Nick Mason's Saucerful of Secrets. New Theatre

If Pink Floyd is an important cultural phenomenon of the late 20^th Century – and it is – then all of their music matters. Not just the big hits like Wish You Were Here, Another Brick in the Wall and Comfortably Numb. This is the band that made its name with music so experimental and spaced-out that the BBC got them to play live in the studio while Apollo 11 set its controls for the heart of the Moon. But over the decades, in concert, they have confined themselves to the post-Dark Side era. (That, and taking each other to court of course.)

Lazy. Greedy.

There may never have been a band that so completely erased Chapter One of its own story. But the world is full of Floyd fans who cherish those early tracks just as much as the stadium standards. And for years they’ve been forced to watch the Greatest Hits over and over again...

…Until drummer Nick Mason decided he’d had enough. Mason, the mild-mannered Derek Smalls of the group, wanted to dig out the psychedelic odysseys that the Floyd used to perform in front of hippies stoned out of their minds in Soho flea-pits. He didn’t know if anyone would share his fondness for those early songs. Some of them used to go on for half an hour, while others had nothing even resembling what we might nowadays call a tune. But nevertheless, he made a few calls, got some pals together, and did a few gigs.

Six years later, Nick Mason’s Saucerful of Secrets is in constant demand, packing out venues around the world by giving echt Floyd fans what they really want: the true sound of psychedelia. While David Gilmour argues with his neighbours over planning permission in Brighton, and Roger Waters descends into the very fascism he lampooned in The Wall, Mason and his friends are having fun, and offering touching memories of the departed geniuses Rick Wright and Syd Barrett.

Last night they played Oxford’s New Theatre, and the waves of sound rolling off the stage were matched by waves of affection rising up from the audience, still minging slightly of patchouli even in their seventies.

Back in the late 60s, Nick Mason was a loose-limbed youth with glazed eyes, a drooping moustache, a mane of luxuriant hair, and that particular kind of posh-boy Cambridge accent that always sounded so stoned and well-mannered, like a schoolboy who doesn’t want his parents to realise that he’s totally drunk (‘May I possibly have a cup of tea, man?’). Now, he looks like a retired accountant with the coolest hobby in the world. To be fair, the Floyd were never the hard men of rock. They cultivated an image of polite self-effacement on stage, standing still, looking at their instruments, rarely talking to the crowd, let alone each other. At the age of 80 – 80! – Mason is very much the Emeritus Professor of Percussion (in fact he is introduced as ‘the don of rock’). He lives in a stunning Georgian manor in the heart of England, with one of the world’s largest collections of classic sports cars. But that doesn’t stop him playing for a full, breathless two-and-a-half hours. He’s still got it. He gazes, as he always has, off to the side while playing, never looking at the skin he’s hitting, always listening to it. And although the drumsticks don’t fly around as much as they did in ‘67, they still hit the right spot at the right time. This quiet, charming little man is a prog-rock perfectionist. It’s like discovering that your retired tutor is a drag artist.

In one of several little chats with the audience, Mason revealed that the last time he’d played Oxford with Pink Floyd was the summer of 1967. (I checked the records, and they were in fact performing at the Magdalen Commem Ball. On the same bill that night were Georgie Fame, and providing comedy was none other than Frankie Howerd. Quite a night.) Mason recalled that, despite the Floyd’s own well-publicised dedication to intoxication of every kind, they were impressed to find that the students seemed to be on even more Class A drugs than the band.

At least two of the songs they played at that summer ball were in last night’s set: Astronomy Domine and See Emily Play. The sense of continuity was palpable and uplifting.

Saucerful of Secrets may not be the ‘real’ Pink Floyd. But they certainly aren’t a tribute band either. With Mason at the helm, they don’t imitate the classics; they reinvigorate and re-examine them. Atom Heart Mother jettisons the orchestral sections (a vital part of the original recording, but also arguably the Floyd’s first huge step into pretentiousness) and instead integrates Gilmour’s trippy daydream ballad If – and the result is a suite that feels more like meditation than mock-classical. The often-overlooked Obscured By Clouds is revealed as a throbbing electro-anthem years before its time. Lucifer Sam, a blink-and-you’d-miss-it jokey bit of Barrett nonsense about his pet cat, becomes a Mancini-esque noir soundtrack.

Set the Controls for the Heart of the Sun is an awesome soundscape, preceded impishly by Mason pretending to get a phone call from Roger Waters looking for his gong (‘No, Roger, I haven’t seen it, but I’ll have a look’). Waters comes in for repeated ribbing from Mason during the show, and it makes you realise just what a toxic presence he must have been to work with, if this mild-mannered Clark Kent of rock feels the need to vent a bit of spleen in public.

But the highlight last night was – as it was always going to be – Echoes. Famously taking up the whole of Side Two on 1971’s Meddle, Echoes stands at the final tipping point between psychedelic and stadium Pink Floyd, and it synthesises both worlds. On lead guitar, Gary Kemp, late of New Romantic supergroup Spandau Ballet, became one with the music, at times standing like a trembling statue, at others rocking from side to side in a kind of trance as the waves of euphoria flowed from his fingers, through the electronics and into our ears. To cut a long story short he lost his mind. And it was beautiful.