Tuesday, July 11, 2006
Rest in Peace, Syd
Sure, Rock 'n Roll Heaven is getting too crowded—used to be just populated by Buddy Holly, Richie Valens and the Big Bopper. I can see them all, in tableau like Raphael's The School of Athens painted upon black velvet: in the back, Jimi and Jerry jam, while Elvis and Morrison trade verses. Lennon can be found in the lower left corner, showing Tupac and Biggie how to write. And there, the one who barely gets noticed, leaning against a column with legs crooked, poring over his lore, is Syd Barrett.
Barrett, who passed away on Friday, July 7, 2006, of diabetic complications at age 60, was the most influential rocker nobody ever heard of. Yet his mythos is bigger than the Beatles. Perhaps best known for co-founding Pink Floyd in 1965, Barrett's slightly skewed ears helped form British Psychedelic music—a melange of folk, gypsy, Gilbert & Sullivan, jazz and R&B, fueled by copious ingestion of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide and fed through venues that refused to shut down. Barrett brought something extra to the scene, a darkly vulnerable archetype that sent the birds twittering. Pink Floyd's early singles, "Arnold Layne" and "See Emily Play" defined this sort of bedlam.
But creating Haight-Ashbury-on-the-Thames was a mythology best left to the bigger swingers in Sixties London. Sgt. Peppers swept up much of the leavings, the Rolling Stones claimed a fair bit of territory, and Black Sabbath showed the kids where the darkness really was. Barrett's mythology would blossom a full decade later, and even reach into the Punk revolution almost two decades ahead. More importantly, his mythos would manifest in the legacy of Pink Floyd—a legacy neither Barrett nor the band could quite exorcise.
Some blamed it on the acid; some on the disproportionate fame that gets heaped on rock stars. Some believe it was a time bomb waiting to explode--that Syd's mental illness was as inevitable as fate, and others still simply called it Asberger Syndrome. While his onstage antics lent Pink Floyd concerts an anarchic atmosphere, his band mates thought he was de-legitimizing their experimental music. If you ask me, Pink Floyd already suffered from a schizophrenia that Barrett only excerbated by not quite taking sides (a tension between artist Richard Wright and architects Nick Mason and Roger Waters that would later be balanced by the other artist David Glimour.) Nevertheless, after putting on his fellows with the impossible "Have You Got It, Yet?" Barrett was booted.
Barrett's breakdown stuck with Pink Floyd for the rest of their career. While he went to live in mummy's basement, the band wrestled with his madness through one, two, three masterpiece albums. Fresh from the trauma, the band recorded Dark Side of the Moon, probably the most important Rock album after Sgt. Pepper—an homage to lunacy. Then came Wish You Were Here, a freeform jazz opus dominated by "Shine On You Crazy Diamond," a song purportedly about Barrett himself. It is said that Barrett sat in during a session, grossly overweight and completley shaved as to be unrecognizable to the rest of the band, and when they noticed him they burst into tears. That denuded look was to resurface in the movie version of their mega-madness rock opera The Wall: when Pink snaps and shaves himself down to the eyebrows. That The Wall was about Barrett is a bit of a stretch, however. It was much more about Roger Water's psychosis, which got little light thanks to Barrett's obvious malaise. Sufice it to say, thought, that Barrett's troubled mind haunted the band to the end of their days.
Meanwhile, Syd Barrett struggled to make music on his own terms. Thanks to some help from fellow Floydies, two curiously weird solo works erupted: The Madcap Laughs and Barrett. Strange and uncomfortable as the music was, these albums contained a tantalizing verisimilitude that let us peep at his mind like keyhole voyeurs. Often off key, sometimes in a hesitating meter, such a nonconformist definition of song struck a very resonant note with the burgeoning Punk community (Sid Vicious: coincidence?) Suddenly Barrett's catalogue provided fertile ground for a host of new artists. Etienne Daho, This Mortal Coil, Marc Bolan, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Robert Smith (of The Cure), Johnny Marr (formerly of The Smiths), Kevin Shields (of My Bloody Valentine), Primal Scream, Voivod, The Libertines, Dirty Pretty Things, The Beta Band, Lone Pigeon, Julian Cope, Robyn Hitchcock, The Flaming Lips, REM, Mercury Rev, East Bay Ray (of the Dead Kennedys), Camper Van Beethoven, Voivod, The Three O'Clock, Pearl Jam, Love and Rockets, Elevator To Hell, The Melvins, Transatlantic, Phish, Dream Theater, Graham Coxon (formerly of Blur), John Frusciante (of the Red Hot Chili Peppers), Eppo, Skobot Bzzzz, and the Vinyl Skyway, all created covers from these mere two albums.
Personally, I must admit to being thoroughly seduced by Syd Barrett's music much more than his mythos. Like the girl in "Here I Go," a deep part of me that couldn't be bothered with analysis, that loony part of me, simply adores him—wants him to know how much better my life is because if his tunes. God bless you Syd! We are all poorer for losing you, but Rock 'n Roll heaven is richer for having you. Rest in peace you beautiful soul.
Barrett, who passed away on Friday, July 7, 2006, of diabetic complications at age 60, was the most influential rocker nobody ever heard of. Yet his mythos is bigger than the Beatles. Perhaps best known for co-founding Pink Floyd in 1965, Barrett's slightly skewed ears helped form British Psychedelic music—a melange of folk, gypsy, Gilbert & Sullivan, jazz and R&B, fueled by copious ingestion of Lysergic Acid Diethylamide and fed through venues that refused to shut down. Barrett brought something extra to the scene, a darkly vulnerable archetype that sent the birds twittering. Pink Floyd's early singles, "Arnold Layne" and "See Emily Play" defined this sort of bedlam.
But creating Haight-Ashbury-on-the-Thames was a mythology best left to the bigger swingers in Sixties London. Sgt. Peppers swept up much of the leavings, the Rolling Stones claimed a fair bit of territory, and Black Sabbath showed the kids where the darkness really was. Barrett's mythology would blossom a full decade later, and even reach into the Punk revolution almost two decades ahead. More importantly, his mythos would manifest in the legacy of Pink Floyd—a legacy neither Barrett nor the band could quite exorcise.
Some blamed it on the acid; some on the disproportionate fame that gets heaped on rock stars. Some believe it was a time bomb waiting to explode--that Syd's mental illness was as inevitable as fate, and others still simply called it Asberger Syndrome. While his onstage antics lent Pink Floyd concerts an anarchic atmosphere, his band mates thought he was de-legitimizing their experimental music. If you ask me, Pink Floyd already suffered from a schizophrenia that Barrett only excerbated by not quite taking sides (a tension between artist Richard Wright and architects Nick Mason and Roger Waters that would later be balanced by the other artist David Glimour.) Nevertheless, after putting on his fellows with the impossible "Have You Got It, Yet?" Barrett was booted.
Barrett's breakdown stuck with Pink Floyd for the rest of their career. While he went to live in mummy's basement, the band wrestled with his madness through one, two, three masterpiece albums. Fresh from the trauma, the band recorded Dark Side of the Moon, probably the most important Rock album after Sgt. Pepper—an homage to lunacy. Then came Wish You Were Here, a freeform jazz opus dominated by "Shine On You Crazy Diamond," a song purportedly about Barrett himself. It is said that Barrett sat in during a session, grossly overweight and completley shaved as to be unrecognizable to the rest of the band, and when they noticed him they burst into tears. That denuded look was to resurface in the movie version of their mega-madness rock opera The Wall: when Pink snaps and shaves himself down to the eyebrows. That The Wall was about Barrett is a bit of a stretch, however. It was much more about Roger Water's psychosis, which got little light thanks to Barrett's obvious malaise. Sufice it to say, thought, that Barrett's troubled mind haunted the band to the end of their days.
Meanwhile, Syd Barrett struggled to make music on his own terms. Thanks to some help from fellow Floydies, two curiously weird solo works erupted: The Madcap Laughs and Barrett. Strange and uncomfortable as the music was, these albums contained a tantalizing verisimilitude that let us peep at his mind like keyhole voyeurs. Often off key, sometimes in a hesitating meter, such a nonconformist definition of song struck a very resonant note with the burgeoning Punk community (Sid Vicious: coincidence?) Suddenly Barrett's catalogue provided fertile ground for a host of new artists. Etienne Daho, This Mortal Coil, Marc Bolan, The Jesus and Mary Chain, Robert Smith (of The Cure), Johnny Marr (formerly of The Smiths), Kevin Shields (of My Bloody Valentine), Primal Scream, Voivod, The Libertines, Dirty Pretty Things, The Beta Band, Lone Pigeon, Julian Cope, Robyn Hitchcock, The Flaming Lips, REM, Mercury Rev, East Bay Ray (of the Dead Kennedys), Camper Van Beethoven, Voivod, The Three O'Clock, Pearl Jam, Love and Rockets, Elevator To Hell, The Melvins, Transatlantic, Phish, Dream Theater, Graham Coxon (formerly of Blur), John Frusciante (of the Red Hot Chili Peppers), Eppo, Skobot Bzzzz, and the Vinyl Skyway, all created covers from these mere two albums.
Personally, I must admit to being thoroughly seduced by Syd Barrett's music much more than his mythos. Like the girl in "Here I Go," a deep part of me that couldn't be bothered with analysis, that loony part of me, simply adores him—wants him to know how much better my life is because if his tunes. God bless you Syd! We are all poorer for losing you, but Rock 'n Roll heaven is richer for having you. Rest in peace you beautiful soul.
# posted by MadMac @ 8:44 AM 
