N.M.E.
September 5, 1981
Robyn Hitchcock
Black Snake Diamond Role (Armageddon)
by Andy Gill
Those of us who never could see all that much of worth in Syd Barrett's music, either solo or with that group he used to be with, will be hard pushed to understand why anyone should want to set themselves up as heir apparent to whatever "throne" he was supposed to have parked his arse on.
Robyn Hitchcock may not actually have said so in so many words (and in interviews he'll probably deny ever having heard any of Barrett's dreary whimsy), but Black Snake Diamond Role gives the rather unsubtle impression of someone trying on the Madcap's coat of many colours -- even though it's left up to us scribes to allot such roles in black and white certification.
To give him his due, Hitchcock's making most of the correct noises -- even if a great many of them sound a little, ah, anachronistic after all these yeas -- and utilising a few more recent additives that fit, like the wide, warm ADT on the vocal track to "The Man Who Invented Himself". In fact, BSDR is quite a pleasant little record on a purely musical level, less patchy than the Soft Boys' albums, though lacking anything as exhilirating as "I Wanny Destroy You". Nice, y'know?
What really boils my beef about this record is the lyrics -- a selection of Dylanesque nonsense parables with undoubtedly "deep" inner meanings -- and the way they're put across, the vocals so far forward and "correctly" enunciated they're almost screaming out for attention they don't merit. I think we're being "told something" here, in the sickly absurdist-allegorical code that passes for lyricism in this neck of the woods.
For instnce, is the phrase "All aboard Brenda's iron sledge" a sexual metaphor or a drug reference? If so, who cares? If not, who cares? In fact, who cares what it means? Has anyone got the stomach to decipher this kind of psychedoggerel anymore? Doesn anyone still really believe one human Rock-music-playing being has anything vaguely approaching insight and/or intelligence to impart to the world in general and the youth of Britain in particular?
Apparently so, if we're to believe (or at least treat with a certain seriousness) the nascent rubmlings of a psychedelic revival in our midst. Hitchcock may -- who knows? -- end up as mainman or hero of some kind with such a movement, in which case we can expect tedious two-page interviews with the oracle dedicated mainly to explicating the imagery of dross like "Acid Bird". God help us all.
For the time being, though, the New Psychedelics -- The Cult With No Taste -- can keep this particular lightning-rod to the muses to themselves. They're welcome to him.
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