I have been listening a lot to David Gilmour’s album, On An Island (EMI). We must now call him David, as he is a portly gent of a certain age who will probably get a knighthood the next time a Pink Floyd fan moves into No. 10. Obviously, though, we think of him as Dave, just as Jimmy Page will never be James Page and Robbie Williams will be Robbie Williams when he’s 95 and gaga. Many reviewers objected to the Dave…sorry, David Gilmour record because it’s unmistakably autumnal in theme and texture. The songs are quieter and slower, in the main, than even Pink Floyd fans are accustomed to, although they are also much more direct, and I believe it’s by some distance the best album to emerge from the extended Floyd family since The Wall, a mere 27 years ago. And the perfect Christmas present for any other portly old hippies who haven’t already bought it (of whom there may be six or seven in the country).
The most acute pleasure for long-term fans, though, lies in Gilmour’s guitar playing and, in particular, his solos, some of which are achingly beautiful. Guitarists don’t grow old, they just improve. The more you listen to these songs, the clearer it becomes that the best ones are just leading up to the guitar solo, which is the real meat. My favourite song on the album, ‘Where We Start’, has two solos, one based on the verse and chorus, and the other skilfully woven around a little two-note coda to the chorus, a wonderfully delicate piece of work that makes me smile every time I hear it. Gilmour emphasises their importance by bringing in the strings only during the solos, thus giving us permission, as though we needed it, to sit back and enjoy them in their full splendour.
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