A beautiful young man dressed in Cuban heels and a crushed-velvet jacket cuts a dash as he strides up Silver Street in his native Cambridge, heading for the ornate splendour of King's College. It is 1968. He is the 22 year old Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd, and his destination is home to the great Edwardian novelist, 89 year old E M Forster. What follows is a tender exchange of truths between two men belonging to opposite ends of the 20th century, but who find within each other's company shadows of the same demons, loves and losses as well as the familiar weight of the creative impulse....
A beautiful young man dressed in Cuban heels and a crushed-velvet jacket cuts a dash as he strides up Silver Street in his native Cambridge, heading f...
Many years later a small boy would say to me, 'What's inside music? If the bit we hear is just the skin of it, the scent, what's the actual whole of music?' There wasn't a great deal I could say to him in reply. Not then. But his question took me back to our expeditionary era, which did feel like a time of transaction as well as transition.
Many years later a small boy would say to me, 'What's inside music? If the bit we hear is just the skin of it, the scent, what's the actual whole of m...
