Syd Barrett’s Late Show

As Published In Dust And Guitars Magazine

I picked up a ticket years ago while working the late shift pushing room service carts for the Addison Hotel in New York City and read the order to be delivered. One large fresh fruit platter and an order of hardboiled eggs, room 1102. “He’s ordered the same thing four times a day for the last four days in a row.” called Manny over a line of steaming trays, sweat beads flying as he turned his round head. “He’s some kind of rock star.” “Oh ya?” I called back, “What kind”. “The kind you leave behind I guess. The rest of his band checked out some days ago, The Pink Somebodies.” The Pink Somebodies?”, I returned. “No that aint it,” he gruffed. “I don’t quit remember now, The Pink…” “The Pink Floyd?” I cut in. “Ya, thats them.” Well now, I thought to myself, this job might not be so bad after all. “Why did they leave?” “Don’t know,” Manny answered, banging his spatula on a large greasy grill, opening a refrigerator. “Same old shit I guess.” He leaned over, putting his head into the cold air offering no more information. I pushed the food cart out of the kitchen and into the elevator, pressed fingertip to button lighting eleven and felt the doors snip the air conditioning away as the lift rattle and chunked.

With a ring the doors parted and the wheels beneath the fresh fruit platter and boiled eggs revolved silently onto the dove colored carpet. 1101 passed and at 1102 I knocked to find the door ajar and unattended. “Hello” I called pushing the cart in while looking at order to gain a name. “Mr. Barrett, room service.” but no one came. Walking further into the room to see a light on in the bath and a moving shadow being cast from within. I called again, “Hello, room service.” This time a voice could be heard, “Come along, come on.” I approached in a cloud of curiosity hearing again the voice encouraging my advance. Through the doorframe I was shocked to find a dark haired shirtless man bent over facing the toilet, lid down and seemingly oblivion to my presence. In his hand was a long belt which was strapped sound the base of the bowl. “Come along”, he said again pulling the belt as if a dog on a leash. Surrounding his pale skin were the colors of sixteen uneaten orders of fresh fruit and boiled eggs, the rainbow of which totally covered all available flat surfaces except the toilet. A stream of purple plum coupled with round orange ran through the center of the red and green of apples. Along the edge of the counter top, mirror frame and shelves was a long line of one egg, one grape, one egg, one grape acting as a frame to the myriad of larger pieces. To magnify the scene were two large mirrors directly opposite each other reflecting the layout so that thousands and thousands of endless fruit feel back endless into the mirrors as far as any dared to look. There in his Carmen Miranda kaleidoscope he pulled the black leather hard seemingly growing frustrated with his porcelain pet. 

I stood in awe not knowing whether to call again, continue to stand in my stupor or leave forgetting the signature needed for the bill. But before my mind could be made up, “Fine then, no show for you.” Dropping the leash to the round white tiles of the floor he rose up fully, gazed at me briefly, leaving the question if he had known I was there the whole time or if he knew I was before him now. Turning toward the shower stall, opening the glass door stepping in, closing it behind. I stood only a few seconds before again the door opened and out he came. This time wearing a long red velvet coat with a heavy black trim and large black buttons, hands gripping a turquoise Fender Telecaster guitar. Again he looked right at me or I might say right through me, picked up an egg and popped the whole soul in his mouth and chewed as he walked by forcing me to duck as the head of his guitar passed.

Through the shadows and crowd of furniture Syd made for the window, bent over pulling a coiled cable from his pocket. Plugging one end into his guitar and the other into a previously unnoticed amplifier that was surrounded by an array of distortion pedals. Hearing a familiar pop of the switch as he turned, pulled the sash, flipped the latch pushing the tall panes apart letting the warm tarred air spill over his shoulders. I stepped into the new sharp air to see what was about to happen, thinking for a moment the pavement would hardly greet another lost soul in the city.

Putting a hand on the frame and a foot on the sill he pulled his way into the opening, never turning to see if I was watching he stepped through onto the wide concrete ledge as if entering a theatre. Taking place center stage with moons full spotlight casting a long black shadow into the room he turned the volume up on his guitar and the feedback began to swell and buzz the artwork on the walls. With the first chords I knew what song greeted the night, Lucifer Sam rang through the darkness echoing off the face of the building across the street with such a strange hollowness that the devil himself would have been impressed. Mellowed vocal chords quickly strained under the pressures of not having a microphone. The last of the sleeping pigeons were rousted with the beginning of “No Good Trying” which had much more bite than any recorded version I have heard since. Within the company of a crouching stone cold gargoyle he fished his long line of feedback as the wind tugged at the red velvet coat until reeling back a song that I have not yet to place. I can only describe it in the fashion of “Matilda Mother”, but as “Matilda” seems to float along side a daydream, this one seemed to carry a burden of sorts. I’ve come to call it “Coals On Hearth” o quote the only lines I can remember. “See her eyes fade as coals on hearth, her wings spread, feather us apart.”

He didn’t get a chance to do much more than an impressive display of feedback before the hotel manager came barreling through the doorway, heavy chest and short in breath along with two acne faced security guards. Combing the last of his hair back over a bald spot he approached the scene screaming over the large wall of sound the “Elizebeth Taylor is across the hall and she is in no mood for this kind of entertainment at 3:00 in the morning.” He also took the time to bestow upon me the position as “Moron Number One”, for “standing there with a shit smile on my face while Elvis wakes the dead from the side of the building.” and how I needn’t bother to return my uniform as I went home immediately. I continued to stand there though taking full advantage of my new “number one” status and he quickly focused his attention to the problem at hand. Looking at the maze of sound effects, cables and wires blindly as a child, he ordered his natal noise Nazis to “shut that pile of shit down.” and they did as told. Pulling enough wires from enough boxes until all but silenced remained. His shadow was still long cast in the room as the last echo fled, his hands stretched up to the stars and cast upon the three pale faces, myself being just to the side and still smiling.

But my smile fell as he unclipped the guitar strap setting it down by the window, being quickly consumed by the acne for. Taking three steps to the right he carelessly plopped down by the gargoyle, mumbling to the pigeon stained stone. The manager hung his heavy chest out onto the ledge and proceeded to spill the thousand reasons why the performer should come in off the ledge before the police were called. Eventually with enough persuasion, very quietly in his red coat slipped back into the room and into a million accusations and then into a dazed fetal position upon the long leather couch, barely taking up one of the three brown cushions available.

This dried up anything else the manager and his force had to say. Gazing momentarily at the man in a ball the heavy man again combed his hair back, took another breath, turned and closed the window locking it with a hard flick of his fingers before drawing the shades closed. In unison they moved towards the door stopping before me. “You still here moron?” the manager sad red faced. “That’s Moron Number One sir.” I reminded. “Shut up and come with me.” he growled, waiting and leaving little choice. 

All were quiet as the door to 1102 was shut. In lock step we moved and at the elevator one of the two pushed the small white button summoning the elevator and all waited listening to the rhythm of the managers heavy breath. With the sound from a soft bell we marched forward like soldiers. With the toll of another the doors shut and the car descended the shaft which began an eruption of vulgarity and the harshest reprimands directed at me and derived from the very depths of the red faced managers soul. This lasted precisely until another soft bell and the doors parted as if a sound was never uttered. With a bead of sweat rolling to the tip of his nose he moved forward releasing it to his starched wite shirt. “To my office.” he drilled, never turning his head to look at me. I took the first steps in that direction and thought it best to take my leave as soon as possible and proceeded to take a hard left turn, tipping my to the red headed woman at the registry desk then smacking it into the chest of the doorman leaving it with him as the manager called at my back as the etched glass door swung closed. 

On the sidewalk I looked to the eleventh floor and smiled again while walking my way through the small crowd that still lingered looking up as well. I could only imagine the scene from the sidewalk below. Out popped the manager like a dog on a hunt calling again for me to come back. But he was quickly confronted by two arriving police officers which he did his best to convince nothing was out of the ordinary nor would there be and if they like they could come in and have a bite to eat… on the house of course. They readily agreed, forgetting promptly why they had bothered to pay their visit in the first place.

Since that night I of course have become quit an avid Pink Floyd fan and have seen them numerous times through the years, including one of the two “Wall” shows. I keep the ticket stubs in the pocket of an old room service coat in the back of a closet, but all shows were without Syd Barrett, save one. One that had no ticket and should never had been. I’ve argued with many friends about the fact that Syd never got a chance to play the East Coast. They talk of break ups and tirades, drugs and tempers. But I cut in after awhile and bring this show up from the fringe of a building. It usually ends the debate with more people than not disbelieving or being too dismayed to argue anymore and again I stand there smiling.