The Final Cut
extends the autobiography of
The Wall
, concentrating on
Roger Waters
' pain when his father died in World War II.
Waters
spins this off into a treatise on the futility of war, concentrating on the Falkland Islands, setting his blistering condemnations and scathing anger to impossibly subdued music that demands full attention. This is more like a novel than a record, requiring total concentration since shifts in dynamics, orchestration, and instrumentation are used as effect. This means that while this has the texture of classic
Pink Floyd
, somewhere between the brooding sections of
and the monolithic menace of
Animals
, there are no songs or hooks to make these radio favorites. The even bent of the arrangements, where the music is used as texture, not music, means that
purposely alienates all but the dedicated listener. Several of those listeners maintain that this is among
's finest efforts, and it certainly is an achievement of some kind -- there's not only no other
Floyd
album quite like it, it has no close comparisons to anybody else's work (apart from
' own
The Pros and Cons of Hitch Hiking
, yet that had a stronger musical core). That doesn't make this easier to embrace, of course, and it's damn near impenetrable in many respects, but with its anger, emphasis on lyrics, and sonic textures, it's clear that it's the album that
intended it to be. And it's equally clear that
couldn't have continued in this direction --
had no interest in a group setting anymore, as this record, which is hardly a
album in many respects, illustrates. Distinctive, to be sure, but not easy to love and, depending on your view, not even that easy to admire. ~ Stephen Thomas Erlewine