History was made in New York this week as David Gilmour’s iconic 'Black Strat' went under the hammer, officially becoming the most expensive guitar ever sold. The former Pink Floyd frontman wielded this legendary Fender Stratocaster while crafting the band’s definitive masterpieces, including ‘The Dark Side Of The Moon’, ‘Wish You Were Here’, ‘Animals’, and ‘The Wall’.
This specific instrument provided the soaring voice for the 'Comfortably Numb' solo and helped define the sonic landscapes of tracks like ‘Money’ and ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’. Sold for a staggering $14.55 million (£11 million) at Christie’s as part of ‘The Jim Irsay Collection’, the guitar’s legacy is now firmly etched in auction history.
With the 'Black Strat' making headlines, it felt like the perfect moment to tackle the impossible task of ranking my top ten Pink Floyd songs. So, with a quick apology to Archie in advance, here is the list.
Representing a new era for the band’s catalogue, ‘Learning To Fly’ served as the lead single for ‘A Momentary Lapse of Reason’ (1987). The track’s inspiration was literal; David Gilmour was taking pilot lessons during the recording sessions, often spending his mornings in the clouds before heading into the studio. Collaborating with lyricist Anthony Moore, Gilmour even incorporated technical flying instructions into the bridge, grounding the song in his real-world experiences behind the controls.
Beyond the literal meaning, the track carries a profound weight. Many interpret the lyrics as a metaphor for radical life changes or the trepidation of starting anew. For many Pink Floyd purists, the song is a thinly veiled reflection of Gilmour’s own journey stepping into the role of band leader following Roger Waters’ departure in 1985.
Sonically, the track is massive. It is anchored by a colossal drum beat and layered with Gilmour’s signature intricate guitar work, perfectly capturing the sensation of breaking ground and taking flight. The swirling synthesisers and soaring backing vocals create a sense of vast, open space, mirroring the literal feeling of being suspended thousands of feet above the earth.
One of the late era highlights.
A high-octane standout from ‘The Wall’ (1979), ‘Run Like Hell’ is Pink Floyd at their most visceral. Within the context of the album’s narrative, it marks a chilling turning point: the protagonist, Pink, has fully succumbed to his fascist fever dream, transforming the rock concert into a terrifying, authoritarian rally.
The track is defined by its legendary guitar riff. Gilmour used his 'Black Strat' to create a "galloping" rhythmic texture, achieved by running the signal through two separate delay units set to different timings. This created a shimmering, percussive wall of sound that feels like it’s constantly chasing itself, a masterclass in using technology to build tension.
Complementing this is the drumming, which carries an almost disco-influenced, driving four-on-the-floor beat. It provides a rigid, mechanical foundation that contrasts perfectly with the ethereal delay of the guitars, giving the song an urgent, propulsive energy that is rare for the band’s usually atmospheric style.
The vocals add the final layer of menace. David Gilmour and Roger Waters trade lines with a frantic, snarling delivery, often punctuated by echoing, synthesised screams and the sound of a baying crowd. It’s a vocal performance that feels breathless and paranoid, perfectly capturing the song’s theme of a desperate, terrifying pursuit. It remains one of the most aggressive moments in the band’s discography, a sonic assault that still feels remarkably modern.
I know this is low! In fact, for some, it's really low. The post-Barrett, pre-Dark Side Floyd’s uncontested showstopper, ‘Echoes’ was essentially an array of musical fragments painstakingly pieced together, although you’d never know: from its icy intro to a triumphant finale, its 23 minutes flow effortlessly. Taking up the entirety of side two of ‘Meddle’ (1971), it is the moment where the band truly found their collective voice.
The track is perhaps best immortalised in the 1972 film Live at Pompeii. Performing in an empty Roman amphitheatre, the band famously split the song into two parts, ‘Echoes, Part 1’ and ‘Echoes, Part 2’, to bookend the concert film. This performance, captured amidst the heat and dust of the ruins, stripped away the studio polish to reveal the raw, muscular power of the four musicians. Watching Gilmour coax those ethereal sounds out of his guitar against the backdrop of Mount Vesuvius remains one of the most iconic sights in rock history.
The guitar playing is lyrical and expressive, with Gilmour providing some of his most atmospheric work, including the famous "seagull" screams created by plugging a wah-wah pedal in backwards. The downcast verses are hauntingly beautiful, featuring the harmonised vocals of Gilmour and Wright that feel like a gentle conversation between two souls.
This serenity eventually gives way to a long, ambient interlude that is genuinely creepy, a descent into a sonic void before the band re-emerges for that massive, soaring climax. It’s got the lot: technical innovation, deep emotion, and a grand scale that provided the blueprint for the success of ‘The Dark Side Of The Moon’.
Coming from the 1975 masterpiece ‘Wish You Were Here’, ‘Have A Cigar’ is a biting, funk-infused critique of the music industry’s predatory nature. It serves as a sharp contrast to the sprawling, atmospheric tracks on the rest of the album, offering a groovy but venomous look at the suits behind the scenes.
The song is famously sung not by a member of the band, but by Roy Harper. David Gilmour and Roger Waters had both struggled with the vocals during the recording sessions, and Harper, who was recording his own album in a nearby studio at Abbey Road, stepped in to deliver the perfectly slimy, theatrical performance the track required.
Lyrically, the song is a masterclass in satire, famously including the clueless record executive’s inquiry: "Oh by the way, which one’s Pink?" This single line perfectly encapsulates the band's frustration with being treated as a faceless commodity by people who didn't understand or care about the art they were selling.
Musically, the 'Black Strat' is front and centre again, delivering a thick, bluesy riff that anchors the entire song. The interplay between the driving bassline and the sharp, rhythmic guitar work creates a swaggering energy that eventually dissolves into a magnificent, synth-heavy outro. It is a cynical, groovy highlight that remains one of the sharpest moments in their entire discography.
Based on a Wright piece rejected from the soundtrack of Zabriskie Point for being “too sad”, the tone of ‘Us And Them’ is utterly defeated. At nearly eight minutes long, it is the centrepiece of ‘The Dark Side Of The Moon’ (1973), yet it feels weightless, a sweeping, melancholic meditation on war, politics, and the arbitrary walls we build between ourselves.
The song is defined by its breathless dynamics. It drifts through quiet, jazz-influenced verses led by Dick Parry’s soulful saxophone and Wright’s lush organ, before exploding into a grand, soaring chorus. However, that chorus feels like someone trying to rouse themselves into action before sinking back into a crestfallen torpor. It is a cycle of exhaustion that mirrors the futility of the conflicts Roger Waters describes in the lyrics.
But it’s also exceptionally beautiful, making dejection exquisite. David Gilmour’s vocals here are some of his most gentle, perfectly complemented by the ethereal, layered backing vocals that make the track feel like a collective sigh.
Sonically, the 'Black Strat' takes a supportive role, using a rotary speaker effect to create a shimmering, liquid texture that blends seamlessly with the synthesisers. It is a masterclass in restraint and atmosphere, proving that sometimes the most powerful statements are the ones whispered before they roar.
Despite his departure in 1968, Syd Barrett seems to haunt ‘The Dark Side Of The Moon’s concluding medley. The eerie, nursery rhyme-like verses of ‘Brain Damage’ sound distinctly Barrett-esque, with lyrics that point directly toward his mental decline and the band's collective memory of their lost friend. There is a chilling intimacy in the line, "And if your head explodes with dark forebodings too / I'll see you on the dark side of the moon." It feels less like a threat and more like a tragic invitation.
The song’s power lies in its disturbing cheerfulness. The simple acoustic strumming and the bubbling synthesisers create a deceptive sense of calm, while the background is littered with manic, looped laughter, a sonic representation of losing one's grip on reality.
When Waters sings about "the lunatic is on the grass," he isn't just describing a scene; he’s recounting the band’s firsthand witness to Barrett’s detachment from the world. It is a song about the fragility of the mind, where the "lunatics" are kept on the path and the "games" are played in the hall, eventually leading to the inevitable moment when the head "explodes" under the pressure of existence.
The transition into ‘Eclipse’ provides the album with its epic, widescreen climax. It is a relentless, percussive build-up that attempts to categorise the entirety of the human experience through its rhythmic, repetitive lyrics:
"All that you touch / And all that you see / All that you taste / All you feel / And all that you love / And all that you hate / All you distrust / All you save..."
The song continues its frantic inventory, everything you give, deal, buy, create, and destroy, until it reaches that final, staggering realisation: "And everything under the sun is in tune / But the sun is eclipsed by the moon."
The song is also oddly equivocal. This grand, philosophical ending is famously undercut by the voice of Abbey Road doorman Gerry O’Driscoll, who grumbles over the fading heartbeat: “There is no dark side of the moon, really. As a matter of fact, it's all dark.” It’s a moment of grounded, working-class cynicism that perfectly punctuates the cosmic ambition of the record.
Pink Floyd are synonymous with internal bitter feuds and constant infighting, but they once worked perfectly as a sympatico unit. As the opening movement of ‘Wish You Were Here’ (1975), this track serves as the ultimate tribute to their fallen founder, Syd Barrett. In a touching nod to his legacy, the band even hid his name in plain sight; the title 'Shine on You crazy Diamond' is a deliberate acrostic for SYD.
The lengthy instrumental intro is a masterpiece of scene-setting: Richard Wright’s shimmering keyboards and Gilmour’s mournful, four-note "Syd’s Theme" guitar figure perfectly fix the mood for the arrival of Roger Waters’ bereft lyrics. It is a slow-burning epic that demands patience, rewarding the listener with a sonic landscape that feels both vast and deeply personal.
The interplay between the band members here is fluid and intuitive, a far cry from the friction that would later define their final years together. By the time Dick Parry’s saxophone kicks in, and the song transitions into its bluesy, soulful stride, the band has successfully turned collective grief into something majestic. It’s the perfect opening gambit for an album that explores themes of absence and longing, setting a high-water mark for the band's mid-seventies peak.
It sold 30 million copies, but ‘The Wall’ (1979) still divides opinion: is it an alienated masterpiece or an insufferable monument to rock star solipsism? But everyone seems to agree on ‘Comfortably Numb’. Its position on the record is pivotal, occurring as the protagonist, Pink, is injected with a sedative just to get through a performance. The song’s movement from the wistful (but vaguely menacing) verses into a blissful (but faintly unnerving) chorus is exhilarating, a sonic representation of the hazy, detached state of being chemically forced back to life.
The track is a rare and perfect hybrid of the band's two dominant forces. It features the gritty, narrative-driven darkness of Roger Waters' lyrics juxtaposed against the soaring, orchestral melodicism of David Gilmour’s music. While the verses feel claustrophobic and cold, the chorus opens up into a vast, stadium-sized warmth that feels like a drug taking hold.
However, the true heart of the track, and the reason it sits so high on this list, is the final guitar solo. It is quite possibly the greatest ever recorded. While the first solo in the song is bright and melodic, the second is a masterclass in tension and release. It is a cathartic wonder that feels like a physical release of all the trauma and isolation built up throughout the album.
As the notes bend and howl, it feels like the "wall" is finally being breached. It doesn’t just finish the song; it transcends the record entirely, standing as the definitive statement of David Gilmour’s emotive power. It is the sound of a musician reaching for something beyond the notes, turning a moment of "numbness" into the most alive and searing experience in rock history.
It’s hard to pick a single highlight from ‘The Dark Side Of The Moon’ (1973), but ‘Time’ is the song that packs the heaviest emotional punch. A meditation on ageing written by a man still in his 20s should feel callow and speculative; instead, the lyrics become more impactful the older you get.
From the very first second, the track envelops listeners with its iconic introduction: a cacophony of chiming clocks and ringing alarms. This sound collage, created by engineer Alan Parsons in an antique shop, evokes an overwhelming sense of time marching on. The way the clocks burst out of the silence feels like a sudden awakening, a harsh reminder that the present moment is fleeting.
The song is designed to maintain this sense of urgency. Nick Mason’s drumming mimics a mechanical ticking, while Rick Wright’s keyboards swell to create a sense of vastness that reflects the passage of years. Gilmour’s guitar work here is powerful yet melancholic, echoing like the thoughts of someone looking back on lost days with a mixture of regret and realisation.
Roger Waters captures the universal fear that we are moving too fast to truly live. The lyrics ‘And then one day you find ten years have got behind you / No one told you when to run, you missed the starting gun’ hit like a physical blow. In the first verse, Gilmour’s voice feels almost detached, as if he’s singing from the perspective of someone who has been drifting through life, waiting for the right moment to start living, only to find it has already passed.
The second verse pivots toward a haunting resignation: ‘The time is gone, the song is over, thought I'd something more to say.’ Yet, there is an energy shift, a subtle urge for the listener to seize what remains rather than mourn what is gone. Whether you are 18 or 80, the message of reflection and urgency strikes a deep chord. As the song fades out into the distant, rhythmic heartbeat of the album, it leaves us with the realisation that while we cannot stop time, we can choose how we spend it.
It is rare for a band synonymous with sprawling concepts and technical perfection to be best remembered for a simple acoustic ballad, but ‘Wish You Were Here’ (1975) remains the heart and soul of the Pink Floyd canon. While other tracks on this list showcase their sonic experimentalism, this title track succeeds through raw, unfiltered humanity. It is as simple and direct as 70s Pink Floyd got; from its opening riff to its closing guitar-and-scat-vocal solo, it is quite simply an incredible piece of music.
The song begins with one of the most famous openings in history: the sound of a radio being tuned, drifting past a snatch of Tchaikovsky before landing on that iconic, lonely twelve-string guitar riff. It sounds like someone playing along to the radio in their living room, a moment of profound intimacy that makes the listener feel as though they are sitting right there in the room with David Gilmour.
Lyrically, the song is the emotional peak of the band's career-long dialogue with the ghost of Syd Barrett. Roger Waters’ lyrics are deeply personal; addressed to Barrett, they first ponder whether he might have made a mistake in retreating from music and reality, before eventually collapsing into sighing remorse. Yet, there is an affecting universality to this sense of loss. It is a song about the distance between people, even when they are standing right next to each other.
The opening lines, "So, so you think you can tell / Heaven from Hell / Blue skies from pain," challenge the listener to distinguish reality from the masks we wear. There is a warmth and empathy here that is noticeably absent in much of Pink Floyd’s subsequent, more cynical work.
There are no colossal drum beats or frantic synthesisers; instead, we get a delicate arrangement that allows the emotion to breathe.
By the time the wind whistles through the final chords, leading us back into the distance, it’s clear why this takes the top spot. It is the perfect marriage of Gilmour’s soulful melody and Waters’ poignant lyricism, a timeless reminder that, despite the feuds and the fame, at their core, Pink Floyd were just four people wishing their friend was still there to share the journey.
So that brings my list to an end. It’s impossible not to think of the ‘Black Strat’ now belonging to a new home. That guitar wasn’t just wood and wire; it was the tool David Gilmour used to carve out these soundscapes, from the frantic gallop of ‘Run Like Hell’ to the soaring, liquid gold of ‘Comfortably Numb’. Its record-breaking $14.55 million price tag is a staggering testament to the band’s legacy, though the music itself remains priceless.
Of course, condensing a discography this rich into a top ten is a fool’s errand. In the process, I’ve had to leave out the snarling political bite of ‘Pigs (Three Different Ones)’, the psychedelic whimsy of ‘Arnold Layne’, and the cold, industrial dread of ‘Welcome To The Machine’. Some fans would argue that the defiant, world-conquering anthem ‘Another Brick In The Wall (Part 2)’ or the ethereal ‘High Hopes’ deserve a seat at the table, and on a different day, they might be right.
Pink Floyd’s music is as vast and permanent as the dark side of the moon itself. Whether it’s a 23-minute odyssey or a simple four-minute heartbeat, these songs continue to resonate across generations. Everyone's top ten will be different; this one just happens to me.
Anything you think I've missed? Let me know.