much ballast,” David was saying. “I like yours better.”

“Yours is very nice, though,” Roger murmured, almost tender. “Much better than your first try.”

David favored him with that smile they all admitted, in late-night moments of extreme drunkenness, was almost angelic. Almost, mind you, since they knew what he was capable of in the most debauched of circumstances.

“Yes but yours is. . .I daresay, very honest.”

“It’s sad. Yours is sweet. . .so we need both, you see.”

And Rick waited, trying not to look at them as they stared at one another yet again, the business at hand forgotten. Their drummer had chosen that moment to visit the loo, so Rick could always use the excuse of having to wait on Nature’s demands if questioned. But it never came up; when Nick returned he simply nodded his head at the other once seated, and Rick pressed the play button. Two headstrong men turned their gaze toward him and he said, “Well, here’s my song.”

They each looked off into space, their gazes similar in discernment and how similar in thought Rick could only imagine. But it wasn’t much of a stretch.

1972
Roger was ready to throw someone through a window. And given that the windows of Chateau d’Herouville were extremely old and valuable, it was wholly indicative of his level of desperation. There were just far too many French girls hanging around, a chorus of heavily-accented chirping questioning his guitar player every time he moved.

“David, ce qui –“

And what was worse was many of these girls knew him from the old days, so they acted as entitled to spend time with him as the people he was actually working with. Dave loved it, naturally, though he was a master of understatement. Women could never quite tell where they stood with him, unless of course they were actually under him.

And Roger knew exactly how they felt.

Roger finally made everyone go into the lounge, including Peter and the engineer only David could fully communicate with, as French labor laws demanded the use of local talent.

“We’ve got less than seven fucking days to finish this,” he groused, pacing the small confines of the space while the other three regarded him with their usual expression of bemused reserve.

“We’ve got all the tracks sorted out, but you’re the one holding us up,” David countered.

“And you, just because you’ve gone native again doesn’t mean you have to submit all of us to it,” Roger snapped.

“What the fuck are you on about?”

“Take a bloody bath, that’s what I’m on about. You’re starting to smell as bad as that cheese they served us the other night.”

Rick and Nick fell over laughing, and Roger cracked the most minute of smiles.

“I do think you’re starting to draw files, old chap,” Rick said, once his giggles had passed.

“Your fingernails are particularly grimy,” Nick added.

“Sod off,” David muttered. “Don’t change the fucking subject, Rog, you’re holding us up because you can’t string together this bloody concept you keep saying we need to use.”

“It’s the movie, you prat. Of course the bloody movie should figure in the lyrical content!”

“Well then write the damn lyrics already! Nobody’s stopping you!”

“How can I write anything with so many bloody people about?”

Rick and Nick sighed, knowing what was coming. They naturally found it very pleasant to work in a studio full of lovely girls, not to mention that Roger was much better-behaved when an audience was present.

David looked at Roger, pursing his lips in a sardonic way, and dramatically rose out of his chair, making his way to the lounge. They could tell when he reached it because the chorus for his attentions sounded again. But he cut through all of it rather loudly.

“Madamoiselles, il faut travailler.”

Roger found himself sneering because despite the fact that Dave was almost perfectly fluent in French (not to mention possessing a good grasp of the other Romance languages) he had no discernable proper accent, and delivered these words much the same as anything else he said, in that garbled Cockney variant the youth of Cambridge were wont to adopt. It came off as vaguely ridiculous to Roger’s ears, and yet, the first time they had gone to France to appear on television and Dave had handled the interview rather than subject the band to an awkward interpretive interlude, Roger had been intrigued in yet another way. Was there no end to the charms of this stubborn bastard?

A number of glaring visages passed by the doorway, and Nick had to resist the urge to point at Roger in deflection of possible blame. Eventually David returned, holding his hands out as if he had performed a magic trick.

“Happy?” he asked Roger.

“Yes, thank you. I got married so I could avoid this nonsense.”

“You got married,” David remarked, slouching into his chair once again, “because you didn’t want to be alone.”

Roger gave him a withering glance, then turned to Rick.

“Your track is good, but it’s not in keeping with the theme.”

Rick put a hand through his hair, as if he were likely to begin ripping it out. “Rog I told you to go ahead and change the lyrics.”

“Why can’t you?”

“Because I can’t write to a theme, alright? Sixth Form is long since past. I wrote the lyrics I wrote, from personal experience, and that’s how I write a song.”

“Oh heaven forbid you actually try to help me.”

“Steady on, mate,” David said, sitting up and leaning forward.

Roger turned and stared him down. “I suppose your track is decent enough.”

“Well thank Christ for that!”

“Hey are we going to work through tea?” Nick asked. “It’s half four already.”

“Oh bloody hell is that all you ever think about?!” Roger exclaimed.

“Well dinner won’t be till after eight.”

“Why do the French eat so late, Dave?” Rick asked.

“You think that’s bad, sometimes the Spaniards don’t eat till nearly midnight.”

“No!” Nick exclaimed. “That’s bloody ridiculous.”

“I used to save half my lunch sometimes, which was extremely meager to begin with.”

“Instead of reminiscing ‘bout your Grand Tour,” Roger injected, with apparent acidity, “we need to get back to work. You,” he indicated, nodding at David, “go tell that worthless frog to fetch us our tea.”

”D’accord, Monsieur Roger.”

David was halfway down the corridor when Roger called after him, “What’s the French for you’re an absolute prat, hmm?”

David merely smiled and began walking towards him. “So you like my song, then?”

“Didn’t I say so?”

“What do you like about it?”

“It’s a very nice melody. It fits the overall mood.”

“C’est vrai.”

“You needn’t try to seduce me with your bad French.”

"Si je voulais te séduire, je sucerais ta bite."

“Whatever you just said, I’m sure it was horribly unfair.”

“What I just said is something you’ve agreed to upon occasion.”

Roger let out a breath of derision. “I’m sure I was in my cups then.”

David pursed his lips and raised his eyebrows. “Not every time.”

Roger flushed slightly and looked away.

“Shall I translate?” David asked, teasing.

“Oh do shut up David.” His expression turned hard. “Now I’m serious, we are truly under the gun here.”

“We’ll sort it out lad, you know we will.” David put a hand on Roger’s upper arm and gave it a faint squeeze. “I want you to listen to the song again, though, really listen to the lyrics.”

“Why?”

“Lyrics are important, aren’t they? Isn’t that what you always say?”

“But why are those lyrics particularly important?”

“I’m hoping you’ll know when you hear them.”

Roger’s expression in response was of slight puzzlement as David kissed the air between them.

“That’s all you’ve got? Vague hints?”

David leaned in close, clutching Roger’s arm again before he had the chance to step away.

“Here’s another hint, Rog: you worry too much.”

“Someone has to.”

“Can’t you trust me? Just once?”

Roger was torn between wanting to slap David and wanting to slam him up against the closest wall and kiss every inch of that beautiful face.

“If you want to go to bed at anything approaching a reasonable hour –“ and at this he looked directly into those glacial eyes with purposeful significance “- then you’d better see to our tea.”

“Certainement.” A slight smile, so very sweet yet with a hint of mocking.

Roger made sure to wait until David was out of sight before knocking his head against the wall, not hard enough to hurt, but his original impulse was no longer tenable, after all.

1976
“So what’s this then?” David asked, pointing to a section of Nick’s handwritten proofs for the packaging design.

“What?” Roger replied, without looking up from the magazine he pretended to read. David had noticed that the more time they remained in the same room, the more Roger tried to insulate himself by simply refusing to acknowledge his physical presence unless absolutely necessary.

“This first part of ‘Pigs,’ who’s that?”

Roger looked over at the paste-up, squinting. David noticed he needed a trim, his fringe was just skirting those strangely endearing eyes of his.

“Greedy politicians,” he opined, as if it were the most obvious interpretation ever rendered.

“Are you sure it’s simple as all that?”

“Of course it is, what are you daft now too?”

“I’m not an intellectual but nor am I entirely dense. With you I know there’s always another meaning beneath what you say.”

Roger looked slightly shocked, mouth partially agape, and David knew he’d been caught out.

“I fucking explained it to you already,” he declared, more vehement than was needed. “Of course I have to lecture all of you several times before you get it.”

“As I said, I’m not stupid. You did not, for example, tell us who the middle part was about, though I can well guess.”

“Can you now? Psychic as well? Reading minds and such?”

David lost patience with the inquiry and rose to exit the control room. He had a sudden desire to sit outside and stare at nothing in particular.

“You’re not stupid,” Roger called after him, turning his chair around to face David’s retreating back, “but you are fucking lazy.”

David stopped, holding onto the sides of the door frame. Every day, it seemed, Roger produced a new dagger which was used with unerring precision. Why do I let him hurt me like this? He turned around and came to stand over Roger’s long-limbed form.

“Perhaps you require some explanation. Every person, you included, possesses limitations. I could spend at least an hour or two discussing them. Shall I regale you with them now?”

Roger stood up, but David refused to be intimidated by the subtext of his looming proximity.

“Yes please do,” he said, grinning sardonically, which made his expression appear slightly deranged. “Then I can spend the night chewing over yours.”

“I’m sure it won’t be the first time you’ve spent all night thinking of me.”

David wisely retreated after his parting salvo, though he dreaded whatever retort Roger would finally craft to wound him in kind. His way with words perhaps the only area in which he truly was, in fact, limitless.
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Interpretations