It starts with a pulse. Not a drumbeat, but a frantic, delayed bassline that sounds like a panic attack caught on tape. When people talk about Pink Floyd, they usually gravitate toward the prism of Dark Side of the Moon or the wall-to-wall cynicism of Roger Waters' later years. But there is something visceral about One of These Days, the opening track of their 1971 album Meddle, that feels more dangerous than anything they did afterward.
It’s heavy.
I mean, really heavy for 1971. This wasn't the flower-power psychedelia of the Syd Barrett era. This was the sound of four guys finally figuring out how to use the studio as an instrument to scare the absolute hell out of people. If you’ve ever sat in a dark room with a pair of decent headphones and let that wind noise swirl around your head before the bass kicks in, you know exactly what I’m talking about.
The Ghost in the Machine: How One of These Days Was Built
Most people assume that iconic double-tracked bass sound was just Roger Waters playing really fast. Honestly, it was a bit more technical and a lot more accidental than that. David Gilmour and Roger Waters both played bass on the track. They used a Binson Echorec—a magnetic drum delay unit that was notoriously temperamental.
The story goes that the second bass had "old strings" on it. It sounded dull. But because they were running it through that specific delay setting, the muddiness actually created this rhythmic, chugging texture that a brighter bass wouldn't have achieved. It’s a perfect example of how technical limitations in the early 70s forced bands to be creative. If they had modern digital plugins back then, the song probably would have sounded too clean. Too safe.
Then there’s the voice.
"One of these days, I'm going to cut you into little pieces."
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That’s Nick Mason. It’s the only time the drummer ever really "sang" on a Pink Floyd record, though calling it singing is a stretch. They slowed his voice down to a demonic growl. It wasn't a threat to the audience, though it certainly sounds like one. It was actually a playful, if slightly morbid, jab at a BBC Radio DJ named Jimmy Young, whom the band found particularly annoying. They used to record his broadcasts and edit them into weird loops.
Why Meddle Was the Real Turning Point
You can’t understand One of These Days without looking at the mess that was Pink Floyd in 1970. They were drifting. Atom Heart Mother had been a success, sure, but the band felt like they were becoming "space rock" caricatures. They spent weeks in the studio just "experimenting" with household objects—clinking glasses, rubber bands, anything to find a spark.
Most of that was junk.
But out of that aimless jamming came the two pillars of Meddle: "Echoes" and One of These Days. While "Echoes" showed their ability to compose a 23-minute underwater epic, the opening track proved they could still be a rock band. A terrifying one.
The structure is chaotic but controlled. It doesn't follow a verse-chorus-verse format because it doesn't have any verses. It relies on tension and release. You have the wind, the bass, the transition into the Hammond organ, and then David Gilmour’s slide guitar. Gilmour’s playing here is absolute filth. He’s using a lap steel guitar, but he’s playing it with such aggression that it sounds like a jet engine failing mid-flight.
The Live Evolution and the Pompeii Factor
If you want to hear this song at its peak, you have to watch the Live at Pompeii version. Recorded in an empty Roman amphitheater in 1971, it captures the band at their most athletic.
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Watching Nick Mason lose a drumstick mid-song and just grab another one without missing a beat—while his hair flies everywhere—is peak rock and roll. That performance stripped away the studio polish and showed that the song was built on pure adrenaline.
It’s interesting to note how the song stayed in their setlists for decades. Even when Roger Waters left the band, Gilmour kept playing it. Why? Because it’s a showcase. It’s one of the few tracks where the bass is the lead singer. In the later 1980s and 90s tours (like Delicate Sound of Thunder or Pulse), they added massive laser shows and inflatable pigs with spotlights in their eyes. But even with all that 80s cheese, the core of the song remained that primal, two-note bass pulse.
What Most People Get Wrong About the Meaning
Because of the "cut you into little pieces" line, there’s this lingering myth that the song is about a serial killer or some deep-seated psychological break.
It isn't.
Pink Floyd were, at their heart, a group of very British, very dry-humored guys who spent a lot of time being bored in vans. The song is an exercise in dynamics. It’s about the build-up. It’s an instrumental that uses a vocal line as a percussion hit rather than a lyrical message.
The real "meaning" is the atmosphere. It represents the transition from the 60s "flower power" dream into the cold, hard reality of the 70s. It’s aggressive. It’s cynical. It’s the bridge that leads directly to the heartbeat at the beginning of Dark Side of the Moon.
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The Technical Legacy of the "Floyd Sound"
Audio engineers still study this track. The way the panning works—where sounds move from the left ear to the right—was revolutionary for the time. They weren't just moving a knob; they were manually manipulating tapes and hardware.
If you're a musician trying to recreate this, you need a delay pedal set to a dotted-eighth note. But more than that, you need to understand the "swing." The song isn't played on a perfect grid. There’s a slight human "gallop" to the bassline that makes it feel like it’s constantly about to trip over itself. That’s the secret sauce.
Why It Still Matters in 2026
We live in an era of hyper-compressed, perfectly tuned music. One of These Days is the opposite of that. It’s messy. It has hiss. The levels peak into the red.
It reminds us that music doesn't have to be "pretty" to be classic. It can be a jagged, uncomfortable experience that leaves you feeling a bit drained by the time the final cymbal crash fades into the wind.
How to Truly Experience the Track
To get the most out of this piece of history, stop listening to it on your phone speakers.
- Find the 2011 Remastered version (or an original vinyl pressing if you’re a purist). The low-end frequencies in the 2011 version are much cleaner, allowing you to hear the separation between the two bass tracks.
- Use open-back headphones. The soundstage in the middle section, where the various "wind" effects and organ stabs fly around, is designed for spatial awareness.
- Watch the Pompeii footage. Specifically, the director's cut. Seeing the physical effort required to keep that rhythm going changes how you hear the studio version.
- Pay attention to the drums. Nick Mason is often overshadowed by Gilmour and Waters, but his fills during the climax of this song are some of the best of his career. He isn't just keeping time; he’s reacting to the chaos.
The track is more than just a deep cut. It's the moment Pink Floyd stopped being a "cult band" and started becoming the architects of modern rock. Without the experimentation of Meddle, we don't get Wish You Were Here. We don't get the stadium-filling spectacle. We just get another forgotten psych-rock band from London.
Instead, we got a masterpiece of tension that still sounds like the future, even fifty years later.
Actionable Takeaways for Music Fans
- Analyze the Delay: If you're a producer, study the "bouncing" effect of the Binson Echorec used on the bass; it's the foundation of the "gallop" rhythm used by bands from Iron Maiden to U2.
- Explore the Album: Don't just stop at the opening track. Meddle is a transitional record. Listen to "Fearless" immediately after to see the band's range—from aggressive proto-metal to melodic folk.
- Contextualize the "Voice": Remember that the "cut you into little pieces" line was a studio prank. It strips away the "pretentious" label often given to the band and shows their weird, dark sense of humor.
- Check the Gear: Look into the history of the VCS3 synthesizer used for the wind sounds. It’s the same machine they’d later use to create the "running" sound in "On the Run."
The song remains a masterclass in how to start an album. It demands your attention, refuses to apologize for its volume, and sets the stage for everything that followed in the golden age of progressive rock.