I was watching a documentary on TV, the subject was Barrett. Words, words, words.
A graying man, just an ordinary man like your mailman. He picks up a guitar and dreams of "Dominos." He smiles and says, "a few strange chords and what you think without thinking, a flow of thoughts, my thoughts, my images." Maybe they won't be understood.
They won't be understood.
Our Robyn didn't understand, you can't understand. Simply, in this work, he touched the strings of harmony.
Night work, Dylan, Byrds, Ray Davies, and even the much-hated Lennon. All under a neon light intoning nursery rhymes interrupted by impossible choruses, nocturnes scratched on two notes,
nursery rhymes out of tune like the belch of a Goddess, don't open that door.
Our Robyn looks at the horizon of imagination. Perhaps with the same eyes as a Barrett. Believe me, this is pure Hitchcock, visionary, innocent, inconclusive.
Here he is, in his obsessions, free and unrepeatable.
Like Mad Hatters who stumbled into a Hieronymus Bosch painting, amongst strange half-human, half-animal figures.
A loony and ramshackle record that seeks to establish a complicity more than a simple listening.