Nick Drake, hidden genius beyond the veil of time

You never know what kind of beauty or riches you missed in the first sifting.

I was up late, scanning the internet for something interesting to watch last weekend. For lack of anything new, I re-watched “Empire of Dust,” the very funny documentary about hapless Chinamen attempting to acquire a few dump truck loads of gravel, with which to build a road in the Congo using local, black labor. Laughs ensue, as the Chinese will not accept anything but perfection and a strict adherence to schedule, while the Africans will use any excuse to get out of work entirely or at least just postpone it for a few minutes.

If you haven’t seen the movie you’ve surely seen the meme that came from it, with the droopy-eyed Chinaman sighing “It’s all so tiresome.”

Anyway, there is some very good music in the movie, and again I heard this haunting tune called “River Man” which the announcer attributed to “Nick Drake, who was taken from us far too young.”

Rather than wait and forget again, I stopped the movie at once and chased down this Drake character. His music has been ringing in my ears for five days now and I am amazed I had not encountered him before. You see, I know a bit about these guitar wielding singer-songwriter types. At least I am very open to that kind of music. How does one miss such a singular genius?

As it turns out, Drake’s career was very short, and remarkable mainly for his total failure as a professional musician. He released his debut record Five Leaves Left, in 1969 while studying English Literature at Cambridge. This was on the Island Records label, a major label in the UK, and with the full backing of star producer Joe Boyd. These were the days of long haired singers. Cat Stevens, John Hartford, James Taylor, John Denver, Bobby Gentry, Kris Kristofersson, Merle Haggard and Glen Campbell were chart-topping superstars. Drake had the good looks, a voice to match Scottish celebrity Donovan (I think he directly copied his singing style from Donovan), and songs that were head and shoulders above the standard radio fare. His technique as a guitarist was enough to make Jimmy Page stop and listen and steal a few licks. His lyrics placed him properly among the elite of English poets of antiquity.

But no bites. Nothing. Boyd brought in the Hollywood sound for the second record which gained him exactly zero new fans. As Drake abandoned personal hygiene and any hope at life, Boyd indulged him to go “back to basics” for a raw, stripped-down third record. As far as the music consuming world, he might as well have never been born. Drake lamented to a friend “I have failed at every thing I have ever tried.” At the age of 26, he sat up nights in his parents’ house, reading The Myth of Sisyphus by the loathsome French nihilist bore Albert Camus. He ate a large overdose of “prescribed antidepressants” and dropped dead.

Twenty-six, man. Just a boy. A very strange, enchanted boy.

So, I’m devouring his first record, limiting myself to just that one because I want to enjoy his growth and fully appreciate it. And watching little fan documentaries on YouTube. And one biographer mentions Drake’s sister was none other than Gabrielle Drake. My socks were blown off and my breath was frozen. Let me tell you about Gabrielle Drake. Here’s a picture of her with her clothes on.

She stared in a sci-fi show for kids called “UFO.” Schwiiiiing!!!!

I think the correct English word is “Fwoooooaarrr!”

When I was a boy I took any opportunity to sit up nights unsupervised and watch the late night titty jiggle movies on Showtime. One such was the light heated English sexploitation romp, Au Pair Girls, which featured long, gratifying nude scenes with Gabrielle Drake and Astrid Frank, plus some other ugly, unremarkable girls. The impression she made on me is impossible to exaggerate. The sight of her is fused into my psyche. I didn’t know the term or concept back then, but I was “imprinted” on her. My entire sexual and reproductive function was hard-wired to those two girls and those connections remain in place today. They cannot ever be broken until I die.

Now, this is not yet another entry into our long-running series “Great Boners I Have Sported,” but rather I bring it up to make a point. Rodney and Molly Drake had two children, a girl and a boy. Gabrielle had an impossibly perky butt and two magnificent little titties and she demonstrated a willingness to jiggle them in public for money. The world lifted her up, showered her with wealth and admiration and love.

Her brother brought singular artistic genius to the table. His debut effort placed him among the very short list of eternal giants of English poetry and music, all conveniently cast to the current tastes in pop music by the most successful and skilled producers in the industry.

The world took short notice, scowled and politely told young Drake to get stuffed. And the poor boy took it to heart. In the song “Fruit Tree,” he put it out there, made himself vulnerable, expressing plainly that he needed the validation of listeners to justify his art and, ultimately, his very existence. He gave unbelievably beautiful naked music and asked plainly, please let me know if you like it. And the world responded, “piss off, you tosser” in that charmingly direct, English way.

It’s too bad Drake didn’t have a bouncy set of buttocks and boobies he could wave around in broad daylight. Maybe he could have found love and acceptance. Our society is hell bent o destroying its men by any means necessary, and giving our daughters up as sluts while we’re at it. Gabrielle was a rich girl and married a rich man. Those darling boobies of hers could have fed a family, raised up champions. Leaders, builders, giants. Instead she felt compelled to use them to inspire a few furtive jizz glops from a traumatized generation of hopeless and unwanted boys. Her Wikipedia page lists movies, awards, accolades. No mention of children.

What the hell kind of sick world is this???

It’s heart-breaking that Drake’s last few hours were spent reading Camus instead of Lewis or Chesterton. Post-War Britain was bound and determined to reject God and forsake all His blessings and comforts. I don’t know if you’ve had the unhappy experience, but Camus is to literature as nailing your dick to a table is to art. I sincerely pity anyone who encounters him.

I’m going to close with a few listening notes. Please remember that Five Leaves Left was recorded in 1969 and the production values are very dated. If you ignore any jarring initial impressions and give it a real chance, this record will move you very deeply. I feel genuinely changed, enriched, by this experience. Boyd’s string arrangement on “River Man” are truly cinematic, otherworldly, haunting, eerie. It leaves me feeling the way I do after staying up all night exploring a new author or idea. It deserves to be listened to loud.

Other arrangements on the record are less successful. The string orchestrations on “Way to Blue” and “Day is Done” are distracting, overwhelming. But please remember this is only four years after “Eleanor Rigby” revolutionized pop music. Everyone was under that spell. The flute on “Thoughts of Mary Jane” is lovely, but the instrument is today entirely out of style. Put that out of your mind. The song and its parts are lovely and deserve repeated hearings to reveal their secrets.

“Cello Song” is a deep Easter Egg for me. I was a big fan of Echo & the Bunnymen growing up, including their one album without Ian McCullough on vocals, the singing being done by Noel Burke. The opening song of that album, “Gone, Gone, Gone” is a clear rip-off – or perhaps “homage” to be more charitable – of “Cello Song.” and I like it even better for it. You can’t censure someone for quoting Shakespeare.

One last thing. We are all rightfully answerable for one another’s well being in this world. And this world treats young men like worthless shit. If you know a young man with something deep on his mind and in his soul, spare him a few moments and a bit of encouragement. It costs almost nothing but time, and you were already wasting that anyway. He may enrich you. And with just a bit of extra push he may enrich the whole world.

There was a boy

A very strange, enchanted boy.

They say he wandered very far, very far

Over land and sea.

A little shy, and sad of eye

but very wise was he.

And then one day,

One magic day he passed my way

and as we spoke of many things,

fools and kings,

this he said to me:

The greatest thing

that you’ll ever learn

is just, to love

and be loved in return.

— Nat King Cole

Lance Peckerwood blogs about the outpouring of God’s wrath upon the earth, the absolute state of Dixie and items of general interest to Christian men. He delights in comments and questions.