Large pink floyd meddle cover
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These albums’ status as dorm-room classics can make their preoccupation with psychological instability seem like a bit of trippy kitsch, but it seems unlikely their creators see it that way.
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Beginning with 1973’s The Dark Side of the Moon, their post-Barrett superstar years can be seen as a series of attempts to reckon with his absence and their guilt, even as they moved away from his vision of the band: Dark Side, a suite about how the pressures of modern life can drive a person to insanity, exploring mental anguish by the light of a lava lamp Wish You Were Here, an elegiac and sometimes cynical album presented more or less explicitly as a tribute to Barrett The Wall, a rock opera about a singer’s increasing alienation from society and his loved ones. Nick Mason, in his memoir Inside Out, returns multiple times to the callousness with which he and his bandmates treated their frontman while he was unraveling, presenting their disregard for Barrett as a consequence of their fixation on making it as musicians.
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With the rock star myth no longer as culturally potent as it once was, and more nuanced contemporary understanding of LSD’s relationship to disorders like schizophrenia-it can precipitate psychotic breaks in people who are already disposed toward them, but it doesn’t cause them by itself-he looks simply like a man with a serious mental illness, no desire for fame, and no one around who understood how to help him. The reality is probably sadder, and more ordinary. Syd Barrett’s story fits neatly within two late-’60s archetypes: the acid casualty and the doomed rock star. “I’ve been looking all over the place for a place for me,” he speak-sings in one of them, his voice taking on a theatrical Mad Hatter edge. Two of the last songs he recorded with them were deemed too dark and unsettling for release until several decades later. “I’m disappearing, avoiding most things” he told a Rolling Stone interviewer in 1971, the year Pink Floyd released Meddle without him. Barrett recorded two solo albums, then withdrew from public life until his death in 2006. That was the end of his time in Pink Floyd. One day in February 1968, they decided they simply wouldn’t pick him up on the way to their show that night. His bandmates grew frustrated by these impediments to their success.
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Soon after the release of Pink Floyd’s debut album, 1967’s The Piper at the Gates of Dawn, he became withdrawn and erratic: He refused to participate in performances, sat unresponsive as people tried to talk to him, sabotaged a TV appearance by standing still when he was supposed to mime along to a backing track.
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The members, a group of brainy misfits who’d assembled while attending university for art and architecture, mostly kept a professional distance from actual psychedelics-with the exception of Barrett, who indulged heartily. “Echoes”-and Meddle as a whole-sit at the intersection of these two approaches, offering a hazy preview of Pink Floyd’s future as international stars without yet abandoning their past as visionary young ruffians.įrom Pink Floyd’s founding in 1965 to Barrett’s ouster in 1968, they were the de facto house band of London’s nascent psychedelic scene.
As their fame rose and bassist Roger Waters seized ever-tighter creative control across the ‘70s, the music increasingly favored solemnity over whimsy, formalism over exploration. During the late ’60s, under Barrett’s mad reign, Pink Floyd was turbulent and intuitive, balancing his fairytale songs with the sort of chaotic and noisy improvisations that presumably inspired Sonic Youth’s Kim Gordon to name her dog after him. It was the first song Pink Floyd completed for Meddle, their conflicted and brilliant sixth album.Īfter a period of flailing for direction, “Echoes” offered a path toward the populist art-rock epics that would make Pink Floyd one of the most successful bands in history.
“Echoes” grew from that note into something awesome: a 23-minute psych-prog voyage from tranquility to triumph to desolation and back, with a riff like a lightning bolt striking open sea, and a pillowy lead vocal keeping you cozy and safe below deck. So they used the demo tape, and began composing around it. “We could never recreate the feeling of this note in the studio, especially the particular resonance between the piano and the Leslie,” drummer Nick Mason wrote later. It was piercing, but slightly obscured, as if it had traveled a great distance to reach your awareness. They called the results “Nothings 1-24”: Predictably, they were almost entirely unusable-except for this one note: a high B, played on a piano near the top of its range, warped by the undulations of a rotating Leslie speaker.