inrumford
inrumford
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Posted almost 4 years ago
Taken from the In The Flesh cd recorded at the Rose Garden Arena in Portland, ORA different take w/o Gilmour's guitar and vocals, but I think it works nicely.Doyle Bramhall II does a more than competent job on guitars
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Comments (10)

  1. runobodyii
    runobodyii says I had only been trying to play this song (to no avail) when you emailed me, but I listened to a couple of Pink Floyd albums on Sunday, and, as with my previous scattered forays, really liked what I heard. To say the least, there stuff is interesting and, as in this song, there is a certain level of complexity that one finds in only the topmost tier of pop songs and often not even there. Thumps up!
    Permalink posted 05/06/2008
  2. inrumford
    inrumford says The stuff I would have really liked to have posted was to big for a MOG upload. This particular disk is a double CD with some fine live performances and mirrors the DVD which was released at the same time. I think I've pretty much worn that bad boy out. Pink Floyd have/has quite a history and is definitely worth delving into. I was on a Pink Floyd mission about a year ago, just tearing into their history and listening (and purchasing) everything they (as a collective and singularly) committed to tape. It was quite the trip.
    Permalink posted 05/06/2008
  3. runobodyii
    runobodyii says You might reassure me about the point(edness) of the song "in the flesh"; elsewise Mr. Waters and I could have a problem. Contextualize. I only read the lyrics; the 30 second clip was instrumental.
    Permalink posted 05/06/2008
  4. inrumford
    inrumford says The songs from "The Wall" are certainly tough to contextualize when taken singularly, as it was conceived and developed as a single opus of 27 songs of which this particular ditty is number 22. From Wikipedia: As with the other songs on The Wall, "In the Flesh" tells a portion of the story of Pink, the main protagonist. This song marks the first of a series of songs in which Pink, fuelled by a drug-induced state, likens himself to a dictator figure, crowing over his faithful audience; this particular song is his hallucination that his concerts can be likened to a political rally, and the song is essentially a satire of the fan-following modern musicians such as rock and pop stars are responsible for. It may also serve as an exploration of the actions of some as an effect of insecurity; behind their respective 'walls.' This song and the two which follow it on the album - "Run Like Hell" and "Waiting for the Worms" - can also be compared to three stages of Hitler's rise to power. "In the Flesh" is his rallying cry for everyone to follow him. "Run Like Hell" is the beginning of his attempt to destroy those he hates, and "Waiting for the Worms" is the culmination of his insanity. In the end he forces his people to fear him rather than to follow him.[citation needed] In the movie this is seen in the sequence of people throwing their curtains closed as he passes by on the street.
    Permalink posted 05/07/2008
  5. inrumford
    inrumford says And from: http://www.thewallanalysis.com/secondflesh.html First and foremost, it must be remembered that THIS SONG IS NOT A REFLECTION OF THE BAND'S PERSONAL BELIEFS! I emphasize this due in large part to the number of e-mails I've received asking if Pink Floyd is a racist band. The answer is a resounding no. This song is supposed to be offensive. It is supposed to be fascist. More than anything else, this song is supposed to be satirical. That is the very point that the band is trying to make, though you'll completely miss this point if you don't listen to the song in the context in which it was written. I can easily see how one might assume that Pink Floyd is racist if one listens to "In the Flesh" by itself. But it must be remembered that the song is like a chapter in a book, expanding on what was said before and what will be said afterwards. I cannot stress this point enough. Waters did not write the song to express his personal beliefs about minorities but rather to show the state Pink has reached after becoming completely isolated behind his wall
    Permalink posted 05/07/2008
  6. runobodyii
    runobodyii says Good to have a connection to all the answers. So what is the purpose of my life? Thanks.
    Permalink posted 05/07/2008
  7. inrumford
    inrumford says to be passionate and to spread that passion to be joyful and to spread that joy to be compassionate and to spread that compassion to accept who you are and strive to be at peace Life is a journey steel yourself to the task because you never know what awaits around the bend Well, you asked!
    Permalink posted 05/07/2008
  8. runobodyii
    runobodyii says God, you're good. Or maybe: God, you're God! As you should know by now I'm not very reverent, but I can manage gratitude. Let's see if my printer will print your little gem. Let's see if you can tell me why when I try to print text on web pages what I get is all of the html goop in tiny print? Temporary solution, copy text into word processing program then print, but...
    Permalink posted 05/07/2008
  9. inrumford
    inrumford says Essentially, because they are designed to be read and not printed. Web pages are optimized for quick loading and viewability. They are geared to the device for which they are intended, your monitor, not your printer. I'm sure in you travels on the web you have come across pages which offer a "print" option. These are usually places like mapquest for printing directions and such. This, of course, requires more work on the webmasters part to offer this functionality, so it is usually offered only when print output is critical. So, your work around is pretty much the best way to do it. Now, if you would like to order this printed in gold leaf on a fine parchment, I would be happy to forward pricing.
    Permalink posted 05/07/2008
  10. inrumford
    inrumford says Philip Larkin - Church Going Once I am sure there's nothing going on I step inside, letting the door thud shut. Another church: matting, seats, and stone, And little books; sprawlings of flowers, cut For Sunday, brownish now; some brass and stuff Up at the holy end; the small neat organ; And a tense, musty, unignorable silence, Brewed God knows how long. Hatless, I take off My cycle-clips in awkward reverence. Move forward, run my hand around the font. From where I stand, the roof looks almost new - Cleaned, or restored? Someone would know: I don't. Mounting the lectern, I peruse a few Hectoring large-scale verses, and pronounce 'Here endeth' much more loudly than I'd meant. The echoes snigger briefly. Back at the door I sign the book, donate an Irish sixpence, Reflect the place was not worth stopping for. Yet stop I did: in fact I often do, And always end much at a loss like this, Wondering what to look for; wondering, too, When churches will fall completely out of use What we shall turn them into, if we shall keep A few cathedrals chronically on show, Their parchment, plate and pyx in locked cases, And let the rest rent-free to rain and sheep. Shall we avoid them as unlucky places? Or, after dark, will dubious women come To make their children touch a particular stone; Pick simples for a cancer; or on some Advised night see walking a dead one? Power of some sort will go on In games, in riddles, seemingly at random; But superstition, like belief, must die, And what remains when disbelief has gone? Grass, weedy pavement, brambles, buttress, sky, A shape less recognisable each week, A purpose more obscure. I wonder who Will be the last, the very last, to seek This place for what it was; one of the crew That tap and jot and know what rood-lofts were? Some ruin-bibber, randy for antique, Or Christmas-addict, counting on a whiff Of gown-and-bands and organ-pipes and myrrh? Or will he be my representative, Bored, uninformed, knowing the ghostly silt Dispersed, yet tending to this cross of ground Through suburb scrub because it held unspilt So long and equably what since is found Only in separation - marriage, and birth, And death, and thoughts of these - for which was built This special shell? For, though I've no idea What this accoutred frowsty barn is worth, It pleases me to stand in silence here; A serious house on serious earth it is, In whose blent air all our compulsions meet, Are recognized, and robed as destinies. And that much never can be obsolete, Since someone will forever be surprising A hunger in himself to be more serious, And gravitating with it to this ground, Which, he once heard, was proper to grow wise in, If only that so many dead lie round.
    Permalink posted 05/07/2008

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