Pitchfork

What is it about depravity that demands attention? From disaster porn to Lifetime movies, our culture loves to vicariously exorcise their diminutive traumas through those whose lives have been wrought with pain. This carries over to the world of music where the dynamic between tragedy and reverence is exalted, rather than critiqued, and personified by such talents as Nick Drake, Tim Buckley, Johnny Ace and, more recently, Mark Sandman. The macabre tales and images of their self-destruction are indelibly linked to the bodies of work they left behind, forever blurring the lines that separate an impartial assessment of their talents from the content of their character.

The truth is that the music of those who burn out isn't necessarily judged by a different set of standards so much as it's judged by the standards the artists set for themselves during their creative zeniths. After all, these modern legends posthumously govern a world where rumors and hearsay reach mythical proportions and idolaters devote their entire lives to collecting every shred of sound their own personal God/Goddess ever committed to tape.

"Syd" Roger Barrett is one of those golden calves, though fashioned by a much different maker. The infamous story of his rise to the forefront of the burgeoning British psychedelic scene in the late 60s-- for those of you not up on your Syd, he was the premier singer/songwriter of Pink Floyd that fell into a drug-induced mania catalyzed by already-prevalent schizophrenic conditions-- has been reiterated, exaggerated, invoked, and novelized so many times that it's arguably overshadowed his seminal contributions to popular music. These contributions-- his two solo albums, The Madcap Laughs and Barrett, both released in 1970-- transcend his work with late-60s Pink Floyd and make for haunting aural documents of a prolific talent's dilapidating psyche while paradoxically managing to retain a rich charm and hooks sharp enough to make Peter Pan wet his tights.

Discounting a few independently distributed releases and Cleopatra's Octopus, no serious attempt has ever been made to compile the "best of" Syd Barrett, let alone to confine the content to his solo material. This may be partially due to the Herculean nature of the task. Though the Madcap's output as a solo artist only adds up to roughly 45 songs (22 of which are contained here), it would be easy for the compiler to fail in their intention, given Syd's penchant for an enduring arrangement and melody.

The release of Capitol's Wouldn't You Miss Me, which draws from every facet of Barrett's available recorded output, is certainly no exception, notably omitting "No Man's Land," a common fan favorite, and the stark acoustic demo of "Rats," which is home to some of Barrett's most self-effacing (and successful) stream-of-consciousness, and was originally released with fuller instrumentation on Barrett before finding its way onto Opel, a collection of rarities and outtakes. Regardless, the collection itself is a long overdue acknowledgment of the disarming beauty found in Syd's work outside the psychedelic stratum.