Classic Rock Musings, Rants & Raves

Like all Pink Floyd fans, news of keyboardist Richard Wright’s passing made my Monday even more unbearable than usual. After all, Pink Floyd has been one of my favorite bands since the early 70s. While the group’s frontliners Roger Waters and David Gilmour seem to get most of the attention, I’ve always been curious about Wright, whose contributions to the Floyd canon cannot be discounted. He actively wrote a huge chunk of the band’s early songs, and his latter-day contributions, especially on The Dark Side Of The Moon, were particularly poignant.

His songwriting declined substantially after Wish You Were Here, but Wright’s keyboards were integral to the Pink Floyd sound. Without Wright, Pink Floyd would have been just another three-piece rock band. He enabled the music to take flight. He wasn’t like Emerson, Lord or Wakeman; rather, he added layers and textures that shaped that unmistakable Floydian resonance.

Floyd fans know Wright had his ups and downs. He apparently got fat and lazy enough in the late 70s to provoke Waters into dismissing him (although he stayed on during The Wall tour as a paid employee). Gilmour recognized Wright’s strengths, and was eager to bring him back into the fold when he and drummer Nick Mason reformed Pink Floyd in 1986 and recorded A Momentary Lapse Of Reason. It wasn’t until 1994’s The Division Bell that Wright was reinstated as a full fledge member, even writing and singing “Wearing The Inside Out,” his first (and last) song for a Pink Floyd album in almost 20 years.

Wright led a fairly obscure existence. The most I’d read about him in recent years was when he went to a Roger Waters concert, and confronted the man who had canned him from the group he co-found. Waters thought he was drunk, but for Wright the meeting was more about closure. I’m not sure Wright ever forgave Waters for that, but in the end, he may have had the last laugh.

After Live 8, Gilmour made his solo album On An Island, and invited Wright to play on it. And when the guitarist hit the road, he brought Pink Floyd’s keyboardist along for the ride. This presented a special opportunity for the two to indulge themselves and the audience with some rare Pink Floyd songs without calling themselves Pink Floyd. The pressure of that pesky Pink Floyd brand name put to the side, they were free to let loose and explore.

In 2006 at the Gibson Theatre in Los Angeles, I saw David Gilmour and Richard Wright perform “Echoes,” my favorite Pink Floyd song. Gilmour had that same, intense game face on whenever he plays, but Wright was relaxed and on the mark. He was playing music he had a big hand in, with musicians who were more like friends than band mates. And when Gilmour introduced him, the place erupted. We were there to see David Gilmour, but we were just as anxious to see Richard Wright — knowing the possibilities were endless with these two sharing the same stage.

I’ve seen comments on the Web how Wright’s passing has now dashed all hopes of a proper Pink Floyd reunion. But that dream came and went with Live 8, which remains a watershed moment in the history of rock and roll. Richard Wright transcended Pink Floyd the night I saw him with Gilmour — earning the respect he so richly deserved. Aside from a short-term bout with cancer, little has come to light about Wright’s last days before heading on up to that great gig in the sky. I think I’d prefer to remember him for how he lived.

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