SET THE CONTROLS FOR THE HEART OF THE SUN

When I was a young teenager in the early 1970's Pink Floyd were massive. Its hard to describe now just how big they were, almost god-like. You never saw them on the telly but they're LP's were like holy works.

Me and my mates adored Floyd, especially my mate Pete. We'd gather in his colossal shed at the end of the garden and stick Dark Side of the Moon on the stereo. We'd stare at that cover and wonder at the life beyond the rainbow prism as we melted away to the melodic heaven of the the Great Gig in the Sky.

But it was their next album, Wish You Were Here that really blew our jets. From the burning man sleeve to the fabulous tracks we were smitten in a way that only Floyd could smite you. The stand-out track was easily the epic Shine on You Crazy Diamond and we all shook our heads in reverence of such deck-defining material. For me though, it was Welcome to the Machine, which I liked the most. I've always like songs about machines and robots, like Bowie's Saviour Machine, so it fitted right in.

My mates tried other prog bands for an equivalent surge; Sad Cafe, ELP, Tangerine Dream, Camel and Genesis to name the best. Genesis were probably the nearest to Floyd in terms of reverence for their work on albums like The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway and Flick [or was F*ck!] of the Tail. But in reality Genesis were sadly in the tepid aftertow of Floyd and never reached the Olympian heights of Waters, Gilmour and co. Only Yes were more important to me in the prog stakes, their Yes Album and Tales from Topographic Oceans becoming lifelong friends and LP's I often listen to even now.

Anyways, back to Pink Floyd. I saw an excellent documentary about them the other night and it became clear just how affected they were when original band member Syd Barrett left the band in the early days. They mourned him in words and song as of he were dead, which I suppose to them he was musically, no longer part of the project he founded in the Sixties. They showed a photo of a bloated bald Syd visiting the recording of Wish in 1975 and it was shocking how he'd changed from the elfin minstrel to this.

Like many singer-songwriters from the Sixties and Seventies who simply faded away like Syd Barrett or died too young like Nick Drake, the tragedy of these losses can linger on like myths. In the early Noughties I bid on an Ebayed artwork by Syd, a sort of wooden book-end I think, but I didn't win. I think I spent the money I would have used on a book from the library of John Entwistle of the Who. It'll go to my Grandkids one day I imagine.

From Wish You Were Here in 1975, my hairy mates and I had to wait till 1977 to hear anything new from Floyd. It came in the form of a flying pig and was called Animals, another slice of pink genius. But by then Punk and not Pink was sweeping the UK and the longhairs like me were in retreat, retiring to our hobbit holes, licking our wounded gatefolds and as Syd would have said, setting our controls for the heart of the sun.

Were you Floydian at all readers?