Syd Barrett
We dig into the Prog archives to profile the enigma that is the former Pink Floyd frontman.
40-odd songs, mostly written during a rich creative period from 1966 to
1967, ranging from the cosmic freakout of Interstellar Overdrive to the childish whimsy of The Gnome to the cracked and melancholy Jugband Blues. Yet these songs drew up the blueprint that would shape Pink Floyd for three decades – they never really emerged from his shadow – as well as for the post-psychedelic progressive rock scene.
His two solo albums and the handful of demos and outtakes that have surfaced in recent years collapsed into his own little world; Edward Lear-like nonsense poetry and jittery post-acid comedown folksiness. They sold poorly at the time, though a devoted cult of believers has tended to his flame all the way through the long decades of his silence.
One could argue that Syd looms large in the history of punk rock, the lo-fi indie scene and the new generation of psychedelic folkies like Devendra Banhardt. Everyone from
The Jesus And Mary Chain to David Bowie has covered his songs and paid some homage to his inspiration. And the inspiration was not just his music. Everyone loves a ‘mad genius’, a star that explodes and leaves a vacuum in its wake. Better to burn out than to fade away.
His is a potent myth: a heartachingly beautiful man, the person that everyone wanted to be around, a powerhouse of musical and artistic talent. The drugs that helped to fuel and sustain this maverick creativity also helped to push him over the edge into the realm of mental illness. At the peak of their fame on an American tour, Syd started to behave oddly. He would go into catatonic trances. He would be unable even to mime let alone perform his songs. In the space of a year the man who had helped to revolutionise – no exaggeration – English rock’n’roll