Review by ExittheLemming — Painter and Interior Decorator
So beautiful and strange and new! Since it was to end all too soon, I almost wish I had never
heard it. Nothing seems worthwhile but just to hear that sound once more and go on listening to
forever. No! There it is again!' he cried, alert once more. Entranced, he was silent for a long
space, spellbound.
from The Wind in the Willows by Kenneth Graham
There is a still warm drool flecked altar in the Church of Sydology that pilgrims flock to some 45
years after their Savior uttered his last unwitting sermon to his flock. This one man Lysergic
Skiffle sect bequeathed to the world just two solo albums, neither of which could be described as
fully formed, coherent or in places, even competent but despite that, somewhere through that thick
lo- fidelity fog and cringe-worthy indolent amateurism, there is an abiding light that doesn't look
like being extinguished any time soon. The continuing fetishism of mental illness that Barrett has
come to represent does little service to either his abilities or resilient influence as a
songwriter. His voice practically defines the psychedelic imprint of the late 60's on both popular
music and the popular consciousness which is why I've reproduced a quote from one of Syd's favourite
books (Wind in the Willows) as it could be describing, somewhat presciently, the profound spell that
Barrett's exquisite delivery could cast on so many receptive listeners.
The Mad Cap Laughs is not a communal activity either in execution or appraisal. It probably
belongs to that tradition of tousle haired bedsit troubadours like Leonerd Cohen, Tim Hardin, Nick
Drake et al whose devotees tend to believe he is addressing solely them. Unable or unwilling to play along to a backing track or synchronise with the assembled studio musicians, Syd's songs inevitably suffer from an accompaniment that is either trepidatious or half a beat behind a composer who could never play any number the same way twice. Either way, a Syd album
even at full blast is an infallible way to empty your house of unwelcome guests.
'There's nowt queer as folk' as northerners say but it's even odder that his music is so often
routinely shoe-horned into the ill fitting sandals of 'Psyche Folk, Acid Folk and Folk Rock' I mean,
there is hardly a sliver of traditional folk vocabulary in Barrett's entire songbook. His melodies
and chord progressions certainly have anticipated cadences and obey the basic conventions of
harmonic resolution but you wont find Jug Band Blues Bm to F#m and ending on F# major in any
underground busker's three chord trick.
There are numerous examples of such departures from the norm in the Barrett oeuvre: Candy and a
Currant Bun's verse is unequivocally A major but Syd's melody is A minor pentatonic where the
ambivalence of the clashing C# is exploited to memorable effect. That momentary frisson of the Bb
major during Terrapin which is otherwise, anchored squarely in E major. Ditto It's No Good
Trying where A# major gatecrashes a G major party and ends up snogging the host. Octopus
doesn't appear to have a tonal centre at all but instead a shifting and fluid arbitrary sequence of
possible suburbs leading away from the metropolis. (Ab major?) Arnold Layne's melody switches
neurotically between G natural and G# on a tune that seems to be grounded in the key of Bb. The
latter song probably holds the key to unlock the Escher architecture of Barrett's constructions and
might very well serve as a template for the psychedelic pop song.
Gravity is the enemy of flight and similarly, the gravitational pull of the tonic is the enemy of
the Acid space cadet. Listen to how Barrett delays the inevitable denouement of the Bb major bully
and earns himself a reprieve by tripping up the beastly cad with one of the most astonishing and
brilliant creations in popular music ever thus:
Bb Fm6 G F# F7
Arnold Layne, had a strange hobby collecting clothes etc
The effect is a thrilling albeit neurotic and unnerving weightlessness which clearly alludes to the
heady euphoria of its author. So many of Syd's songs step outside the comforting capsule of our
diatonic tonality but are somehow never less than 'kinda catchy' Maybe if Schoenberg has grown his
hair, bought some bongos and learned to muzzle his yin these are the sort of treasures 12 tone
serialism could have unearthed in the classical realm. Syd's imitators merely confirm that writing a
Syd Barrett song is a damn sight harder than they sound. The efforts of Robyn Hitchcock, David
Bowie, Marc Bolan and Robert Smith are uniformly unconvincing. The jury's out however on Messrs
Kevin Ayers and Ray Davies as both might be the only contemporaries I can think of who even remotely
inhabit the Syd realm. I will concede that Barrett's phrasing, rhyming and overwhelming preference
for descending chromatic movement shares common ground with English nursery rhymes (albeit he
manipulates these features to create entirely new song forms much like Bartok's use of gypsy peasant
scales and modes from Eastern Europe)
And here he is!
Excuse me! I ask the spherical figure who's just ambled past me, head down, chuntering.
I'm writing a piece about Syd Barrett
Who?
Syd Barrett. He used to be in Pink Floyd
Never heard of 'im. Is he one of them rappers?
No - he was a psychedelic genius. Are you Syd Barrett?
Leave me alone. I've got to get some coleslaw
I take this as a no. (Tom Cox - the Observer)
As amusing as the casual reader might fund such media coverage, there is a stubborn misunderstanding
at the heart of the Syd cult: As if mind altering substances could mine talent that never existed in
the first place. Hostels, hospital beds, graveyards and large swathes of Serbia are full of such
feckless disciples who believe that madness is somehow glamorous, that external chemicals beget a
muse that can be coaxed into taking possession of their soul for benign purposes.
You cannot score talent and these beautiful songs still resonate beneath the shoddy execution
and were created in spite of their author's disintegrating mental condition not because of it. Can
we now please kick firmly into touch that redundant notion perpetrated by the likes of the late Bill
Hicks who would have us throw out our entire album collection if we profess to being anti-drugs?.
Enough already grateful dead hippy, and lose the smug grin, Osmonds and Bread fans.
Schizophrenia? There is no evidence that Barrett was ever diagnosed or treated for mental illness.
His sister Rosemary attests that he did agree to some sessions with a psychiatrist at Fulbourn
psychiatric hospital, Cambridge but neither medication or therapy were considered appropriate. Tales
of the late RD Laing insisting Syd was an incurable schizophrenic on hearing a tape of him speaking
appear to be at best, like so much Sydology, apocryphal. Art is Therapy in so far as it might have
an ability to keep us sane.
Like so many other celebrated talents that emerged from the late 60's Syd was an artist first and a
musician second e.g. Ray Davies, Keith Richards, Dick Taylor, Phil May, Captain Beefheart and Pete
Townshend etc.
All attended art schools and would probably admit that they they were enthusiastic dabblers rather
than die hard careerists in Pop music. Syd seemed particularly ill suited to the demands of
celebrity and the scrutiny afforded to pop star fame. It's an enduring irony that those whose
psychology can withstand such invasive pressure are the sorts of ruthless and ambitious critters who
turn out to be the least talented members of any creative association. Step forward one Roger Waters
esq who had the unedifying task of having to write songs in lieu of Syd's sacking/abandonment. It
took him until Dark Side of the Moon to master this and it's no happy accident for this
reviewer, the albums Floyd released in the interim were the most experimental and least satisfying
of all. After leaving Floyd, Syd left the myopic public eye. Always the transmitter never the
receiver (official or otherwise)
If we'd parted with him earlier, we'd have sunk without trace. But I don't think we could have
saved him. Almost certainly the drugs drove him into a state but we don't really know. And there was no cry of help from Syd
Nick Mason washes Floyd's hands squeaky clean of any culpability. No 'I' in team but two in
schizophrenia and not a single 'U' in blame.
Roger (Syd) was unique; they didn't have the vocabulary to describe him and so they pigeonholed
him. If only they had seen him with children. His nieces and nephews, the kids in the road ? he
would have them in stitches. He could talk at length and he played with words in a way that children
instinctively appreciated, even if it sometimes threw adults (Rosemary - Syd's sister)
Those of you familiar with the idea of threshold consciousness i.e. hypnagogic/hypnopompic states
(that exist between waking up and going to sleep) will recognise a kindred spirit in Ivor Cutler
who, like Syd Barrett, doesn't so much return you to your childhood as reprise those moments where
the adult rationality filter hasn't yet kicked in and you are free to enjoy uninhibited, unfettered
ideas straight from the purity of the source.
As far as lyrics go, I haven't the faintest idea what Syd is banging on about most of the time but I
can happily report he never lapses into surrealism by numbers a la Beefheart or Lennon. The
whimsical brush gets a tad tiresome when you consider that the formative inspiration is Hilaire
Belloc, Edward Lear, CS Lewis, AA Milne and erm..Tolkien (I'm at a loss as yeah, that's wee beige
trad pixieland territory maaan) It's illustrative that Syd chose James Joyce's poem V
from Chamber Music a.k.a. Golden Hair to set to music. I've tried to read
Finnigan's Wake several times but given up in exasperation every time. The imagery where
things are unglued from their names and causality is abandoned altogether clearly appealed to
Barrett. The only other instance of him using another's words was Chapter 24 (from Piper) an
extract from the I-Ching
Along with Ray Davies, (and erm....Anthony Newley) Syd Barrett was one of the first internationally
successful singer/songwriters to sing in an English accent. Why is this important? Well maybe the
pivotal point of Psychedelia was reached in the late 60's when UK musicians decided let's stop
pretending to be americans (this is also manifest in UK jazz a la Ardley, Taylor, Hiseman,
Heckstall-Smith etc)
When people called him a recluse they were really only projecting their own disappointment. He
knew what they wanted, but he wasn't willing to give it to them (Rosemary - Syd's sister)
Of avowedly middle class origins and upbringing, Syd's demise was not that of a bluesman's
romanticised death. Never on the run from the sheriff in a box car about to jump the country line
with buckshot in his bottom, Syd ended up doing what he wanted, when he wanted. He chose his fate. I
imagine him happy. His portrayal as a sad, pitiful and tragic figure is therefore somewhat wide of
the mark. Descriptions of his solo work being tantamount to an audio nervous breakdown are crassly
ignorant and bear no relation to the recorded music. He was the only Rock 'quitter' who actually had
the stamina and resilience to stay true to his word. I love Syd for that alone - he wouldn't play
the star game and had the brazen effrontery to tear up his membership card for the 27 club in front
of the door staff (who wanted to throw him in) We never had to endure the pitiful spectacle
of an orotund balding vegetable squeezed into leather pants singing See Emily Play to coach
parties from Rhyl. There was no floating turd in the swimming pool. Syd was the real uh deal.