The Book Tower
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The Syd Barrett story is a well documented one, although it’s a story crying out for a sensitive biography that is wise enough to debunk the many myths surrounding the man. Myths that have grown steadily prominent over the years. An LSD casualty, a raving recluse, a harmless eccentric, a troubled and mentally ill man; all are varying accounts of what went wrong in the life of Pink Floyd’s founder member. In Syd Barrett: A Very Irregular Head Rob Chapman pieces together Barrett’s life, documenting the solid evidence and dismissing the fanciful rumour to produce a very well written and painstakingly researched work. It’s a valuable account of a complex and often misreported life.

Barrett first caught my eye as an impressionable 12 year old, when the Relics compilation album fell into my possession. Quickly realising that Pink Floyd weren’t going to be my cup of tea, I was however fascinated by three songs all composed by Syd Barrett – Arnold Layne, See Emily Play and Bike. They were all strikingly far removed from the Pink Floyd of Relics and worlds away from Another Brick in the Wall, which had recently brought them back into the singles chart. Barrett’s songs offered charm and humour that was evidently lacking in the later incarnation of the band; he was my first clue of the eccentricities, invention and brief glimpses of genius that the best music of the 60s had offered. Further research into his mystique revealed that he had virtually withdrawn from life to exist only as a legend, glimpsed rarely in his home town of Cambridge.

Considering that the surviving members of Pink Floyd didn’t want to talk to him, it’s odd that Chapman’s book works so well. A Barrett devotee, he makes no secret of the fact that he’s no fan of the group once Syd had left the ranks. Indeed, he almost relishes in the irony that part of Barrett’s legacy rests upon his former band going on to become one of the most successful of all time – despite the reality that the musical style they settled on was far removed from his own. Given the lack of Floyd input (although Chapman does include a generous dose of Gilmour, Mason, Waters and Wright interview snippets from elsewhere) there are arguably richer contributions from many other players in the Barret story, including teenage girlfriend Libby Gausden, manager Peter Jenner, flatmate Duggie Fields, sister Rosemary and loyal fans from successive generations of songwriters Robyn Hitchcock and Graham Coxon (the Blur guitarist is interviewed at length and writes the introduction).

So why, apart from the Pink Floyd connection, are people so fascinated – so obsessed – with a man who stopped recording in 1970 when he was 24, gave his last interview the following year and avoided any contact with the world right up until his death aged 60 in 2006? A man who’s recording output amounted to the Pink Floyd debut album Piper at the Gates of Dawn and three solo albums The Madcap Laughs, Barrett and Opel (the last technically a compilation and only released in 1988). A man who, despite being regarded as a talented painter, destroyed most of his work so only a fraction remained after he’d died. A man who, by many accounts, was often repetitively bothered by intrusive pilgrims rolling up on his doorstep.

Chapman concedes that the Barrett fire was partly kept alive by the perpetual rumour mongering surrounding a sensitive man reportedly sent insane by drugs, possibly spiked by an uncaring circle of friends. Rumours that became more and more fantastic, but never challenged until now, as Barrett became more withdrawn and introverted, apparently getting fat on Guinness, apparently standing outside Harrod’s in a Yogi Bear tie, freaking out and putting his head through ceilings, even trying to flag down an plane he’d missed. Apparently an often violent and uncontrollable man (oddly though, one of the greatest myths of all – that Syd walked all the way back to Cambridge when he eventually left London – turns out to be true). But Chapman is willing to prove any perversely romantic urban myth untrue, and attempts to get to the root of Syd’s mental state, although drawing mixed conclusions (the closing chapter is almost painfully moving). Most revealing is the accounts given by his sister Rosemary, who portrays him as more complex than the sorry image of the Cambridge recluse, but nevertheless a lonely and often distressed individual.

A Very Irregular Head also works strongly in proving Barrett’s strength as a performer and songwriter, and Chapman at times moves into Iain MacDonald Revolution in the Head territory in closely analysing both music and lyrics. It’s convincing, proving that Barrett’s small and briefly executed body of work was both highly original and hugely influential. Chapman also argues that it’s no great crime that Barrett abandoned the music world, reasoning that his surviving contemporaries The Rolling Stones, Paul McCartney and Bryan Wilson continue a pointless and uninspired career path. Syd Barrett was an original while he lasted and he’s remained an inspiration. Let’s celebrate that.

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I am pleased to confirm that Damon Albarn has done it again. The latest from Gorillaz, Plastic Beach, is yet another outstanding album, perhaps even more creative than 2005’s Demon Days. It features the usual Gorillaz traits, namely Albarn’s canny knack for an infuriatingly catchy tune. This is perhaps best personified in On Melancholy Hill, a song deceptively simple at first but one that’s possibly the best he’s ever written. The album, although featuring several collaborations, is very much Albarn’s and caps the rap element of the band somewhat – although the introductory track featuring Snoop Dogg is very good indeed.

Although Plastic Beach features a very varied array of guest artists, almost all of the collaborations are successful. The only sore point for me is Glitter Freeze, a track featuring Mark E. Smith. Beginning with his where’s North from ‘ere? the song is little more than a Mark E. Smith parody, or a parody of the self parody that he’s become. It didn’t really work for me. Much better is Some Kind of Nature, where Albarn shares vocals with Lou Reed to deliver one of the album’s many standout tracks. Also excellent is the addictive Stylo which features Mos Def and Bobby Womack.

Female vocalists also make their mark on Plastic Beach. Little Dragon features on two memorable tracks, Empire Ants and To Binge. Mick Jones and Paul Simenon also turn up on the title song, and the style reminds of Albarn’s earlier work The Good The Bad and The Queen. All in all Plastic Beach proves how far Albarn’s come since Parklife, a shore on the other side of the world in fact and one of the joys in modern music is keeping an eye on both his development and that of his pal Mr Coxon.

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This year’s playlist of Christmas songs is a little offbeat. It’s interesting that although most of these records are well known, none of them were particularly successful when they were first released. None of my choices have ever (yet) made the UK top ten.

Kate Bush: December will be Magic Again

Released in 1980 and only reached 29 in the charts. Perhaps one of the reasons for this single’s relative failure was that it was too sophisticated for an audience that put There’s No-one Quite Like Grandma by the St Winifred’s School Choir at number one.

Worth catching is the BBC Christmas special by Kate Bush from a year earlier, which features performances by Peter Gabriel.

Strangely, a lot of Kate Bush material cannot be acquired digitally, so this song is not available as a legal download.

Saint Etienne: I was Born on Christmas Day

Released in 1993 and only just scraped into the top 40 at 39. I fail to understand why this song wasn’t a massive hit, and it is still only played rarely (although hats off to Next in Bristol for blaring it out to their shoppers). 1993’s Chirstmas number one was Mr Blobby.

The Greedies: A Merry Jingle

The Greedies were a short lived band featuring members of Thin Lizzy and The Sex Pistols. This was considered somewhat throwaway at the time, but Phil Lynott is still a superb vocalist and the Cook/Jones rhythm section is worth turning up loud.

A Merry Jingle reached 28 in December 1979, the Christmas that record buyers preferred the depressing and very unseasonal Another Brick in the Wall by Pink Floyd.

This record is now almost totally forgotten, and ownership of a digital version of A Merry Jingle is by no means legal. In fact it’s taken me two years to find a mere two thirds of the track!

Christmas Wrapping by The Waitresses

Number 42 in 1982. Although a flop at the time, Christmas Wrapping has ended up on many a Christmas compilation album and provided writer Chris Butler with a modest pension. Probably the most consistently played Christmas single that was not a hit record.

Number one that year was Save Your Love by Renée and Renato.

Merry Christmas I don’t want to Fight Tonight by The Ramones

Released in 1987 and failed to chart, the year where The Pet Shop Boys took the Christmas number one with Always on My Mind.

Gaudete by Steeleye Span

Number 14 in 1973.

Step into Christmas by Elton John

Number 24 in 1973. Eclipsed, like the Steeleye Span record, by the infinitely more irritating Slade and Wizzard dirges.

God Rest ye Merry Gentlemen by Ella Fitzgerald

From her 1967 Christmas album. Not released as a single. The Beatles had their fourth and last Christmas number one this year with Hello Goodbye. Oddly, none of The Beatles Christmas hits were Christmas songs, a tradition Paul McCartney continued with Mull of Kintyre in 1977. His only proper Christmas song, Wonderful Christmastime, made number six in 1979. John Lennon’s Happy Xmas (War is Over) reached number two in 1980. The winter that Lennon died saw the charts flooded with his solo records, but it wasn’t enough to beat the St. Winifred’s School Choir.

White Christmas by Otis Redding

Failed to chart in December 1968. Lily the Pink by The Scaffold was the preferred, sillier, choice for Christmas number one.

Here Comes Santa by Bob Dylan

From Dylan’s 2009 Christmas in the Heart.

What will be this year’s chart topper? The manufactured drivel of the X-Factor? Rage Against the Machine? Or perhaps Mr Dylan…

And for the Final Choice…

Probably something from A Christmas Gift for You by Phil Spector, released in 1963, at the time when The Beatles were just securing their dominance on both sides of the Atlantic. At least Mr Spector had his revenge seven years later when a deranged John Lennon enticed him to ruin the Let it Be tapes…

After looking at Wikipedia’s list of Christmas number ones I have realised that I’m more familiar with the chart toppers from the late 70s and early 80s than I am with the ones from recent years. In fact, after 2004 when Band Aid came back again I have no familiarity at all with any of the number ones. The likes of X-Factor really are producing disposable pop as flimsy as a cheap toy in a Christmas cracker.

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Last Sunday I dashed home from a weekend away in order to catch the end of the BBC’s Glastonbury coverage. To be honest I didn’t really have high hopes about the closing set by Blur. Although a big fan in their heyday, I never thought they managed to recapture the brilliance of the Parklife album, and I eventually lost interest in them after the departure of Graham Coxon. However, with Coxon back in their ranks the reunion was something of an event and I confess that Sunday evening did become rather special. No new material, and I counted at least seven songs in the set from Parklife (including the inevitable walk on from Phil Daniels). But they were on fine form, and Damon Albarn, garbed in his black Fred Perry, worked the crowd with aplomb. The sense of occasion was further heightened by some enthusiastic Blur related activity on Twitter. In fact whatever the event, be it Blur or Wimbledon, I find I can’t resist the Twitter allure. But that’s for a different post.

It was good to see Blur again. Although, despite my continued enthusiasm for 80s and 90s bands, I try not to wallow in nostalgia too much. I’ve followed the post-Blur careers of both Albarn and Coxon and think they have produced their best work in this later period. Perhaps their best is still to come. There’s a new Gorillaz album on its way from Damon and Graham recently released his The Spinning Top album. This is easily the best thing he’s done to date, a folksy record that recalls Syd Barrett and Nick Drake with a nod to Coxon’s pal Paul Weller. It’s a mature piece that shows how far he’s travelled since the days of Girls and Boys, Tracy Jacks and Badhead (although I must point out that this last song is one of my all time favourites).

People tell me that I’m the age now where I ought to be listening to Radio 2. Actually, I’ve been tuning in for years although I’m becoming increasingly despondent with the music they play. It’s the nostalgia thing again, and I wonder how long they can continue to play Blondie and Abba records and expect people to happily accept it. It isn’t that there is a case against the current crop of pop stars. Actually I think the opposite.

Recently I have enjoyed three recent releases that stand up to all of the pop music before them. Ladyhawke, which came out last year, are a New Zealand band who surpass the likes of Blondie with good pop music. It’s retro stuff, recalling the 80s and in parts the sound of Stevie Nicks from Fleetwood Mac, but a highly infectious album. My two other recent discoveries can also be described as 80s retro. Both have been hyped quite a lot; easily justified although I hope it doesn’t harm their careers at this early stage. This is the weird thing I can’t resolve; although I am bored with nostalgia my current favourites all recall the period when I was young and started getting into music. It’s a paradox, but a pleasant one.

Hands by Little Boots is a very commercial album, so much so that it has invited criticism, although commercial pop is no bad thing when the songs are so good. There’s also an excellent guest appearance from Phil Oakey, which is worth the price of admission alone. Little Boots has often been lumped together with La Roux. I can see why; their self titled debut has many similarities although I think it has a harder edge and is slightly less accessible. It recalls the weirder side of Soft Cell and, again, The Human League. In the old days, I would imagine Janice Long playing Little Boots with John Peel going for La Roux. Little Boots or La Roux? I can’t recommend either enough. So I suggest buying both.

Whatever your tastes, and if you agree with mine or not, I’m content to be discovering new music in 2009. Especially being the same advanced age as Damon Albarn and Graham Coxon. Rock on.

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