Nick Drake LANDMARK: Pink Moon by: Ed Butler Sat:01-Dec-07 Label: Island Year: 1972 WB rating 93 out of 100

Mythology is important in music. Whispered stories about bands and artists have the ability to slowly become accepted fact, and can elevate bad musicians above their station, good musicians to international fame, and occasionally, a truly great artist can achieve long-deserved success and recognition. 

And the best way, it seems, to enhance one’s legend, to fuel one’s own personal mythology, and, perhaps, propel music into the rarified regions occupied by musical immortals, is to die early. Before the job’s done. Before the story’s complete. It is the ultimate embodiment of the adage ‘always leave the audience wanting more’. Names like Hendrix, Morrison, Cobain, Bolan and Buckley have all had their legacy established posthumously to the point where first names are unnecessary, while others like Sid Vicious, Gram Parsons, Buddy Holly, Tupac Shakur and Richie Valens have had their status as musical gods carefully cultivated by the owners of their respective estates. 

When a musician dies early, we are allowed to imagine the lofty heights they were destined to reach, allowed to embellish their achievements, and are encouraged to ignore their failings and misfires, all the while avoiding the inevitability of age catching up with them – of seeing our heroes wrinkled and old, playing the same tired songs to the same tired audience, now in their 50s, wearing loafers and sipping chardonnay (yes, I’m referring to the Rolling Stones). They stay young, vibrant, and essential. 

However, the mythology can have a tendency to overstate greatness. Sure, Hendrix, the Doors and Nirvana made some great tunes, but lest we forget that Jeff Buckley only made one record. Was Gram Parsons really the 87th greatest artist of all time, as Rolling Stone have solemnly decreed? Or does death become them? We all have a tendency to eulogise people in the warmest possible light. 

In the case of Nick Drake, the mythology writes itself. Reclusive, shy to a fault, an unknown in life his lack of commercial success led to rumours of drug addiction and depression and eventual death at the hands of an overdose of sleeping pills in circumstances that are still debated as possible suicide. And in the midst of all this, he made three magnificent records, the third, and final, and possibly greatest of these was Pink Moon.

In 1972, he was a disillusioned man. After releasing two records to critical acclaim, he had failed to achieve any sort of commercial recognition and flailing behind his Fairport Convention friends only fuelled his disappointment and angst. So, over two midnight recording sessions early that year, in the space of eight hours, he put it all to vinyl. 

Never before, or since, has the sound of one man and a guitar been so intoxicating, or hauntingly beautiful. In 26-and-a-half minutes, Drake wrote the template for solo, acoustic guitar-slinging troubadours dealing in melancholy – be it genuine or forced – by sitting at the microphone and playing. Any atmosphere (and there is a bucketful) is created merely by Drake and his guitar. Only one overdub exists over 11 tracks; a couple of tinkling piano keys on opener 'Pink Moon'. With the exception of those few notes, 'Pink Moon' the entire record is Drake and his guitar in stunning, technicolour close-up. Even his breathing is in tune. 

Throughout Pink Moon lurks the sound of desperation. On ‘Place to Be’ he sings “Now I’m darker than the deepest sea/Just hand me down, give me a place to be”, a man with no feeling of permanence, of place, and no one to talk to; a man hanging on by his fingernails. The sense of isolation and disillusionment is perfectly conveyed by the haunting power of Drake’s guitar and tremulous tenor voice. ‘Know’ contains only four notes, and one riff, but the lyrics positively scream honest desperation and sadness, and is enthralling as a result.

All of this combines with the Nick Drake mythology to create a truly classic album. Thankfully, Pink Moon can, and does, stand on its own irrespective of post-mortem glorification. Mournful guitar-toting amateurs the world over now feel impelled to recreate such sadness, and invariably fail. None can match the gentle sorrow and yearning in Drake’s voice, nor match his exceptional playing, let alone the songwriting that these talents brought to life. 

After finishing recording, he simply dropped off the master tapes with a secretary at the record company and walked off. But this indifference isn’t apparent when listening to the music. Other than the sparse arrangements, and the lack of excess instrumentation, the music is astonishingly complex, Drake using his trademark unique tunings to fashion songs that are simultaneously beautiful in their simplicity and appealing in their depth. 

The record closes on a rare note of optimism with 'From the Morning', a touching tale of the beauty of a simple life. Odd, then, that the lyric from it; 'And now we rise/For we are everywhere' adorns the tombstone of this most talented musician, who provided us with something truly beautiful before he departed all too early.