Pink Floyd’s recognition of the half-century milestone of Wish You Were Here continues what, with period collections such as 2019’s The Later Years, has become something of a cottage industry for the now-defunct British prog-rockers.
Completists and collectors will no doubt be confounded by all manner of WYWH50 merchandise, not the least of which is a set of audio, video, and print content, technically updated, then collated for limited distribution. Intentional or unintentional, though, there’s an implicitly creative aspect to this archiving that transcends the mercenary nature of the expansive packages.
Accordingly, just as the formal release of Wish You Were Here fifty years ago was the shrewd distillation of a multiplicity of ideas, the two-CD package stands as the essence of this enterprise in its more expanded form. In contrast to the panorama of this Floyd era as delineated in the multimedia package that is the Deluxe Box Set — featuring live recordings restored and remastered by Steven Wilson — the double set offers ultra-focused insight into how the British foursome crafted a streamlined statement, almost relentless in its cogency.
The lucidity of the mid-Seventies exercise renders it superior to both its 1972 predecessor, Dark Side of the Moon, and its 1979 successor, The Wall (and it is markedly, if subtly, more empathetic than the unforgiving Animals in between). In fact, hearing the nine outtakes that appear on part of disc one and all of disc two of this compilation is not only enlightening on its own terms but also in the context of the project as a whole.
For instance, the pedal steel arrangement David Gilmour leads on another rendition of the title track suggests how far afield the band was willing to go to develop the ideal instrumental expression for the material. The same is true, yet another take of that same song featuring Stephane Grappelli. Yet the elegiac tones of his violin humanize the music a bit too much for its own good.
In contrast, the icy intricacy of keyboardist Rick Wright’s layered instrumentation during the ‘final’ renditions also featured here is more in line with the contradictions at the heart of these compositions. Not only that, but the insinuating impact of those arrangements begs the question of whether the late Wright was/is the unsung hero of this iconic band.
Equally startling revelations abound when hearing the unreleased content in the modified running order it appears in on the pair of compact discs. All nine parts of “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” spliced together in a new stereo mix by James Guthrie conjures an atmosphere equal parts mournful and malevolent as the denouement of the sequence. In fact, its alternately foreboding and comforting air is arguably more dramatic than the progression of the well-known five-track longplayer.
In this light, as the quartet ponders and mourns the loss of group co-founder Syd Barrett, it sounds (slightly) more rather than less generous of spirit. Guitarist Gilmour’s electric guitar has never sounded so deeply blues-rooted, and, as a result, solos like those adorning “Shine On You Crazy Diamond” echo with honest emotions, including the ambivalence of Pink Floyd’s business decisions.
Those generally sympathetic tones, however, render even more disingenuous bassist/composer Roger Waters’ main contributions to the LP. Sandwiched between the aforementioned paean to their estranged comrade and the title song, “Have A Cigar” and “Welcome to the Machine” sound puerile in comparison to their surroundings.
With five decades of hindsight, the distractions arising from the original release of Wish You Were Here actually illuminate rather than obfuscate its themes. From the controversial cover design–the longplayer enclosed in dark blue shrink wrap identified only with a cryptic sticker (stylized for these CD sleeves)–to the LP’s highly anticipated status as simultaneous follow-up to DSOTM and the group’s debut on Columbia Records, the circular logic of this eighth Pink Floyd studio album has never seemed more ironic or penetrating.
