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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