The name Syd Barrett, much like the name Pink Floyd, always brings with it a certain myth. A certain flair of misunderstood genius, of an artist lost to the depths and despairs of his own psyche. It is a name that conjures up stories before music, summons the image of a struggling artist before the image of a great musician. Listening to Syd Barrett can never be an objective process. It can never be an undertaking without expectations and prejudices, can never be an experience separated from the knowledge of the person.
So, how would you describe the music Syd Barrett made on his 1969 debut record after breaking with Pink Floyd? Guitar based psychedelic/blues rock? A slow and rather minimalistic alternative to the prog rock synthesiser extravaganza of later Pink Floyd albums? Although instrumentation and dynamics are unbelievably consistent throughout The Madcap Laughs, due to their mostly static nature, there is not always a connection between the songs. Musical ideas feels disjointed, misplaced, forced together in unnatural constellations. Like a Frankensteinian patchwork project. It consists of such a variety of songs that span from utter genius to failed student project. Moments of sparkle are followed by absolute dullness, moments of quirkiness followed by complete blandness and the other way around.
The album starts of unsuspectingly calm. Terrapin instantly introduces the album’s most prominent musical choices: strummed guitar and subtly reverbed vocals. When the scratchiness of the guitar sings the blues, when the minimal delay on the vocals makes it feel like a second voice is present – those are the moments that shine, that glisten with musical intelligence and excitement. Lazy slides on the guitar strings support the bluesy feeling, an overstretched outro cheekily testing conventional listening attitudes. The same goes for Love You, incorporating that same beautiful guitar strumming. A lot more cheeky, incorporating a tinkling piano and rhythmically performed lyrics, this third song adds a new musical flavour to the record.
Whereas the stream-of-consciousness-lyrics feel sweet and almost innocently charming on Love You, like the flutter of excitement that comes with a new crush – on Feel this musical exploration of love falls flat. Not only does the music sound like an unfinished demo, it actively clashes with the rhythmical structure of the lyrics. Clunky, almost awkward, like round shapes being forced into angular corners. There is an inherent disconnect, like two musical voices fighting each other. No Good Trying, the record’s second song with a more psychedelic tone doesn’t fall into the same extremes but already hints at the struggles that will befall the album as it progresses. Instead of immediate incompatibility, the cracks are less visible. They lay hidden behind the veil of flickering keyboard sounds, always on the verge of falling apart, always on the verge of tumbling headfirst into utter chaos.
The Madcap Laughs is a rollercoaster of rock nuances and musical quality. A rollercoaster that you have read mixed reviews on. Porous waves create No Man’s Land, a sonic line that is fraying at the edges and scooped up by Barrett’s vocals coming surprisingly close to hitting the ground. A swinging self-confession on Here I Go, sliding up and down the chromatic riffs, hi-hats in charge of the steering wheel. Barrett reveals versatility. The only issue is that it is inconsistent, in terms of song quality, in terms of production, in terms of performance. It comes as no surprise to me that 5 different producers (including Barrett himself and former Pink Floyd colleagues Roger Waters and David Gilmour) in different constellations worked on the record.
Octopus feels like the record’s magnus opus. There is so much going on. Like multiple song fragments plastered together in the desperate attempt to make something. Like a work of frenzy, of a burst of inspiration that subsided before the finishing of the song. Like a puzzle that lacks pieces and therefore needs to borrow from a completely different picture that coincidentally shares the same piece pattern. It is clunky and becomes a strange listening experience 50 years later, in an age where polished production has become an easily achievable standard. And yet, despite its flaws, Barrett’s voice doesn’t sound nearly as alive on any other song as it does on this centre piece. There are changes in dynamic, emphasis on certain words, the feeling that his vocals follow the flow of the music, that there is a conversation taking place between the two.
Syd Barrett’s 1969 debut record might be more than a bit of a mess but it is not a lost cause. It’s a diary, a collage, a scrapbook of musical ideas and explorations. Some that work and some that don’t. Always on the edge of the knife, ready to crumble to pieces with each next bar. And equally ready to rise above the crushed expectations with each new strum and each new breath.
Looking for more madness to listen to? Try True That – Michael Cera for something a little different.
The Dad Anthology 