Nick Mason’s Saucerful Of Secrets
St David’s Hall, Cardiff
Of all the rock acts touring the globe, this may be the most curious. The drummer from a world-famous band finds that all his comrades have walked out, drifted off or gone to the great gig in the sky.
He assembles a new line-up, with a twist: they don’t play the classics, only the early stuff.
So, at 75, Nick Mason of Pink Floyd sits surrounded by fiftysomethings, recreating the long-lost songs of a bunch of student hippies. It’s almost as if he did it for a dare.
There are two guitarists, Gary Kemp (right) from Spandau Ballet (yes, really) and Lee Harris; and a bassist, Guy Pratt (left), who joined Floyd after Roger Waters left
Not that the public are complaining. The Floyd always were a state of mind as much as a band, and their fans devour everything from blockbusting exhibitions to Australian tribute bands.
Nick Mason’s Saucerful Of Secrets, formed a year ago, are already on their fourth tour.
St David’s Hall, which seats 2,000, is packed. If it wasn’t obvious this was a meeting of the Floyd appreciation society, the T-shirts confirm as much. ‘Pink Freud,’ says one, tellingly.
Outside, the pavement hawker has posters not just for this tour but for David Gilmour and Roger Waters too.
Mason, in a white shirt and sensible chinos, is probably the only rock god who dresses like the chairman of the board. He’s a genial presence – ‘We’re not the Australian Roger Waters,’ he deadpans, ‘or the Celebrity Antiques Roadshow.’
And he’s drumming as well as ever.
Whether he’s a band leader is more debatable. He has put together a gifted ensemble with one gaping hole. There are two guitarists, Gary Kemp from Spandau Ballet (yes, really) and Lee Harris; a keyboard player, Dom Beken; and a bassist, Guy Pratt, who joined Floyd after Waters left and also happens to be rock’s greatest wit.
But there’s no frontman.
The role falls to Pratt and Kemp, both better talkers than singers. It’s like the ten minutes in the middle of a Rolling Stones gig when Mick Jagger hands the microphone to Keith Richards, stretched out over a whole evening.
The tracks that work best are those on which you can hear Syd Barrett in your head – Arnold Layne, See Emily Play – and the instrumentals. Left to their own devices, the Secrets kick up a gentle hippie storm.
Set The Controls For The Heart Of The Sun, on which Waters guested recently in New York, is a psychedelic showstopper, guaranteed to blow your mind.
On that song, Mason, exuding boyish delight, plays the gong. He and his mates are having a great time, which rubs off on the crowd, but there are only glimpses of the measured majesty of peak Floyd.
In his play Rock ’n’ Roll, Tom Stoppard made the Barrett era seem magical. Here it feels more like the joss-sticks tent at a festival, all wooziness and whimsy. ‘It’s only half a song,’ says Mason, after Vegetable Man – and this is only half a gig.
But it still gets a standing ovation.
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