Have a Cigar

“By the way, which one’s Pink?”

A real question. Asked by a real record executive. To a band that had been making albums for nearly a decade. The man whose job was to sell Pink Floyd didn’t know there wasn’t actually a person named Pink in the band.

Roger Waters collected these moments. The glad-handing. The back-slapping. The industry guys who called you a genius while asking if you could make the single a little more commercial. He kept a mental file of every condescending compliment, every transparent manipulation, every time some suit pretended to care about the music when all they cared about was the money.

And then he wrote it all down. Every slimy line. Every hollow promise. “We’re so happy we can hardly count.” “The band is just fantastic, that is really what I think.” He gave the whole thing to Roy Harper—a folk singer who happened to be recording next door—because neither he nor David Gilmour could sing it with a straight face.

Harper nails it. That oily enthusiasm. That practiced sincerity. You can hear the cigar smoke in his voice, the expensive watch on his wrist. He’s not mocking the executive; he’s becoming him. And somehow that’s worse.

The music is deliberately, aggressively commercial. This is Pink Floyd writing a hit on purpose, proving they could do it anytime they wanted. The guitar riff sounds like something designed in a boardroom to maximize radio play. Which is exactly the point. They’re giving the industry what it wants while telling the industry exactly what they think of it.

“Come in here, dear boy, have a cigar. You’re gonna go far.” The gravy train’s got room for one more.

Everyone who’s ever been told they’re special by someone who wanted something from them knows this feeling. The flattery that feels like a trap. The opportunity that’s actually an exchange.

Some songs are about selling out. This one’s about being sold.