
Thirty years have passed since the day Nick Drake died at the ridiculous age of 26. Far too many people know his music only from a Volkswagen ad. Far too many know him not at all.
I have always regarded him as one of the greatest singer-songwriters. He is most certainly the greatest songwriter who fame mysteriously bypassed. He was Van Gough with an acoustic guitar. Artists as varied as Beck, Chris Martin, Thom Yorke, Lucinda Williams, Elton John, Peter Buck, David Byrne, Jim White, Robyn Hitchcock, and Vic Chesnutt would certainly agree with me. And the gifted Elliott Smith followed Nick Drake’s tortured footsteps to a tragic end.
For me, Nick Drake’s music is a perfect score for autumn days. Cool, crisp, and classy. Hues of sepia, orange, and ochre. A sometimes sunny, often cloudy, preface to a long, harsh winter. But having lived in Drake’s native land, I know his songs are more like the English summer. A fresh sunny morning with clouds rolling by a Northern Sky, followed by a hazy afternoon. And always foreboding rain. Drake’s music and life epitomized the transience of happiness, the fleeting nature of contentment. Ennui, loss, and despair await their turns. And one hopes for the patience and toughness to endure until the cycle renews.
Drake’s debut album, Five Leaves Left, epitomizes this truth. The album opens with Time Has Told Me, a song filled with fresh, if somewhat guarded, optimism. “Someday our ocean will find its shore,” Drake assures his unnamed lover in the song. But the hopeful prelude does not last. The album closes with the straightforward, haunting line, “But Saturday’s sun has turned to Sunday’s rain.” Five Leaves Left was recorded while Drake was still a student at Cambridge. Though only 20 at the time, Drake’s lyrics show a remarkable maturity and wisdom reminiscent of Keats. As so often in Shakespeare, Time is the prevailing theme of the record. The music is flavored with jazz, folk, baroque, and even Elizabethan styles, displaying Drake’s remarkable range and sensitivity. For those of you unfamiliar with Nick Drake’s music, begin with this record.
Drake’s second record, Bryter Layter, is often called his most accessible record. It is also the most criticized. The orchestrations arranged by Cambridge University mate Robert Kirby are lush and, unfortunately, sometimes drown out Drake’s expert guitar picking. There are some Muzak moments as well, particularly in the title track, which would sound right at home playing in a hotel lift. But two songs in particular provide beautiful and haunting revelations of Drake’s vulnerability. In Fly, Drake completes an emotionally exhausting journey in less than three minutes. He at first pleads with his unnamed listener for forgiveness, supreme unction, and a new identity. He is sinking. Then he swiftly shifts to seeking a quiet recompense. When that doesn’t work, he attacks: “Please, tell me your second name/ Please, play me your second game.” Finally, he resorts to a dignified, if dour, resolution, come what may. Drake is at once melancholy, disillusioned, romantic, introspective, indecisive, fatalistic. He is Hamlet. Fly is Drake’s most graceful and beautiful melody, and if you aren’t choked up by the end of this song, then you’re lacking a soul. Northern Sky, the ninth track on Bryter Layter, is a simple love poem underscored by a mellifluous melody. The first verse, reprised at the end, speaks with such simple elegance, that I will reprint it and add nothing more:
I never felt magic crazy as this
I never saw moons, knew the meaning of the sea
I never held emotion in the palm of my hand
Or felt the sweet breezes in the top of a tree
But now you're here
Brighten my northern sky
After Bryter Layter received a dearth of publicity and sales, caused in part by Drake’s refusal to promote his own record, Drake grew disillusioned with the music industry and with life. He also sank into a heavy depression. His final album, Pink Moon, recorded in two nights, reflects his wounded psyche. It is Drake’s most terse and economic record. Aside from some piano in the title track, the instrumentation consists entirely of Drake’s voice and acoustic guitar. Drake’s music is stripped bare of artifice, and he reveals his soul. Gone is the melancholy and lighthearted young man of Five Leaves Left. Intense despair swathes Drake’s voice. The result is Drake's best and most pure work. Then he abandoned music for almost three years.
Made To Love Magic is Island Records most recent release by Nick Drake. This is welcome news, for Drake’s music is receiving an appreciation he never experienced in his lifetime. Perhaps Volkswagen and Wes Anderson can share some credit, but I suspect this renaissance reflects a deep longing by people for good music written by a good singer-songwriter to combat the Ashley Simpson American Idol blues. Made To Love Magic consists of album outtakes, alternative versions, and several songs Drake recorded shortly before his untimely death in 1974. Though merely a hodgepodge collection of Drake’s music, the record gives a broad, solid overview of the songwriter’s talents. A particular gem is the song Mayfair, recorded in Robert Kirby’s dorm room at Cambridge in 1968. Mayfair, “full of fame but lacking love,” is a fast-paced, tongue-in-cheek ditty reminiscent of Noel Coward. Drake’s wit is on full display, and he gives a memorable epitaph for the oh-so-posh London neighborhood: “Even the trees are wealthy here.” This album rounds out Nick Drake’s collection nicely, and serves as a painful reminder of music’s profound loss on a late November morning in 1974.
If you haven’t experienced Nick Drake’s music, now is the perfect time to do so, as Autumn slowly darkens the Northern Sky and passes into Winter.