Moonshine / washing line / they suit him fine

It’s all over the web, the TV and the inter­est­ing media of course, but I have to have my say too. It was Syd, and like so many of my gen­er­a­tion, at least those who lis­tened, we felt we owed him a lot, and some­how owned a lit­tle bit of his mind too.

He laid it so bare, it was hard not to feel some­how that you were in there with him, in that world of crazy zigzag­ging sounds.

Pink Floyd were, more or less, increas­ing­ly dread­ful, after Syd, with per­haps the excep­tion of parts of Med­dle and Umma Gum­ma, where his ghost was still part of the band. But whether he was the muse or the sim­ply the loon that pushed the but­tons in the heads of the oth­ers that made them what they were, its an unas­sail­able fact that they stum­bled relent­less­ly into an increas­ing­ly drea­ry sta­di­um pomp act after him, most­ly by water­ing down what they had with him, and Piper at The Gates of Dawn, the tan­gled, con­fus­ing and mes­meris­ing thing, that it still after 39 odd years, their best, and most impor­tant album.

It was nev­er the same after the mad­cap laughed. Good­bye Syd, although I guess we said good­bye a long time ago.

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