The Dark Side of the Moon (1973): Pink Floyd’s Psychedelic Middle Finger to Sanity

So, What’s the Dark Side Then — Taxes?

Let’s be honest: The Dark Side of the Moon is the kind of album your mate Dave claims “changed his life” after listening to it once on vinyl while halfway through a weed brownie and an undergraduate philosophy degree. And you know what? Dave’s not completely wrong. For once.

Released in 1973, The Dark Side of the Moon is a concept album – which, in rock terms means “we were high and overthinking everything.” But instead of ending in disaster (see: every band’s double album after 1985), it became one of the best-selling, most critically adored albums of all time. Because, apparently, nothing screams mass-market success like mental illness, capitalism and the crushing inevitability of death.

Behind the Curtain: Four Blokes, One Existential Crisis

Pink Floyd, made up of Roger Waters (bass and pessimism), David Gilmour (guitar and godlike solos), Richard Wright (keyboards and sadness), and Nick Mason (drums and vague confusion) – had just emerged from the psychedelic haze of the 60s, traumatised by fame and Syd Barrett’s descent into madness.

So naturally, they decided to bottle that trauma into an album that sounds like a panic attack with an arts degree.

The result? A concept record about time, money, death, madness and the endless tedium of existing. Or as a Spotify intern might label it: “vibey chill prog-rock.”

Track-by-Track: A Guided Tour Through the Musical Abyss

1. Speak to Me / Breathe

The Dark Side Of The Moon opens with the musical equivalent of being born during a power outage. Heartbeats, clocks, screaming — like a horror film set in a yoga retreat. “Breathe” then tells you to relax, but in that way someone tells you to relax just before dropping very bad news.

2. On the Run

An instrumental that sounds like the soundtrack to being chased by a laser printer in a dream you can’t wake up from. Synths panic, footsteps echo and a plane crashes at the end, presumably because even the plane wanted out.

3. Time

Here’s a fun one: a song about wasting your life, featuring clocks that shout at you like a drill sergeant with a poetry degree. Gilmour’s guitar solo could raise the dead, just so they can feel bad about not doing more when they were alive.

4. The Great Gig in the Sky

What if a gospel singer had a full-blown existential crisis mid-aria? Clare Torry screams into the void and makes it sound majestic. No words, because sometimes you don’t need lyrics to say “I’m afraid to die but also quite tired of living.”

5. Money

Ah, capitalism’s theme tune. Starts in 7/4 time because money is complicated and ends with a saxophone solo that’s either genius or evidence that the 70s got way out of hand. Waters snarls about greed while everyone around him became millionaires. Irony: complete.

6. Us and Them

A haunting lullaby for anyone who’s ever looked at humanity and thought, “We’re all doomed, but at least we’ve got nice harmonies.” A slow, jazzy meditation on war, division, and why people suck.

7. Any Colour You Like

Instrumental again – think of it as the soundtrack to taking mushrooms in IKEA. It’s pretty, hypnotic and somehow makes you question whether free will is a lie.

8. Brain Damage

This one’s about insanity, obviously. Dedicated to Syd Barrett, who was too brilliant, too fragile and too frequently on acid. “The lunatic is on the grass” relatable content for anyone who’s ever tried to make sense of world politics or the price of cheese.

9. Eclipse

Climactic. Final. Full of big statements about everything being connected and everyone being insane. The heartbeat returns. The curtain falls. You’re left staring at the wall wondering if you should quit your job and live in a yurt.

The Album Cover: Minimalism Meets Marketing Genius

You know it. That iconic prism refracting light into a rainbow. It’s on T-shirts, posters, mouse pads, mugs – if you can print it, someone has slapped this cover on it. It’s the Mona Lisa of rock imagery. Except you don’t need to elbow through tourists in the Louvre to appreciate it.

And yes, it’s been co-opted by people who’ve never listened to the album and think “prog rock” is a setting on a dishwasher. But it’s still one of the most recognisable album covers in history, and somehow still cool.

Why It Still Slaps (In a Melancholy, Thoughtful Way)

The Dark Side of the Moon is one of the few albums that manages to be incredibly ambitious and genuinely profound without disappearing up its own arse. It’s immersive, terrifying, beautiful and endlessly listenable, the audio equivalent of staring into the abyss and finding it strangely melodic.

It’s sold over 45 million copies, stayed on the Billboard 200 for 15 years and even syncs up with The Wizard of Oz if you’ve got too much free time and access to YouTube conspiracy videos.

More importantly, it speaks to that gnawing, low-level panic most of us carry around – about life, death, the news, the fridge light – but makes it sound… majestic.

My Final Thoughts: A Midlife Crisis in Stereo

If You Like The Dark Side Of The Moon, I Recommend These Albums:

Wish You Were Here – Pink Floyd (1975) – Dark Side‘s moodier sibling, still floating in space but with a cigarette and a grudge.
In the Court of the Crimson King – King Crimson (1969) – Prog rock’s fever dream — majestic, bonkers, and unnervingly loud.
OK Computer – Radiohead (1997) – Dark Side for the Y2K generation: paranoid, beautiful, and deeply unimpressed with modern life.