Nick Drake - A Hidden Love Behind the Sun

Nick Drake's name has been invoked far too often in recent years, very often out of place. Every week a new name from the Anglo-American folk firmament would find itself in the crossfire of comparisons. It took so little: a melancholy shade in the voice, an unusual guitar technique, a taciturn or silent demeanor. Inevitably that name would be trotted out, a kind of sword of Damocles hanging over whichever artist happened to be in question. The result was to stifle their musical dignity and pry open Pandora's boxes that could have been handled with far more care.

Filling one's ears, mouth and pen with the late English troubadour has become an international sport for at least the past ten years.

Several attempts to reassess and rediscover the Drake catalogue have been made from the Seventies to today: the anthological/retrospective box set Fruit Tree, containing the complete works plus the album of rarities and unreleased material Time Of No Reply; anthologies of already-released material and bootlegs of home recordings with uncertain audio quality. All of this slowly took root and bore its first fruit in the Nineties, helped along by a constant, underground word of mouth.

A substantial and unexpected boost in exposure comes via Nike, BMW and Volkswagen ad campaigns, which feature tracks lifted from Pink Moon as a soundtrack to their images. Lengthy cover features start being devoted to him, including one in the legendary British monthly Mojo.

In 2000 comes “A Skin Too Few”, a beautiful documentary by Dutch filmmaker Jeroen Berkvens, packed with valuable testimonies.

The British broadcaster BBC2 — the very same network that once aired his songs carelessly, only to lose the master tapes — dedicates a long special to him, narrated by Brad Pitt. That brings us up to last spring, with the miraculous rediscovery of “Tow The Line”, a new, previously unreleased track unearthed by engineer John Wood at the end of a half-hour reel. The song is the jewel in the crown of the latest anthology, “Made To Love Magic”. All told, a real media rollercoaster that risked trivializing the man himself. Strange, really, because this young man's story has nothing feverish or noisy about it. Drake had no use for celebrity, gossip or status.

His story begins in the silence of a lovely house in the countryside... “Far Leys”: a two-storey red-brick cottage. It's here that Rodney Drake, an engineer working for a timber company, decides to settle with his family: his wife Molly, a housewife with a great love of music and theatre, his elder daughter Gabrielle, and little Nick, aged four. After moves and travels between Burma (where Drake was born, on 19 June 1948) and India, the family chooses to return to England, settling in Tanworth-in-Arden, an ancient, bucolic village in Warwickshire, south of Birmingham. Nick grows up happily in this quiet, unspoiled setting, in the green heart of woods reminiscent of Tolkien's Middle-earth. He forges a bond with nature, with its rhythms and secrets: this sense of peace will, over the years, form a large part of his descriptive poetics.

His school years pass carefree: Nick is a receptive, sociable pupil. He excels at sport (he plays rugby and does athletics: he holds the long-unbeaten 100-yard record) and, between middle school and sixth form, is even elected class president. His good looks don't hurt either: long dark hair, a slender frame, a carefully put-together look. At this stage Drake is a reserved young man: perhaps a touch withdrawn, with a serious or vaguely dreamy air, but essentially well-balanced. He also has a tender relationship with his parents and sister, who dote on him and indulge him, creating a close-knit idyll that will last until the end. It's his mother who passes on to him her love of music: at school he learns to play saxophone, clarinet and piano.

His interest, however, shifts to the acoustic guitar, his instrument of choice, to which he devotes hours of study. Meanwhile the radio is always on, and during this period he develops a clearly defined musical taste: plenty of folk (Martin Carthy, Davey Graham, Bert Jansch and John Renbourn, Donovan), blues (Odetta) and jazz (Miles Davis), but also the new breed of rock acts, with Beatles and Rolling Stones at the top of the list.

The yearning for freedom hidden in the grooves of those records sparks his first trips with friends: from clandestine jaunts to London to hitchhiking through Belgium, Germany and France. He starts using drugs: during a visit to Morocco he tries LSD and sings in a club in Marrakech, in front of Mick Jagger. In the autumn of '67 he enrolls at university: the prestigious Fitzwilliam College, Cambridge. He follows the English literature courses with some interest, but already seems to have his mind on other things. In fact, it's music itself that comes knocking at his door, in the shape of Robert Kirby, a fellow student: a peer of Nick's, Rob would go on to become the official arranger of his first two albums. A winning pairing. These are times of little social life and not much studying: the distance from his family begins to cause the first strains. He loses a privileged point of reference, a confidant. Nick begins to cultivate a sense of self-isolation.

Early months of 1968. The event that changes our man's life forever is a concert at London's famous Round House: a precious chance to be heard. Hidden among the audience is Ashley Hutchings, bassist of Fairport Convention, one of the rising names in British folk.

It's love at first sight: struck by Nick's personality, his manner and his excellent guitar technique, Ashley rushes to manager Joe Boyd and tells him about the promising young man. A tape with four songs is enough to convince him of his talent. The fruit of that appreciation earns Drake a record deal with Island, a fixed weekly fee (20 pounds) and entry into the roster of talents at Witchseason Productions, the sub-label run by Boyd himself.

In a flash, all of Nick's wishes seem to come true.

In the summer, recording sessions begin for his first album, Five Leaves Left, which will stretch on for almost a year. In the meantime he decides to leave university without graduating. During this period Joe Boyd becomes Nick's mentor and, together with trusted sound engineer John Wood, the linchpin of his professional life. Joe is wise, sharp and charismatic: qualities Drake has always lacked.

September 1969: he decides to move to London for good. His flat is bare and spartan: he doesn't even have a telephone. Around the same time, his long-awaited debut album is released.

Five Leaves Left is a dazzling debut. Its author is only twenty-one, yet shows an expressive maturity and a confidence in his own abilities that would be the envy of even the most seasoned musicians. The record opens with the sunniness of “Time Has Told Me” and its subtle interplay of electric guitar (played by Richard Thompson of Fairport) and acoustic. A piano line (Paul Harris) in the background and Danny Thompson of Pentangle on double bass. The mood is dry and spare, with the sublime technique of twenty-year-old Richard, one of the finest guitarists around, standing out.

After the carefree mood of the previous track comes “River Man”, one of the defining symbols of melancholy in Drake's music. The scene it conjures is hazy and intangible, just as the string arrangement suggests. The vocal is perfect for the mood: vague, delicate, distant. The guitar sticks to an essentially rhythmic role, repeating chords and letting the violins build the atmosphere. Arranging them, for the first and only time, is Harry Robinson.

“Three Hours” starts from the same landscapes, but this time reveals Drake's flair on guitar, masterful in handling unusual chords without ever lapsing into mere virtuosity, and indeed still managing to sing over them. With its twists and false endings, the song feels almost like a suite. The rhythmic contribution of Danny Thompson and Rocky Dzidzornu (congas) proves decisive. The spleen, the weariness of living, reaches a peak with “Way To Blue” and the strings arranged by Robert Kirby (himself also working on this for the first time). This time nothing comes between the orchestra and Nick's voice, not even his beloved six-string. It's hard to put into words the heavy lightness of this song. But just one listen is enough to be captivated: a whole world of doubts and hopes laid bare in the voice, the strings forging their way unbowed through the perilous folds of the soul. On “Day Is Done” the acoustic guitar returns, and once again it's a masterclass in technique courtesy of Mr. Drake. Kirby's work is wonderful, weaving the strings arm in arm with the melody, reaching peaks of pure lyricism when a solo voice steps forward and travels alongside voice and guitar. Two minutes that are practically perfect.

Finally, the clouds seem to part on the horizon with "Cello Song". As the title suggests, here Drake makes room for the cello (Clare Lowther), which carves out brief but lyrical solo spaces for itself. The song is built on the interplay between the cello and the six-string, with Nick's pensive, whispered voice and congas in the background. "The Thoughts of Mary Jane" is pure sweetness: the flute opens the melody to the sun, while Nick muses ecstatically on stars, rain and sky. The strings enter the track discreetly and slowly build alongside the flute, in a pastoral crescendo. The ending is beautiful, with its sudden acceleration into the fade-out. The skipping nursery rhyme of "Man In A Shed", with Paul Harris's piano embroidering the verses, is the last flash of genuine playfulness before the return to melancholy. "Fruit Tree" is the masterpiece, the summary and the apex of Drake's stylistic signature. There's the guitar inlaying riffs at the opening, the orchestral ensemble delivering unmatched heights of lyricism, magically following the lyrics: aching like a tear in the sky, sad as a kiss never given. The message/premonition expressed in the lyrics is chilling: “La fama non è che un albero da frutto molto malato/ non potrà mai fiorire finché il fusto rimarrà sottoterra/ E così gli uomini famosi/ non troveranno mai una strada/ finché il tempo non volerà lontano dal giorno della loro morte”. It's as if Nick already knew his fate and was aware of his own early end, accepting it willingly. An authentic confession, with few other examples in the history of music.

"Saturday Sun" manages to lighten the mood a little: Nick sits at the piano for a ballad bathed in soft light, with double bass and vibraphone (Tristan Fry). It reflects on the passing of time, the seasons of man changing just as the Saturday sun gives way to the following day's rain. A naive lightness that holds far more hidden meaning than it lets on, and which splendidly closes an album with no weak spots, gripping and unique.

Unfortunately, few people notice the luminous beauty of that record: sales are quite modest. At the end of the year Nick even attempts a bit of promotion, performing at the Royal Festival Hall (26/09/1969) supporting Fairport Convention: it's a triumph, he is warmly applauded, but he leaves the stage embarrassed. This isn't the right thing for him: the noisy crowd unsettles and frightens him. Life in the recording studio is the real stimulus, the painstaking work on the songs. Everything else interests him very little: promotion, billboards, concerts, interviews. None of this media circus seems to spark the slightest interest in him. If he could, Nick would disappear even from the album covers, letting only what vibrates within speak for itself.

Still, the crucial step of the debut has been taken: both Drake and Boyd had factored in a degree of disappointment. Partial, because in the meantime the critics take notice of him and praise his work. Radio too, in the person of the famous BBC DJ John Peel, doesn't let the new talent slip by unnoticed. The emotional flop of the autumn repeats itself in the early months of 1970: Nick again plays support to Fairport Convention, at the Queen Elizabeth Hall. This time he's genuinely nervous; being there seems to cost him an excessive amount of energy. He barely speaks, mumbles a few words of thanks and flees backstage. Disastrous is the attempt to follow this with eight shows across the north of England: small provincial clubs, a noisy audience frankly uninterested in this unknown with the sullen, unfriendly look.

At this point Joe Boyd throws in the towel: no more concerts. It's around this time that a troubled, platonic love affair begins with Françoise Hardy, the beautiful and famous French singer-songwriter: perhaps the two meet, perhaps she proposes a collaboration to Nick. The details of the story remain shrouded in mystery.

On the new album front there's no time to waste: Nick has fresh material on hand, written over the past few months. He has in mind a work of broader scope. A considered, ambitious work that might finally earn him the recognition he deserves. He personally chooses the musicians to involve: Richard Thompson on guitar and Paul Harris on piano are confirmed, while he opts for Fairport's new rhythm section (Dave Pegg, bass; Dave Mattacks, drums), seasoned jazz musicians like Ray Warleigh (sax, flute), Chris McGregor (piano) and Lyn Dobson (flute), and even backing vocalists (Pat Arnold and Doris Troy). The real surprise, however, comes with the involvement of John Cale, former Velvet Underground member. The rapport between Nick and John is immediate and fruitful: the Welshman will play some viola and keyboard parts. The final move is made.

Bryter Layter opens with a brief instrumental introduction, in which the guitar plays an ostinato, backed by the orchestra (with the usual Robert Kirby conducting strings and horns). What follows is surprising: "Hazey Jane II", a practically pop track, with tongue-twister lyrics and almost "commercial" melodic winks. It would be a perfect single, if only Nick weren't refusing to release any. Next comes the soft, introverted "At The Chime Of A City Clock" which, together with the following "One Of These Things First", forms a winning pair of ballads: languid alto sax textures for the first, a sweet piano waltz for the second. Drake certainly doesn't abandon his beloved acoustic guitar, and with "Hazy Jane" he punctuates another seductive, baroque folk romance for strings and subtle rhythmic accompaniment. After the instrumental mid-tempo "Bryter Layter", a flute exercise in chamber folk/pop, it's time for "Fly". The melody opens with a dialogue between John Cale's viola and Nick's guitar, followed by an ecstatic carpet of harpsichord (again Cale) and bass. “Ti prego dimmi il tuo secondo nome/ gioca per me la tua seconda partita/ sono caduto così lontano da qui/ per la gente come voi/ ho solo bisogno della tua stella per un giorno”. For Drake "it's really too hard to fly", and yet his music manages to move, to uplift the spirit. His purity is intoxicating, the angelic frailty of the man can only make you fall in love.

The unusual latin jazz choice of "Poor Boy" stands out, complete with sax solos and female voices. The gamble is fascinating and the result convincing: by now Nick can take on any musical form with ease and a musicality that's almost frightening.

"Northern Sky" is the album's other absolute peak. And it's no coincidence that John Cale is involved once again: the organ accompaniment, the touches of celesta, the flickers of piano make the track unforgettable. Once again, however, the lion's share belongs to Nick: “Non mi sono mai sentito così folle e incantato/ non ho mai visto lune, conosciuto il significato del mare/ non ho mai tenuto l’emozione nel palmo della mano/ o sentito brezze delicate sulla cima degli alberi/ a illuminare il mio cielo del nord”. Poetry. There's not much else to add about a song that a famous English newspaper has (belatedly) called "the most beautiful English love song of modern times". With our hearts still full of emotion, we finish listening to the album with the closing instrumental "Sunday".

Bryter Layter hits shops in November '70. Unfortunately, the reception is still far too lukewarm: 15,000 copies sold. A higher number than the debut, but far below expectations.

This lack of interest is unforgivable: the album is flawless in every part, perfectly arranged and performed. Everyone involved is extremely satisfied with the work: engineer John Wood (a man who has worked on several hundred records) says today that Bryter Layter is the only album he wouldn't change a thing on, looking back. But unfortunately the outcome doesn't change. Nick has missed this train to fame as well and sinks deep into depression. The one and only interview he ever gives in his career (for Sounds, February 1971) does little good: he comes across as confused and more despondent than ever. As if that weren't enough, around this same time Joe Boyd gives in to the lure of Warner Bros. and decides to return to the United States, his home country, to work in the film-soundtrack business. For Nick it's a devastating blow: the man who believed in him more than anyone, his advisor, his manager, his friend, is no longer part of the picture.

Perhaps discouraged by the dashed expectations, at odds over future plans (Nick is already thinking of an album of just voice and guitar), or simply in need of a change of scenery, Boyd nonetheless leaves it in writing as a contractual clause that Drake's records remain permanently in the Island catalogue.

The frequent psychiatric visits begin, arranged by his worried parents: the macabre dance of antidepressants and medication that will lead him to a slow but relentless dependency. Drugs will do the rest.

Island's president, Chris Blackwell, in a gesture of friendship offers Nick the keys to his villa in Algeciras, in southern Spain, for a relaxing summer stay. Even though the break from London stress doesn't bring immediate psychological relief, it helps Drake mentally complete the plan for the new album. As he had intended, it's a new, solitary dimension in which he alone (and his guitar) is the protagonist. Back in London he contacts the "usual" John Wood and explains what needs to be done. A few days pass and he's in the recording studio.

Pink Moon, his final work, was born in just two nights of work. Bare, essential, stripped-down, almost skeletal, this album stands out in his already splendid discography as his most personal and sincere title. A record in which the author looks at himself in the mirror and tells his own story. He doesn't even try to measure it against his past work. The effort of overcoming his doubts, the ghosts that by now inhabit his soul, must have been immense. Many shadows and a few glimmers of light, for an album that would remain a foundational text for the sound of countless "noir" singer-songwriters in the decades to follow.

Someone once called him (with a touch of cynicism) "the gentle zombie, teetering on the edge of the abyss." What's certain is that Drake had stopped believing in people; he was resigned to seeing himself as misunderstood, a parasite of that post-Woodstock society which no longer believed in any dream, which rejected "outsiders." No one wanted to look at the moon anymore, or learn the meaning of the sea. All the gentle breezes and northern skies had been lost, or had taken on the saccharine flavor of James Taylor's or the Eagles' California. Perhaps Nick's grace really is out of step with time, destined to be appreciated only as the years pass. What is certain is that the pink moon seems to be setting.

The eleven songs of Pink Moon saw the light of day in February '72. Despite the label's promotional efforts, the enigmatic cover of his final work (a painting by Michael Trevithik) remained all but hidden in record store windows. It sold almost nothing, even though the artist now boasted a cult following willing to do anything for news of him. Unfortunately, Nick did nothing to improve his situation - quite the opposite: after handing the tapes over to a secretary at Island, he vanished without a trace. He made no contact; no one knew where he was or where he lived.

The days passed and a little news trickled in: the singer-songwriter had given up, and had moved back for good to live with his parents in the countryside of Tanworth. He rarely saw friends, spending his days reading and listening to old Bach records. His beloved guitar sat neglected in a corner. In this state of resignation and isolation, all the voices and criticism from outside the music world seemed impossibly distant. Two long years passed this way, marked by hospitalizations for nervous breakdowns and solitary drives.

Nick was gone, vanished into the horizon like the clouds he once used to paint. On November 25, 1974, his body fell asleep forever, stretched out on his bed. His mother was the first to find him. The funeral took place a few days later. Suicide, or a mistake in his antidepressant dosage: details that were never clarified. The lines of "Fruit Tree" come back to mind, images that blend together in memory only to blur and fade. We would have wished for a better ending.

I myself wouldn't want this unfortunate story to end up overshadowing the artist's immeasurable worth. Drake produced three wonderful albums. Within them lies passion - the ambition of a man who, despite his chronic shyness, wanted to reach the hearts of every listener. The recent rediscovery of his work would surely have made him very happy.

Beyond any objective or personal considerations, the best thing I can say is simply this: buy those records. His songs have the power to change your life.

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