What I know about Syd Barrett can be summed up as follows: 1) he was Floyd's frontman in the making of this record, their first; 2) he went out of his mind, somewhat due to the copious amounts of acid he was dropping during the making of this record, their first; 3) he ceased being the front man soon after, and although the band never forgot him, he ceased to have any major part of the band after this record, their first.
So I'm not going to write about Barret. Yes, his story is sad, and yes, it can be argued that some kind of rock'n'roll genius was lost forever. So what? The greats burning out or fading away is an old tired script at this point. It's not interesting; it's not enlightening. It's just sad, and I'm not going to bother with it.
Because I also know that this record is one of the most self-consciously, determinedly, gloriously pretentious slabs of noise to escape from 1967. And that's saying something. This is the year of Moby Grape, of the Doors first record, of Sgt. Goddamn Pepper's Lonely Hearts Club Band. And Floyd out-weirds them all, without even trying. Amid whatever was going on, this band threw everything but the kitchen sink out, and slipped halfway through, and somehow, even 40+ years removed from it's time and place, it still works.
Reviewing any of the first six tracks individually strains credulity; anyone who really wants to argue that "Flaming" is really intended as a separate musical statement from "Pow R. Toc R." has likely drunk too deeply from the well. Which is of course the point. In 1967, the Album as Symphony was just cresting as an idea. Every song was supposed to be a part of every other song. Floyd cannot be blamed for beginning with this logical conclusion.
So let's toss out any notion of figuring out what Barret meant by "cruel ghoul greasy spoon." You can and will impose whatever context you want. The whole point of psychedelia was to obliterate the compartmentalization of the mind, to mix everything together and then serve hot from one High Romantic Fire Hose.
And then, the drop off the cliff. "Interstellar Overdrive" shows up as the longest and most accessible song, and the obvious centerpiece of this record, but it seems to devour the trippy spirit of what precedes it. The churning feedback blues of the initial bars fading away to spacey chirps: the sad, pleading tones of Sputnik seeking some kind of contact. An almost Pascalian horror at the cold, dead distances between worlds ensues, a cosmic dread that Floyd spent all of Dark Side of the Moon trying to find a way round. The reprise of the inital riff is twisted, off-kilter, yet a relief all the same.
Am I reaching? Perhaps. But what follows this journey to the womb of worlds, if not some of the dopiest kitsch Floyd ever recorded? "The Gnome" seems to be a Mother Goose-ian exercise in self-soothing, so eager to apogize for "Overdrive" that it actually interrupts that track's denouement. "Chapter 24" and "Scarecrow"likewise attempt to mellow everything out, take control over the proceedings again. Only with "Bike" does any of the previous swirl return.
See what I mean about imposing context? For all I know, "Overdrive" was the last or first thing recorded, and everything else intended separate from it. Or maybe the pleasant melodies of the three songs after it are meant to show that journeys to the unknown will actually take us someplace we can rest. Or maybe it doesn't mean anything, and they were just wasted and having the time of their lives.
So go into the other room and make it work.
Grade: LL
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