David Gilmour
On An Island

The excessive grandeur throws off balance and distorts any type of judgment because there's an underlying flaw compromising it; the comparison with the past, a past too grand to be measured with the yardstick of reason. Dave carries in his wrinkles, in his senile curvature, in his now long deserted forehead, the essence of rock from the last 40 years. However, not everyone knows this because Dave was (after Barrett) a member, a secondary member, but nothing more than a member of a band where, strangely enough, the whole was greater than the sum of its parts. Perhaps I might be wrong, but, even though one must acknowledge the prevalence of Waters or Gilmour depending on the "eras," the majesty of Pink Floyd comes from the emotional totality expressed throughout the band’s 30-year existence. Moreover, to illustrate the indispensability of the collective, one merely needs to look at all the (few) solo works by the 4; practically none have ever managed to imprint themselves into people’s minds for their value, ideas, and sound. No, at most a moderate success (I think of the underrated "Amused To Death" by Waters) but nothing more. As for our Dave, then, of his solo production before this "On An Island," there is little to say: two works (eponymous and the graphically horrendous "About Face") mediocre, flat and predictable that added nothing to what the guitarist had already expressed in his supergroup. Now, however, times have changed and the supergroup has been asleep (perhaps forever) for over a decade, and after the “miracle” of July 2005, those nostalgic for that characteristic sound were left with nothing, except for a thinly veiled hope to see something more (who knows. . ) from those four again.

While waiting for the impossible, the "derivative" Leader of Pink Floyd thought it fitting to celebrate himself after the fervor of that London reunion, and he did so with a intimate and personal work, close but at the same time very far from that sound that in 1994 once again conquered the charts worldwide. I waited a long time for this album and Dave knows it... he knew very well that after twelve years since the last Pink Floyd production, we were all in withdrawal and would greedily embrace any work of his or of the ex (then ex?. . ) fellow Roger (who then diverted every expectation by showcasing an interesting classical music work). “The Division Bell”, in fact, while being completely pervaded by what had already been heard, had persuaded with convincing melodies, in some cases excellent (High Hopes, Take It Back, What Do You Want From Me); it was logical, therefore, to expect at least something vaguely resembling that sound, from someone who was the main architect of those tones. . BUT NO, dear folks, because Gilmour has shown again after thirty years: Pink Floyd is greater than the sum of its parts, and "the voice and the guitar" represents just a limb of that fabulous creature; the other members derive from the quintessence. Here, however, the quintessence is missing, indeed not even a shadow of it is felt. But perhaps Dave knew this too, because with "On An Island" he wanted more to celebrate himself and his amorous partnership, than to storm the peaks of the charts once again. Yet at certain moments it even seems possible. I think of the usual Gilmourian overture "Castellorizon", with its Hellenic memory (like the title and part of the artwork, after all) where the orchestra of Polish Preisner, the roar of the waves, and bells anticipate the gentleness of Dave's hands caressing his Fender… Intense, truly intense, as is his voice, introducing a moment later the only truly (and outrageously!) Pink Floyd-like episode of the album; the beautiful title track. Truly incredible how Gilmour’s voice remained unchanged after 30 years. Asleep the day after Wish You Were Here, any listener would struggle to detect the slightest difference, not only vocally but also in guitar sound. A track that would not have looked out of place on an album like Animals (the guitar on this song definitely projects us toward those sounds n. d. r. ). However, on further reflection, this song would not have looked more out of place in "Obscured By Clouds", because with all due respect for that album, the track On an Island doesn’t excessively exhalt. The song is remarkable for sure, the solo is moving (but the levels, even of only High hopes are not even reached here, despite the contribution of long-time companion Bob Klose...), the voice is crystal-clear, but... I don’t know, to use a banal metaphor, the Concorde traverses the entire runway at maximum speed... and in the end when it takes off, not reaching where it wanted, it is forced to make an emergency landing.

After the unexpected landing almost all PinkFloydian passengers disembark and in their place embark other cosmopolitans; lovers of Blues, Jazz aficionados, devotees of Country, and some very old-school rockers. The Blue, though warm and gentle, if you exclude the solo (always winning, in almost every track... but it's obvious to say so) manages to lull us, while Take a breath causes us a jolt due to an irritating chorus, although tempered towards the end by a drumming prog guitar performance. The tones rise further with the semiPinkFloydian Red sky at night where Dave surprises us (albeit not much in truth...) playing the saxophone. Too bad the episode lasts just a little more than 120 seconds after which a pseudo-blues interlude gifts us with a hybrid emotion where the usual solo barely manages to lift everything towards sufficiency... But the river of this album is karst: after barely reaching decency it sinks back into the deepest abysses of boredom, with the instrumental and very useless "Then I Close My Eyes". Pleasant only the Hispanic-style intro. However, one survives, for heaven's sake, at the end: the last three songs bring us afloat, but only to breathe and nothing more. Smile (already published in the 2002 DVD) is a pop piece “stolen” from McCartney and Charlie Chaplin, "A Pocketful Of Stones", on the other hand, has notable potential, thanks to the total orchestral contribution, but here too, the synthesis is a lame and ornate episode from abortive takeoff. The curtain closes with Dave and his consort walking towards the twilight; they are accompanied by the notes of a melancholic (and at times boring) "Where We Start", where despite the beautiful rustic opening on the notes of the Weissenborn by BJ Cole and Wyatt's expressive cornet solo, it fails to go beyond a mere soporific litany. Ultimately, On an Island is a personal work where Gilmour explores his ultra-PinkFloydian interests accompanied by his existential half (and in this case, unfortunately, also musical...).

An self-commemorative album, which has disappointed me quite a bit, but which I hope (though I doubt it) to re-evaluate over time. It might be liked, granted, but for those who buy or listen to it hoping to find a new "The Division Bell", know that this work shows that if the whole can sometimes resolve into its parts, other times instead, whether out of necessity or choice, the parts and the whole are like a constellation: a star, albeit one of the brightest, alone does not shine like all the light. P.S. Ah, I almost forgot... Gilmour and his wife Polly Samson are co-authors of almost all the tracks (and this time she also appears among the musicians)... But I don't want to say anything about this, except that I’d prefer to leave the naturalistic observations the writer enjoys inflicting on the lyrics of this album to the captions of the ethologist Lorenz... But let me just shoot a fiery dart: reflect on the (contaminated) careers of these artists... Lennon and Yoko Ono; Blackmore and Candice Night; Gilmour and Samson... etc... etc... Might it be the case to invent a chip that in some cases (and I emphasize "only in some cases"... because without love other great works would not have been born, not just musical)... might exclude romantic love from artistic inspiration? In Gilmour’s case, perhaps not... compared to his two previous works, it’s not worse, after all... Rating 6 +