OK, well, you know, what the fuck. I stopped writing this blog because I was getting bored with myself; it's like listening to the sound of your voice on a tape recorder and then wondering what alien revenant has taken over your body and supplied you with THAT voice. But lot's of things are on my mind lately, and so I'm reviving this thing, at least for the time being. Even if I am truly now engaged in an epic act of solipsism - that is, writing only to myself.
Syd Barrett died, as you know. What's tragic is that there are scads of Pink Floyd fans who only listen to the Big Four megarecords (Animals, Dark Side, Wish You Were Here, The Wall) and don't really bother to check out the earlier stuff. My good friend Mike, to take one example, worships those aforementioned records but hasn't a clue about, say, Astronomy Domine. But it's a stone fact that Piper At The Gates of Dawn is as important a psych-rock touchstone in its way at Sgt. Pepper, and it's a hell of a lot more fun besides. Barrett had a wonderful sense of play in his songwriting; his cultural radar was as well-tempered as Ray Davies, but Floyd's music explored far more interesting terrain than The Kinks. Piper is really flawless, just a wonderfully twisted record. As for Barrett's two solo albums - hit and miss. I love a handful of tracks - Baby Lemonade, Dominoes, No Good Trying. One things for certain; Robyn Hitchcock would not exist without those two records. So it's well worthwhile to revisit this stuff, because had Barrett not lost his mind, I'm certain that his status would have changed from minor to major.