SYD BARRETT, the fragile “genius” who founded Pink Floyd but disappeared to live as a recluse 30 years ago, has died from complications relating to diabetes, his family announced yesterday.

Alan Barrett said of his 60-year-old brother: “He died peacefully at home. There will be a private family funeral in the next few days.”

Pink Floyd issued a statement saying: “The band are naturally very upset and sad to learn of Syd Barrett’s death. Syd was the guiding light of the early band line-up and leaves a legacy which continues to inspire.”

Barrett was a guitarist, singer and lyricist with Pink Floyd at its inception in 1965 and was recognised as a psychedelic musical innovator and important songwriting talent.

But his onstage behaviour became increasingly erratic as his LSD consumption compounded deep-rooted mental difficulties. He retreated to Cambridgeshire and lived there until his death.

IT WILL be, according to those closest to Syd Barrett’s family, “a private family funeral”.

Presumably that means that an invitation won’t be extended to Roger Waters, Rick Wright and Nick Mason. No reunion, then, for Pink Floyd — the vehicle with which Barrett gave psychedelia a plummy British accent for the first time.

It’s a shame, but it’s how he would have wanted it. The last time Barrett tried to get in touch with his old bandmates was in 1975. Pink Floyd were laying down parts for Shine on You Crazy Diamond, the song that pays tribute to his mercurial genius. Seeing him appear in the studio at exactly that point must have been like seeing a ghost. In fact, his old friends took a while to recognise him. His head and eyebrows were shaven, his body overweight. Roger Waters asked him what he thought of the song. Barrett replied that it sounded “a bit old”. And off he went — this time for good, reverting back to his birth name Roger, and referring to “Syd” in the third person whenever fans and journalists turned up to doorstep him.

That Roger Barrett had effectively “killed” Syd at some point in the 1970s merely added to the myth.

Though unappreciated on their release, his two solo albums — The Madcap Laughs and Barrett — became more fascinating with the passing of time. While his old bandmates made themselves the bêtes noirs of punk by accelerating into concept-heavy virtuosity, Barrett was one of the few artists whose legacy was enhanced after punk. Stark meditations such as Octopus, Rats and Long Gone presented themselves as the febrile transcribings of a mind in meltdown.

His two solo albums gradually became set texts for a generation of artists who ascribed a raw purity to Barrett’s outlook.

Julian Cope wasn’t exaggerating when he called him “the first psychic pop writer to rival John Lennon”. It’s a point echoed by Graham Coxon, the former Blur guitarist, who has been a relentless champion of Barrett. He said: “He made you feel that anything was possible, that you didn’t have to be a slick musician to produce something that was beautiful or moving.”

In an idiom where any affectations of instability can go a long way towards establishing an artist’s creative “integrity”, a cursory listen to Barrett’s music instantly sets him apart.

Like a Van Gogh painting or a Sylvia Plath poem, Barrett’s solo albums afford us a peek into the headspace of an artist who perceived the world differently from the rest of us. The small, sane kernel at the centre of Barrett’s mind must have known that it was necessary to walk away in order to make any sort of life possible. He wasn’t to know, of course, that his work would increase in relevance as time went on, and that, by carrying on without him , his bandmates would serve only to draw unwanted attention to him. Shine on You Crazy Diamond may have been written with good intentions, but the song also served to idealise this beleaguered artist, standing between him and his desire for anonymity.

As an epitaph, however, it’s a fitting testament to his brief, brilliant genius.

Obituary