Pink Floyd’s 1967 debut LP The Piper at the Gates of Dawn may have invented progressive rock; definitely invented space rock and Blue Oyster Cult and Hawkwind and hence Lemmy; has arguably been the soundtrack to more acid trips than any other album in history; and is deeply beloved by just about every sentient being on the planet but yours truly.
I love it and hate it in equal measure, which makes me a blackguard I know, and I’m not a member of the cult of Syd Barrett either, which makes me doubly a blackguard, because who doesn’t love poor benighted childlike Syd, rock’s most famous genius acid casualty?
Well, I love him and I don’t.
It could well be because (and I blame my mother) I was never read The Wind in the Willows, Alice in Wonderland, Winnie-the-Pooh or any other children’s classics as a mere sprog, but graduated straight to Sgt. Fury comic books. As a result I’m oblivious to the charms of childlike whimsy and English childlike whimsy in particular, and have in fact been diagnosed with a chronic and incurable case of Childlike Whimsy Deficiency Disorder, which is why when it’s English whimsy I seek, I go straight to the Adult Whimsy of the Bonzo Dog Band, who are sophisticated and cynical and funny.
Syd Barrett sings about riding unicorns. If a unicorn were to appear in a Bonzo Dog Band song, they’d probably shoot it.
Look, I’m not going to deny that The Piper at the Gates of Dawn could well be the greatest psychedelic rock album of them all. The album may as well be made out of pure LSD, that’s how psychedelic it is.
Me, I’m as psychedelic as the next guy, even if the only time I dropped acid I spent the next eight hours down on my hands and knees looking for it. I suspect the tab ended up under the sofa. I also believe my cat at the time found it and ate it. I can think of no other reason why she spent the next six days staring at the lava lamp.
But I’ll always have reservations about Pink Floyd’s debut because Syd was a divided soul and The Piper at the Gates of Dawn is a divided album, what with its freaktone acid-rock shriekers rubbing shoulders with quaint little starry-eyed Syd-penned ditties of childlike bent about gnomes and dandelions and such. I enjoy the screaming dizbusters. You can keep the gnomes. I’m gnome-averse. It’s an American thing, I think. No one should ever write songs about gnomes, hobbits, trolls, pixies, water sprites, scarecrows, talking giraffes or hopping on a unicorn and going for a ride. That’s the Chronic Childlike Whimsy Deficiency Syndrome speaking, I know. In my perfect world there would be far more songs about Sgt. Fury.
My problem with The Piper at the Gates of Dawn are the four terminally whimsical and childlike tracks that close the LP, although that’s not entirely true—I can listen to “The Scarecrow,” but I never do. That pretty much lays waste to side two of the album, and I’ve never been a huge fan of side one’s “The Flaming” either; it’s a more sophisticated beast than the album’s final tracks, but its lyrics (unicorns, buttercups, dandelion-sitting) leave me cold. That said, I do like the outro. The lyrics of the rather staid but lysergic melodic “Matilda Mother” are off-putting off well, as are certain of its psychedelic affectations, but the song’s lush vocals and the groovy organ instrumental by Richard Wright are enough to keep me listening.
“Take Up Thy Stethoscope and Walk” is probably as close as anyone has ever come to capturing the anarchic power of the first Velvet Underground album—its pop opening gives way to the out-of-control guitar of Barrett, who shreds, scratches, and makes all kinds of aberrant noises. And then there’s the frenetic organ of Wright, and the prominent and loping bass of Roger Waters, which gives it a simultaneously primitive and avant-garde feel. Stretched out, this might have been Pink Floyd’s “Sister Ray,” sans the ding-dong sucking and menace.
If it’s menace you’re looking for “Interstellar Overdrive”—one of the greatest psychedelic freak-outs ever recorded—is your ticket. Propelled by Waters’ bass and the drums of Nick Mason, “Interstellar Overdrive” is all prickly, off-kilter guitar by Barrett and the astral plane organ of Wright. It blasts off, degenerates into one long spazzed-out jam, all space noise with Waters turning crazy circles on bass and Mason smashing the cymbals until the organ takes over and sucks you into your own mind. It all gets kinda spooky and static for a while. But the caterwaul picks up momentum again, until the band takes off, ever so briefly at the end, wow.
At one level “Astronomy Domine” is all blips and bleeps and a huge guitar riff and Barrett and Wright singing, at another it’s a rough beast the band is loath to let off its leash. Instead what you get is reined-in lysergic madness, all drum smash and swirling organ and Barrett’s guitar, and while I’ll spend my whole life wishing they’d dropped the leash and let the beast run free, I have to take solace in the sheer momentum of follow-up and pop psychedelic gem “Lucifer Sam,” with its vocals by Barrett and his powerful guitar riff that is part secret agent movie chic and part uncanny reverberations, while Waters pushes things forward and Wright plays magic carpet ride organ.
I’m no fan of the vocalizations and mock bird call that open “Pow R. Toc H.”, but I do like what it becomes—a showcase for Wright’s piano, which is undergirded by some powerful drumming. Then everyone comes in, Barrett playing a guitar that seems to lead to another dimension while Wright’s Farfisa goes horror movie on you. It’s a strange beast, especially with Waters screaming in there, but once again I’m reminded of the Velvet Underground—the rhythm is so heavy and so pure, but in the end Pink Floyd aren’t afraid to throw it all away in the name of experimentation.
The Piper at the Gates of Dawn is Syd Barrett’s legacy, his peak, his swan song—he was already well on his way down by the time the band was finished recording it. And it sounds like the product of a split personality, which is precisely my problem with it. But I know a great album when I hear one. For better or for worse, Syd was Syd was Syd was Syd. A kind of broken nursery rhyme. I wish I loved this album more. I wish Syd hadn’t pulled a Syd. But I’m grateful he left us this.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
B+
