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The Night Syd Barrett Died

Westley O. Heine

It had been almost forty years since Syd Barrett performed in front of a crowd
At one time he was the face of acid rock in England
a shining poet of the psychedelic 60’s
Then, as the story goes, Syd took too much acid
possibly unlocking his dormant schizophrenia
He left the spotlight forever
His band went on and
five albums later they became a household name

Syd became the poster boy for the dark side of psychedelics
for innocence lost
just another acid victim
the ghost of the perma-tripped
But maybe after that one record he didn’t want the treadmill of rock star life
Perhaps we’ll never know

Syd walked from London to Cambridge
withdrew from the limelight
Once every few years a snap shot would surface of him riding his bike or
shopping in a grocery store
It was rumored he painted surreal paintings, but after finishing a canvass
he would go to his back yard and burn it

When Syd died it was not on the evening news
it was not in the paper
Barrett’s death floated in the waves of internet news feeds
sandwiched between minutia and infinity
Some of the rock magazines went to their archives to prepare a spread for next month’s issue on Syd, the founder of what became a giant band
They’d re-tell the same old legend: too many drugs, and he became a recluse

The night Syd Barrett died I was living in Chicago and far, far from England
As usual I was at the Gallery Cabaret
a small bar hosting an open-mic four times a week
containing Chicago’s small Greenwich Village-like folk scene
As always the cheap beer flowed, the small room grew shoulder to shoulder
Singer songwriters signed up and took turns transforming from audience member performer and singing three songs before their time was up
Some sung originals, some did covers
Some were too original to be sexy
Some were not original enough to be taken seriously
Most were better than what was on the radio or TV
All of them were broke or had day jobs
Some were Elvis impersonators
Some were Bob Dylan wannabes
Some had a Jim Morrison complex
Echoes of blues or grunge or punk rebuilding and remaking songs
over and over in true folk tradition
All glowing in instant gratification, and just as quickly instant has-beens
off the stage and back to the stool
back with the regulars changing faces in the mirror behind the bar

The night Syd Barrett died a troubadour I had never seen before took the stage
He was so anonymous I practically looked through him: t-shirt, jeans, baseball cap
He started slow, people talked over the music or got another pitcher
The cash register rang
The song he strummed was sort of familiar
I started to challenge myself to recognize it
It was a simple song, but the words were odd
and always surprising how the words would reach the rhyme
Finally, I realized he was doing a tribute to Syd Barrett
The song was “I Never Lied to You”
I was transported to the woods camping with my old friends in Wisconsin
This song played on a battery-powered boom box as I lay on the forest floor
staring up at the light piercing the green star shaped maple leaves
Next he played “Waving My Arms in the Air”
A handful of us at the bar perked up and cheered him on
By the time he played “Dark Globe” we were singing along like bums at a wake:

‘Please lift a hand
I’m only a person
with Eskimo chains
I tattooed my brain all the way
Wouldn’t you miss me?
Wouldn’t you miss me at all?!’

The stranger went pale in the spotlight
his voice cracked in the same pained way as Syd
like a skull splitting
Then his time was up
The host of the open-mic got on stage and called the next name
The stranger came up to the bar very excited guitar still in hand
“Hot damn!” he said. “I didn’t think anyone would know those songs!”
He ordered shots of tequila for the handful of us who sang along
We lifted our shot glasses and said, “To Syd!”
Then the singer left into the cold Chicago night

And I, half in the bag, imagined damp old England in the winter
I thought about feeling alone, and feeling strange
about watching the line between madness and genius waiver, and finally dissolve
I thought about eyes crawling on me
About young dreams and getting old
About time seeming to swallow up everything we love
But then
something surprising happens
The cry echoes
And you’re remembered
maybe on the other side of the world
if only for three songs on open-mic night
however briefly

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