Posts Tagged ‘Syd Barrett’

“Wish You Were Here” by Pink Floyd (1975)

That Pink Floyd was able to soldier on after Syd Barrett’s breakdown and subsequent departure surprised many people who had followed the band in its formative years, including its management agency, which cast its lot with Barrett in 1968.

Five years later, Pink Floyd released “The Dark Side of the Moon,” which managed to stay on the charts for the remainder of the LP era.

Barrett, though, continued to influence the band during the interim, with many of its lyrical themes drawing on those established by Syd’s tenuous grasp on reality. Roger Waters’ lyrics for “The Dark Side of the Moon,” in fact, represent a song cycle about the various facets of life that can prompt the onset of insanity: “Time,” “Money,” “Us and Them” and the like. Not to mention the rampant paranoia roiling through the VCS3 synthesizers and sound effects of “On the Run.”

On the heels of the album’s success, Pink Floyd signed a mammoth contract with Columbia Records and, as such, the pressure was on to keep momentum going with the followup. Having scrapped a project called “Household Objects” – literally, songs played on stuff like hand mixers, wine glasses and rubber bands stretched between two tables – the band embarked on a series of compositions based on the brief show-business career of one Roger “Syd” Barrett.

When it emerged in September 1975, “Wish You Were Here” probably exceeded the expectations of many fans and most critics, arriving as a more cohesive, melodic work than its landmark predecessor. While the allusions to Barrett are thinly veiled, the songs stand on their own as musical statements without the necessary back story; indeed, listeners completely unaware of Syd’s travails are able to enjoy the album just the same.

At the heart of “Wish You Were Here” and taking up a majority of the album’s playing time is “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” the nine-part suite that both opens and closes proceedings. The opening is based on a sustained G minor synthesizer chord with a series of subtle embellishments, including a bit of wine-glass sound from “Household Objects.” Eventually, David Gilmour comes in with his signature Bb-F-G-E progression, then the rest of the band joins in, Gilmour playing an understated but tremendously effective lead until Waters delivers his lead vocal:

Remember when you were young, you shone like the sun
Shine on you crazy diamond
Now there’s a look in your eyes, like black holes in the sky
Shine on you crazy diamond
You were caught on the cross fire of childhood and stardom,
Blown on the steel breeze
Come on you target for faraway laughter, come on you stranger,
You legend, you martyr, and shine!

You reached for the secret too soon, you cried for the moon
Shine on you crazy diamond
Treatened by shadows at night, and exposed in the light.
Shine on you crazy diamond
Well you wore out your welcome with random precision,
Rode on the steel breeze
Come on you raver, you seer of visions, come on you painter,
You piper, you prisoner, and shine!

Although the band hadn’t begun the song with Barrett in mind, the lyrics read like a biography: his descent from one of England’s brightest young musical stars to a drug-addled mess, complete with references to his best work (Pink Floyd’s debut album, “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn,” and his own solo debut, “The Madcap Laughs”).

“Shine On” extends through further musical themes, employing saxophonist Dick Parry to great effect, before segueing into the sounds of mechanical equipment that introduce the second track, “Welcome to the Machine.” Waters’ lyrics combine Barrett’s predicament with disdain for the purely economic motifs of the music industry:

Welcome my son, welcome to the machine
Where have you been? It’s alright we know where you’ve been
You’ve been in the pipeline, filling in time,
provided with toys and scouting for boys
You bought a guitar to punish your ma,
And you didn’t like school, and you know you’re nobody’s fool,
So welcome to the machine

If “Welcome to the Machine” seems to bite the hand that fed Pink Floyd, the next track’s theme is so vitriolic that an outsider ended up singing the version that appeared on the album.

The final track of “Led Zeppelin III” is a bizarre stab at the blues titled “Hats Off to (Roy) Harper.” Few of the fans who propelled the album to the top of the charts in 1970 probably understood the reference, as musician Roy Harper hardly was a household name at the time. Yet his freeform style of performing had won a couple of fans in Jimmy Page and Robert Plant, who decided to immortalize him.

Harper had made the acquaintance of the members of Pink Floyd through their mutual management and record label. The band and the singer happened to be at Abbey Road at the same time in 1975, recording their respective latest albums.

In his book “Saucerful of Secrets: The Pink Floyd Odyssey,” the late Nicholas Schaffner wrote that “when it came time to record ‘Have a Cigar,’ Roger’s admittedly limited voice was in shreds from his struggles with the ‘Shine On You Crazy Diamond’ lead vocal.” After Gilmour declined, the band drafted Harper, “whose hippie credentials (and subterranean sales figures) had never been overly compromised by the rock machine.”

“Have a Cigar,” one of the harder-rocking songs in the Pink Floyd catalogue, savages the music-business type who cares only about making money off the artists, and by extension, what young Syd Barrett faced:

Come in here, dear boy, have a cigar, you’re gonna go far
You’re gonna fly high, you’re never gonna die, you’re gonna make it if you try, they’re gonna love you
Well I’ve always had a deep respect, and I mean that most sincerely
The band is just fantastic, that is really what I think
Oh by the way, which one’s Pink?
And did we tell you the name of the game, boy
we call it riding the gravy train

The “which one’s Pink?” line is derived from an actual question asked of the band, and, of course, gained further notoriety when “Pink” appeared as the central character Waters’ “The Wall.”

The segue between “Have a Cigar” and the album’s title track confused many listeners who first heard it on the radio, myself included. The production, indeed, consigns the end of the former song to a tinny, mono sound before an unseen hand turns a transistor dial to a couple of stations, a short burst of classical music pouring forth before it settles on a guitar riff.

Shortly after, the sonic clarity is fully restored for the memorable chord structure and acoustic lead of “Wish You Were Here,” the subject of which turns sharply from criticism of the music industry to a heartfelt plea. The song is a Waters poem set to music by Gilmour, and it works as either a love song or a message to Barrett:

So, so you think you can tell, Heaven from Hell, blue skies from pain
Can you tell a green field from a cold steel rail?
A smile from a veil?
Do you think you can tell?
And did they get you to trade your heroes for ghosts?
Hot ashes for trees?
Hot air for a cool breeze?
Cold comfort for change?
And did you exchange a walk on part in the war for a lead role in a cage?
How I wish, how I wish you were here
We’re just two lost souls swimming in a fish bowl, year after year
Running over the same old ground
What have we found? The same old fears
Wish you were here

The song’s fadeout is overtaken by the resumption of “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” with Richard Wright’s synthesizer flourishes dominating a darkly toned section before Water delivers the final verse:

Nobody knows where you are, how near or how far
Shine on you crazy diamond
Pile on many more layers, and I’ll be joining you there
Shine on you crazy diamond
And we’ll bask in the shadow of yesterday’s triumph,
And sail on the steel breeze
Come on you boy child, you winner and loser
Come on you miner for truth and delusion, and shine!

One line of that wasn’t quite true. The band members knew exactly where Barrett was, if for just a short period. On June 5, 1975, Gilmour and his girlfriend, Philadelphia-born Virginia “Ginger” Hasenbein, were planning to get married the day before the band left for an American tour, and the band was working on wrapping up “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.” As Schaffner wrote:

With the voices of Roger and Dave summoning the spirit of Syd Barrett from the studio monitors, who should lurch in but an obese man with shaven head and eyebrows, wearing a white trench coat and white shoes and clutching a white plastic bag. Gilmour was the first to notice him sniffing around the Floyd’s equipment; but, preoccupied with other matters, he figured that the odd-looking character was some EMI (recording studio) minion.

“He came into the studio,” recalls Rick Wright, “and no one recognized this person. I remember going in, and Roger was already in the studio working. I came in and sat next to Roger. After 10 minutes, Roger said to me, ‘Do you know who that guy is?’ I said, ‘I have no idea. I assumed it was a friend of yours.’ He said, ‘Think. THINK.’ And I kept looking at him. And suddenly I realized it was Syd!” Roger Waters, by his own account, was “in fucking tears” upon divining the identity of “this great, fat, bald, mad person.”

As his ex-colleagues applied themselves to the onerous task of of “Shine On You Crazy Diamond,” replaying it over and over, Syd fell silent, giving no sign of understanding he was the hero of this stirring tribute. Finally, when they asked for the track to be played yet another time, he interrupted: “Why bother? You’ve heard it once already.”

Barrett subsequently joined the others at the EMI canteen for the Gilmours’ wedding reception. After unnerving unsuspecting guests – some of which took him for a Hare Krishna fanatic – with his maniacal laughter and penetrating stares, Syd vanished into the night without saying goodbye.

The following day, the Floyd left for America without him. None of them has ever seen him since.

That held true up to Roger Keith Barrett’s death on July 7, 2006.

“The Piper at the Gates of Dawn” by Pink Floyd (1967)

The decline and fall of Roger “Syd” Barrett (1946-2006) stands as one of rock’s great tragedies.

Some stories have vaguely similar plot lines. Roger Kynard “Roky” Erickson and the late Alexander “Skip” Spence, both contemporaries of Barrett, also suffered drug-induced breakdowns that stunted their musical careers. But neither of the bands they were members of at the time – the Thirteenth Floor Elevators and Moby Grape, respectively – could hold a candle to the long-term success of the group Syd was instrumental in creating.

In fact, two albums in Barrett’s collection, by Georgia bluesmen Pink Anderson (1900-74) and Floyd “Dipper Boy” Council (1911-76), prompted Syd to call his band the Pink Floyd Sound.

By the time Barrett, Roger Waters, Nick Mason and the late Richard Wright recorded their debut single, the tale of the cross-dressing “Arnold Layne,” in February 1967, the “Sound” had been eliminated and the group was at the vanguard of London’s psychedelic scene.

Just a year later, Syd had effectively been booted from his own band, leaving as his Pink Floyd legacy three singles and a solitary album.

“The Piper at the Gates of Dawn,” named for a chapter in Kenneth Grahame’s early 20th-century children’s book “The Wind and the Willows,” bears almost no resemblance to the darkly themed, technologically advanced albums that made Pink Floyd a household name in the ’70s. The debut instead reflects Syd’ relatively whimsical worldview, or beyond-this-world view; songs titled “Astronomy Domine” and “Insterstellar Overdrive” gave birth to the sub genre space rock, which still has it’s practitioners.

The former opens “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn,” with band manager Peter Jenner reciting the names of various planets and stars through a megaphone as the instrumentalists lurch into what remained as a Pink Floyd concert favorite long after Barrett’s departure. In fact, his replacement, David Gilmour, opted to open 1994 shows during Floyd’s final tour with “Astronomy Domine.”

“Piper” continues with Lucifer Sam, which features a minor-key riff reminiscent of the scores for the various secret-agent movies and TV shows that were popular at the time. Despite the rather menacing musical tone, the lyrics turn out to be about a Siamese cat.

“Matilda Mother” and “Flaming” both delve into Grahame’s type of fantasy world. The latter, which was released in the United States as a (flop) single, makes references to “sitting on a unicorn” and “traveling by telephone” among other fanciful pieces of imagery.

“Pow R. Toc H.” is basically an instrumental driven by Wright’s piano and organ, but differentiated by some of the strangest voice-generated noises to come out of the psychedelic era.

Waters’ sole songwriting contribution to “Piper” is the rapid-fire, somewhat atonal “Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk,” which represents the opposite end of the spectrum from his later, better-known compositions such as “Money” and “Shine On You Crazy Diamond.”

“Interstellar Overdrive” is the song on which the early Pink Floyd built its original reputation, as a vehicle (no pun intended) for Barrett’s free-form, feedback-driven guitar. The album version features two takes of the song dubbed on top of each other, in a primitive but effective attempt to capture the ambiance of the stage show.

“The Gnome, “Chapter 24,” and “The Scarecrow” are comparatively sedate, with Barrett returning to a fairytale-like songwriting motif to create pastoral characters and settings.

By the time “The Piper at the Gates of Dawn” was released in the summer of ’67, Barrett was beginning to “give every indication of having been launched into a permanent LSD orbit,” the late Nicholas Schaffner wrote in his Pink Floyd biography, “A Saucerful of Secrets.”

Syd’s state of mind at the time seems to ring through loud and clear on “Bike,” the final track on “Piper.” More a series of fragments than a cohesive song, “Bike” concludes with a collage of clock, bell and duck sounds that Schaffner labeled “diabolical and demented.”

He also quoted early Pink Floyd producer Joe Boyd about his encounter with Barrett prior to a June 2, 1967, performance:

“I greeted them all (band members) as they came through, and the last one was Syd. And the great thing with Syd was that he had a twinkle in his eye … And he came by, and I said, ‘Hi, Syd!’ And he just kind of looked at me. I looked right in his eye and there was no twinkle, no glint. It was like somebody had pulled the blinds – you know, nobody home.”

Wright had this to say about Barrett’s deterioration: “Certainly acid had something to do with it. The point is, you don’t know whether the acid accelerated the process that was happening in his brain or was the cause of it.”

Pink Floyd, meanwhile, soldiered on and recorded four more Barrett-penned songs. “Apples and Oranges,” released as a follow-up to the British hit “See Emily Play,” failed to make the charts; “with each manically sped-up verse set to completely different music, (it was) hardly the recipe for a pop smash,” Schaffner wrote.

“Jugband Blues” made it onto Pink Floyd’s second LP, but it’s even more of a disjointed effort than “Apples.” Jenner has described “Jugband” as “possibly the ultimate self-diagnosis on a state of schizophrenia.”

“Vegetable Man” and “Scream Thy Last Scream” have yet to be released legitimately, and the chances of them doing so grow slimmer with each passing decade.

Onstage, Barrett was no better as 1967 progressed: “He might just play the same song for 40 minutes, and the same note all the way through it,” Jenner recalled.

Finally, the other members of the band asked Gilmour to join. Syd stayed on for a while, “until the day when the others decided not to bother to fetch Barrett for their performance,” Schaffner wrote.

“Syd never really understood that,” Jenner explained, “because he always thought of them as his band.”

For one inspired and inspiring album, they effectively were.