Syd Barrett
The Best Of - Wouldn't You Miss Me?

Sometimes it happens that records are released at your command. Such is the case with the collection published in 2001 by Harvest (EMI) on the bubbly carrier of the early Pink Floyd, which focuses on the best of his two solo albums. Syd Barrett, the recipient of such retrospective attention, did not curate the work, did not organize the playlist amidst continuous ups and downs. He simply isn't there, it's that simple. Thus, it takes on a particular charm, it's undeniable. An attraction reinforced by components that we could compare—don't shoot the madcap—to the rustic Battisti of his later years, whose song, one day or another, I will decide to listen to in its entirety.

Syd is the crazy diamond laid bare in one of the group's early best-sellers—dated 1975—“wish you were here,” a work that followed a couple of years after the multimillionaire and multi-produced dark side of the moon.
It's undeniable how the early albums, sprinkled with the madness of our rascal, are already galaxies away from the productions of recent years.

The majestic beauty of some compositions is undeniable, majesty that rhymes not by chance with pompous, due to a production choice that often let overflow—without, however, wanting to hide it—an overproduction behind, a manic care, an obsessive search for the perfect sound, the smooth sound that could enter the ears in harmony and deposit what was intended to be recalled.
Let’s be clear: over time, the sound refines, becomes rougher, but on the other hand loses that naive, insane naturalness of the very first Pink Floyd. Syd reigned, so let us not be surprised. A throne that must not have pleased him: taken by surprise by the success of the group's first album—“the piper at the gates of dawn” in which he single-handedly signed most of the compositions—he resorted to the use of psychotropic drugs to alleviate mood swings. Mandrax plays the role of a culprit in this case: taken in small doses it produces relaxation, but it soon creates dependency. Imagine what path Barrett trod, then.

He is progressively alienated from the band when his presence is no longer deemed necessary for live dates: inexorably he freezes during the performance of a song, the audience is dumbfounded, naturally.
Embarrassment. Already in the second release—“a saucerful of secrets”—Barrett is an awkward memory, Gilmour (his fellow student once) steps in and occupies a place that is wanted to be vacant, hoping the lost sheep could be recovered... He is delegated the last track of the album, but it's easy to imagine he hasn’t interacted with the other members for a considerable time.

It's 1968. The mental situation worsens, he himself will describe himself as a “vegetable man,” and despite this, directed and followed by collaborators revolving around the Floydian area, he manages to be the signatory of two noteworthy solo albums, both from 1970, “The madcap laughs” and “Barrett”.

Musically, these are hints that differ quite sharply from the style of the future millionaire band: here the plot is almost bare, the space left for instrumental experimentation is really minimal. It's worth noting instead the tendency to laugh at oneself, a sardonic grin on one's misfortunes and ways of seeing the surrounding reality, deviating it of course, through the use of lyrics at the edge of tangibility. Wordplays recur, often Barrett uses them, truncating them at his pleasure to still give a decent musicality to the whole. However, there is no shortage of pieces endowed with pure simplicity and intelligibility and pure poetry when, for example, he picks up verses from Joyce of 1917 for “golden hair”. The general sensation, even upon listening without the necessary breviary retrieved from the great net, is of a collapse of habitual time, in any case, there's a sense of imbalance, discernible is a certain clarity typical of minds tormented by themselves. Who piss themselves, to put it bluntly. The recordings for these two works were—understandably—problematic. Gilmour and the other aforementioned collaborators were literally slaves to Syd's whims, who showed up in the studio only when he deemed it appropriate.

Advantageous? It was simply indifferent: unmovable despite everyone waiting for him to retry the vocals on a given piece, or to ask advice on how he desired the drums on some other track. He's absent, he doesn’t exist, he materializes from time to time, short-lived waves only to return to the isolation chosen as a remedy. Or as self-destruction? The fact is that these two albums exist indeed—in fact, a collage of unreleased tracks titled "Opel" will be released later, supposedly less interesting and less sifted—and the recently released collection indicates a resurgence of interest in this character for whom it is objectively difficult to trace an imaginary future. Legend—and circumstance—has it that our man reappeared less than memorably to old companions during sessions of the piece dedicated to him, alluded to earlier: shine on you crazy diamond. Or how to distance and capitalize on one's guilt feelings.

Barrett, upon hearing the piece, decided to vanish from their sight never to be seen again. The current certainty is that he lives sequestered, in the same old house, with the family that, in any case, doesn’t restrain his desire for peace. As one might expect, many go to peek. The photos—rare—of today portray him chubby and bald, while he strolls with an innocent air. Dazed? Try to understand the madcap, the damn one. The nephew hears him strumming from time to time, knows he enjoys writing, that he's returned to his original passion for painting. It’s certain that he doesn’t want to face the classic ghosts of the past: what was spared from mandrax still has a certain "damaged" character. Hard to recover, naturally, singed brain cells. I say the madcap tends to his garden and doesn't give a damn. And drinks plenty of baby lemonades. And rightly so. My message is clear: get this collection and download the lyrics, the brave and resourceful search engines will help you. "The best of Syd Barrett - Wouldn't you miss me?" Should you not like it, I promise to come and offer you a CD of your choice from my discotheque. see-u-soon