David Gilmour
Rattle That Lock

To hell with the United Kingdom, because every time I set foot on the land of Albion, my blood boils and slander ensues, where the welcome comes from that damned damp drizzle that creates mud and moss on my helmet of unruly hair. To hell with all the cars with those eye-catching license plates and the damn right-hand driving that forces me to pray for the benevolence of all Pakistani truck drivers every time I inevitably take the wrong turn on those damned roundabouts that spin the opposite way. 60 miles to go until the destination. 60 miles? What are 60 miles anyway? Almost 100 kilometers, but looking at them like that on the dashboard, they seem so damn few. How much must the whole of Great Britain go to hell, that doesn’t care about the International System and thinks in terms of feet, yards, ounces, pounds, and miles.

I arrive in the city when it's already evening, and it's the usual damn suburb where everything is profoundly old and the hotel carpets smell of dust and transience. There must be a hidden reason why in the United Kingdom people persist in basking in a world two hundred years old, staying in ramshackle cottages with walnut veneer furniture and sinks without mixers. Fortunately, an unexpected appearance named Carol delivers a ray of light in this gloom across the Channel in a remote village in the East of England. She's the young secretary stationed at the office reception with her jet-black curls and two lapis-lazuli set in her eyes. Damn pandemic, it's worth saying, which doesn't let me see anything below her nose because of that damn mask that hides the entirety of the countenance from most eyes, but it doesn't matter: at a hint of a joke about the English cold wind or my troubles with right-hand driving, her eyes smile and that's enough to make me quickly forget the cold and watered-down cappuccino drunk shortly before at the hotel. In the comings and goings that accompany each of my obligatory passages through the office hall, I can’t help but notice that Carol has adorned her station with rock concert tickets: Robert Plant, Stones, Deep Purple, Roger Waters. Who would have thought: behind those composed locks and beautiful blue-rimmed eyes, Carol is a rocker touring Britain to scream "You make a grown man cry" and "Want a whole lotta love," perfectly dressed in leather bracelets, ripped jeans, and black boots. Her passion for concerts is certainly a good excuse to start a conversation, even if I’m not exactly a live animal, but my knowledge of the subject allows me to discuss this or that artist with her without a hitch. She then has an unconditional love for David Gilmour and proudly displays a ticket for the "Rattle That Lock Tour" of 2015 when the former Pink Floyd guitarist followed up with the eponymous solo project released a few months earlier. Of course, I don’t hide that for a traditionalist like me it’s impossible to think there’s life beyond the Floyd of 1994, and I've already ventured quite far in time, but she insists on recommending I listen to that "Rattle That Lock" composed by a Gilmour on the verge of seventy. Well, since those bright lapis-lazuli cannot be denied, I decide to give this good David's work a chance to find another reason for conversation with Carol.

Reserved listening at eight o'clock sharp in the evening after the usual wholemeal sandwich with onion chutney and garlic mashed potatoes: plentiful 50 minutes that flow smoothly into my ears while my shallot and garlic speedball wanders restlessly in my esophagus. The verdict on the record is clear and beyond dispute: an indescribable mess. Yes, I could also spend five minutes to say that "Rattle That Lock," in the sense of the title track, and "Today," not coincidentally the two singles extracted from this shapeless molasses, are the two least worst pieces of the lot and "5 A.M." and "And Then..." where our man wields the guitar as only he knows how would fit well as background music in the waiting room of a dental office as scraps of the contemporary "The Endless River" under the name Pink Floyd. For the rest, there are downright repulsive pieces like "Faces of Stone" and "In Any Tongue," and there is even the impression that David enjoys mocking himself when in "A Boat Lies Waiting" he intones a lullaby that terribly recalls the forgettable "A Great Day for Freedom" of "The Division Bell" from twenty years before. In short, as expected, it was almost impossible to expect anything good from a seventy-year-old artist who gave his best in a band about which everything has already been said and written. Sure, now it’s just a matter of telling Carol, but the night will bring advice on how to communicate this. I focus on the primary objective, which is to push the lethal mixture of the evening meal towards the lower areas, and I fall asleep dreaming of Boris Johnson's damned toupee chasing me with a three-meter-long swab aiming at my revered backside.

Saint Bernardino from Gaviscon got me through the night, and I can therefore resume the conversation with Carol from where I left off. She’s still there at her desk, with two even brighter lapis-lazuli—maybe because it's Friday and she's already relishing the plans for the imminent weekend—and the curls making a halo on her forehead: she certainly awaits an opinion on the record she recommended, or maybe she’s simply thinking about her own business and smiling at me out of courtesy; I approach and at her nod, which I hope implies curiosity for feedback, I tell her that David is surprising and still has the spark of his best times despite his almost seventy years. She allows herself to genuine amazement, and her festive eyes relieve my guilt for having blatantly lied to her. A brief conversation about some newly released worthy of interest and then a quick goodbye: I leave Heathrow in the evening and, due to the pandemic numbers surging dramatically in the past week, it’s not unlikely that for safety reasons this will be the last trip across the Channel for the project. Of course, there would be a happy ending now if before parting probably for the last time, Carol granted my sight that coveted smile stifled by the damn FFP2, but I can’t wear the bold face of those who dare to ask for so much, so I settle once again for the timid wrinkles around her eyes as a sober farewell and leave the East of England to reach the airport.

The journey on the crowded Boeing 737 usually induces an extraordinary drowsiness in me, but this time the pulsating carpet of London lights keeps me awake while the steward recites the usual litany of safety rules. As the aircraft gains altitude, it bids farewell to the bluish mist of the City, and in the window glass, I seem to see the reflection of Carol's black locks as she gestures like a splendid rocker at Gilmour's last tour, so much so that it comes naturally to me to call her name to catch her attention. She turns towards me, and her bright smile tells me again about the United Kingdom, its damp drizzle, right-hand driving, yards, dusty-carpeted hotels, onion chutney sandwiches, the East of England, and my damn desire to return once more.