If not for death or dissolution these bands and artists of a certain cloth will continue forever. They would if they could and the example of ill will between bandmates runs deep in Pink Floyd. They could have shut the engine off decades before The Endless River. At times it felt like they had. But on they continued, what was left of them who could stomach one another, and into the history books they go. An album with a whiff of contractual obligation about it, The Endless River is an unsettled collection of works. From ironic opener Things Left Unsaid to the self-entitlement of sailing off into a literal sunset, there is little to love about The Endless River. Pink Floyd lost their charm somewhere around Wish You Were Here and from there, it was just gluttonous routes through for Roger Waters and David Gilmour. The latter is in charge of this farewell album.
From the tired obscurity to the humdrum sensations these instrumentals provide, there is very little to like about The Endless River. It feels more like Gilmour solo material than anything tied to Pink Floyd. What brief feelings of classic Pink Floyd sound there are soon become overwhelmed with polish and the demand for reflection. The Endless River does not have a genuine bone in its body and instead, like all Gilmour-led projects in the Pink Floyd era, rely on the highbrow fret demands. We should be moved by his guitar and guitar alone, or at least It’s What We Do is banking on this. A monumental failure this may be, the rest of the album is not much better. Ebb and Flow suggests the back and forth of a simpler wave of sound, but all The Endless River does is recede. All it relies on are flickers of what could have been a fitting send-off.
But no, instead it is the prattling of, granted, an unconventional pattern of release. There is nothing of interest here. Just noise. Vapid and unnecessary pieces of flavourless instrumental work as though the string sections and tissues needed to be whipped out for the demise of Pink Floyd. The band died long before this album, meaning The Endless River is a decades-late cash-in. Cash-in has been the name of the Pink Floyd game for a while now, and between this miserable release and the clunky remasters to follow, the bulk of their efforts go into the wrong spots. The Endless River is a bloated mess not because its creators have fallen out but because they wanted to continue milking the cash cow. After jitters, appendices and continuations after what should have been their grand finale, The Endless River is a lazy relief more than anything.
From the barely audible snoozefest of Anisina to the lack of anything particularly standout from four sides of music, The Endless River thankfully does have an end. But once whatever remains of the band reaches its destination, they find it has dried up, those clouds are stormy and the sunset off in the distance shall hopefully scorch them as penance for how uninteresting this piece of work is. Admirable, really, to think the brains behind so many great works were also responsible for a patience-testing piece of obnoxious fretwork. Pathetic memories are not brought up out of generosity or interest but because they fit a loose and ultimately worthless pattern of nostalgia flickering emptiness. Shallow stuff, but there will be some who say Pink Floyd has earned a fluffed-up send-off. They bid farewell to their talent long before The Endless River.
