Let's talk about Pink Floyd.I know, you will stop me and yell," what is left there that's not been told about this band yet ?". 14 years after their last studio album, still every five minute a freshman in one of the zillions Indian colleges starts looking at life as a mix of weeds and magic (forgive me Federico) after having his first taste of comfortably numb/Another brick in the wall. Every low-brow college band still has to churn out one of Floyd's handful of hits and that to at the cost of enduring scathing taunts of audience comparing the lead guitarist's work with old Dave. Every die hard fan still hopes someday and perhaps a few years before FBI captures king Q, Floyd will cut an album together, not as a trio but being the quintessential quartet of an era long gone. Some intellectuals still go ga-ga over Floyd's early works, almost swearing by the dead lava of Pompeii, Some rich kid's new Fender don't get its due salvation if Comfortably Numb ain't covered in it,Some wannabe poets almost cry every time they utter " Remembering games and daisy chains of lust/Gotta keep the loonies...etc". So, if you are an Engineering grad from India and never heard of Floyd then dude from whichever planet you might have landed it was certainly not Mars. Pink Floyd ,to that IT-clubbing, onsite-whoring,fast moving populace, during their college days,was equal to 'mindblowing' muzic to be enjoyed with Paran da's Panch takaar Puriya( sachet of weeds bought for a few cents) or with Old Monk rum while sitting in a dim lit room. They don't need no education on Pink Floyd. No, Sir.
Be assured, my constant reader, this ain't another fanboy's warm hearted tribute to that arguably best band ever.This is about a story of growing up. Growing up with some wonderful moments of a millennium long gone, growing up in a new millennium with its collective share of angst,worries and changes that will someday make me sit in a deserted US office and realise how does it feel to have someone in my head other than me.
Maybe this is the story about salvation. Salvation that never came. Never came the Hollywood way, the way it came to Forrest Gump, to Will Smith in pursuit of happiness, to Tim Robbins in that Morgan Freeman movie. But Pink Floyd single handed-ly showed me that first flickering flame of salvation. Salvation from the conformed way of accepting reality, conformed way of enjoying musing by being bound to a definite genre, conformed way to live life. Ironically almost 11 years later(2009), when I try to finish this long overdue piece, all those Floyd's songs sit on top of my desk and watch a very much conformed soul whose band has started playing altogether a very different tune. Now Pink Floyd lives only in a drunken pure 'Bengali Aantel'(intellectual) party. Now all those nights, the same nights which never slept without listening to "Us & Them"( at least "Have a Cigar"), go to bed thinking about another vacant day gone by. Now Pink Floyd plays, in my ipod, in a cold winter-fucked highway, in a long journey to downtown, in a nauseating plane journey to new york... the modern marvel of technology that made restoring and preserving of any amount of songs inside its binary labyrinth offers me every note, every chord change, every genius of Floyd in its entirety. But do I listen? Do I remember? Do I feel the pangs of divinity that water's pen brought? Do I?