Crazy Diamond

I just finished reading the biography Syd Barrett: Crazy Diamond-The Birth of Pink Floyd. It’s been out for a while, recently updated after Syd’s passing in 2006, but I ignored it over the years figuring that I knew all there was to know about the Madcap anyway.
To a point, I had; Crazy Diamond didn’t reveal much information other that a few interesting tidbits of Syd encounters, behavioral quirks, and eyewitness accounts of some of his more notable incidents. Barely revelatory, but an interesting read nonetheless.
The other thing that the book does is almost entirely dismantle the romantic notion about Barrett’s illness and the suggestion that he left behind some lost fragments for us fans to discover. It appears that the Gilmour find, “Bob Dylan’s Blues,” will indeed be the last new offering in the Barrett catalog and any rumor of a lost session, either during the 70’s or during his reclusive years, are completely out of the question.
Repeatedly, Barrett’s relatives declare that there was not even a hint of Syd considering music, other than occasionally listening to old Stones records and, his main love, classical selections.
Every notion of a Floyd reunion or a casual recording of a living room recording were quickly dismantled by the family, even after being offered a large sum by various interested parties. Tim Sommer, the notable N.Y.C. punk broadcaster (“Noise The Show”) and former Hugo Largo member, became an A&R exec at Atlantic Records during the 90’s and made a very handsome offer to the Barrett family over $200,000 for any new recordings, regardless of how incomplete.
The offer was politely rejected.
Halfway through the book, after Barrett had slowly started to remove himself from the record industry, you begin to realize how downright boring and common he’d become. It’s fascinating to think of that bald, overweight and underwhelming chap walking down the street as being one of the architects of modern psychedelia. His anonymity was only disrupted by the consistent parade of fans looking to meet with him. Even the authors of the book only managed to meet him once, through the closed door of his Cambridge home, where they were quickly advised that Barrett was “away” and that the person they were speaking with was only the caretaker. Some family members did try to ask Syd if he’d be willing to participate in disclosing some information to the authors. Barrett quickly dismissed the notion, declaring that we wouldn’t be able to remember any stories to tell.
I’m revisiting (again) the Barrett catalog and find it just as satisfying as I did when I first discovered it. I make no illusions that it wasn’t Barrett’s infamous breakdown that brought me to the discovery and made the music, particularly the loose and barely together selections of his songbook, all the more tolerable. It wasn’t until later on that I began to see how his desire to color outside the lines made it possible for those since to work with a larger palette of colors.
Syd Barrett: Crazy Diamond is merely the black and white document of his life, but it’s his music that provides the full spectrum of colors.

Pink Floyd - The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn

Admittedly, some Summer of Love documents sound hopelessly dated. Regardless of their quality, there’s always a sense of opening up a time capsule, looking into a period where grandiose statements seem corny (The Moody Blues Days Of Future Passed), political viewpoints seem naively silly (Country Joe & The Fish Electric Music For The Mind & Body) and groundbreaking production seems hopelessly limiting (Jefferson Airplane Surrealistic Pillow).
Pink Floyd’s The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn doesn’t sound like it was born in 1967. It sounds like it was born completely out of time. Jumping from fairytales, space travel, cats, the I Ching, gnomes, and other oddities within the span of the album’s forty two minutes, Piper is the product of Syd Barrett’s limitless imagination and pending mental illness. Norman Smith’s archaic production helps the album achieve something rare for an album of its age: an eerie sense of unease within a completely organic environment. The listener always has the sense that the songs were composed, arranged, and performed by musicians seeking to expand their own horizons without a hint of pretension.


Although it was considered to be highly “produced” during its time, the technical limitations have aged well, giving the organs a creepy vibe, the guitar some added rawness, and the bass…well, you can’t really hear the bass all that much.
No worries: Roger Waters would later run the roost, but in 1967 the rest of the members were following the lead of a certifiable crazy man who seemed intent, or oblivious, that some of his notions might lead to a certain commercial suicide.
The fact that the band were able to achieve some success with Piper in England is particularly mind-blowing and a testament to that country’s openness towards different directions. I suppose that some of the reason for its acceptance is because Piper does feel strangely European at points; while U.S. bands like the Dead and Moby Grape harnessed American elements, Floyd’s beginnings come directly from the past of the old country, mixed with a large dose of lysergic vision.
It would take several years before Floyd gained favor within the American market, but its first album not only sounds unlike anything else in the band’s overall catalog, it may be their finest moment too.

Wouldn't You Miss Me?

A lot of this essentially repeats some of the same words I posted on a frequented music board, but I wanted to share a few stories involving Syd Barrett as news of his passing came today.
First, I suppose, there’s the introduction to this crazy diamond. The first Pink Floyd album I ever owned was “Atom Heart Mother,” a post-Syd release. Nonetheless, the music on this admitted Floydian also-ran led me to “Dark Side Of The Moon.” And then “The Wall.” And then to “Wish You Were Here.” And then to “Animals.” And then to the cassette collection of a high-school girl who had increased her Floyd collection exponentially to the point where it included the very first Pink Floyd album, “The Piper At The Gates Of Dawn.”
Since I didn’t have this release, it became a logical decision to ask the girl to borrow it. “It’s not like the other Floyd albums.” She advised. And she was right.
“Piper” is on an entirely different planet, and it was obvious that the leader of this version of Floyd was the primary spaceship captain. I read more about this founder, and how the band undertook a new direction when it was quite clear that the initial frontman was completely incapable of fronting the band. The idea that this instability was caused by hallucinogens became very intriguing; here was rock’s first acid casualty. And like a lot of people, I found humor in that story.
I swear I passed “Piper” around to a few people, and it seemed that others became attracted by the sound and the story of Syd. I went to the local Disc Jockey and asked the full-timer if they had either one of the two Barrett solo albums I’d read he released after leaving Floyd. “What’s the deal with Syd Barrett all of a sudden?” He asked. “You’re the third person to ask about him this week.” I special ordered “The Madcap Laughs” from him and the Rodger Waters/Ron Geesin soundtrack album “Music From ‘The Body.’”
I must have found something there, because suddenly the Album Oriented Rock version of Pink Floyd started to seem a tad contrite. The declaration of “We don’t need no education” gave way to “Oh where are you now/Pussy willow that smiled on this leaf?”
The latter painted something much more visual than anything starring the lead singer of The Boomtown Rats.
The Disc Jockey dude invited me over to take a listen to his Syd Barrett bootlegs. He wouldn’t allow his collection to be taken from his home, and strangely, he hadn’t invested in a tape player. But he did allow me to bring my cassette deck over if I wanted to copy these rare “artyfacts.” Regardless of the extremely low-fidelity, I now had versions of Syd Barrett radio broadcasts which sounded like they were recorded directly off of an A.M. radio.
And so it was announced that a collection of Barrett outtakes would be released. I picked up “Opel” as an import copy before it was officially released in America. This is telling as this decision was based entirely on the number of import “Opel” units sold domestically. Capitol records figured out that there was a devoted cult following of Syd Barrett fans in the states.
Upon first listen, the “Opel” collection sounded suspiciously like the bottom of the Barrett barrel. A few hits of l.s.d. demonstrated that “Opel’s” subtlety was beautifully misleading. The fact that most of the tracks are presented in a primitive state assists with this. They are a basic blueprint of something that could have been something glorious.
The more I learned, the more I understood that Syd Barrett’s demise was much more complex than just a guy who took too much acid. Sure, the claims of a crazy, balding fat guy showing up during the “Wish You Were Here” sessions fueled the mystique. As did the Disc Jockey guy’s information that a fanzine called “Terrapin” was comprised entirely of Barrett sightings. As did the rumors that he now lived a life of seclusion with his mother.
The more I learned, the more I sought out things that were “Barrett-esque.” Without him, there wouldn’t have been the discovery of Robyn Hitchcock, Julian Cope, Skip Spence, Jeff Mangum, and others who tread the fine line of losing touch with their mind. Shine on, Syd. You shone like the sun and provided some light for me to see a different side of music.