This week I’ve been listening, for the first time really, to Pink Floyd’s The Final Cut.1Though credited to the Floyd, it’s really a Roger Waters solo album — with guest appearances by Gilmour and Mason, but not Wright, who had been sacked during The Wall — in all but name.It’s not a good album — most of it sounds like what it is: Leftovers from The Wall, which was not itself without filler.

For about half an hour it just drifts along, with Waters’ whining occasionally broken up by atmospheric passages that remind you who you’re listening to. Then, out of nowhere, it suddenly comes to life for four and a half minutes:

Gilmour sounds engaged for the first time on the album, Waters’ snarl finally finds a purpose, and for a little while it’s the glory days again. In fact, I’m hard-pressed to think of another Floyd song that crunches this hard; “Interstellar Overdrive” maybe?

Why couldn’t we have had a whole album of this? Why couldn’t Roger and Dave get along, instead of splitting off into increasingly futile solo careers that served as constant reminders of how much they needed each other? I know, I know; musicians and their egos. It’s the oldest story in the book.

Then The Final Cut, and Pink Floyd, end not with a bang but with a whimper — the resignedly apocalyptic “Two Suns in the Sunset.” Well, shit; nothing lasts forever.