After years of journalistic research and meticulous preparation, Edwin Ammerlaan has combined many facts, quotes and events from 50 years of Pink Floyd with a fictional, yet compelling coming-of-age story. By doing so, he gives the reader an intimate and unique perspective on one of the most successful bands in music history.
In Lost Souls protagonist Matt accidentally bumps into Pink Floyd on a ferry from Ibiza to Formentera. What follows is a lifelong fascination for all things Floyd and, eventually, acceptance into the bandâs inner circle. Travelling the globe, Matt meets a lot of interesting people: Syd Barrett, Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Richard Wright, Nick Mason, Steve OâRourke, Ginger Gilmour, Snowy White, Polly Samson, Tim Renwick, sir Bob Geldof and many others. Matt joins Pink Floyd on tour, in the studio and even on the golf course, building a fragile bond of trust and friendship with the band along the way. Following him on his musical journey, we revisit some relevant moments in Pink Floyd history, including The Paradiso, Amsterdam (1968), Abbey Road Studios (1971), Wembley Empire Pool (1977), Potsdamer Platz, Berlin (1990), Live 8 (2005), O2 Arena (2011), Berkeley Hotel (2017) and the Victoria & Albert Museum (2017)
After years of journalistic research and meticulous preparation, Edwin Ammerlaan has combined many facts, quotes and events from 50 years of Pink Floyd with a fictional, yet compelling coming-of-age story. By doing so, he gives the reader an intimate and unique perspective on one of the most successful bands in music history.
In Lost Souls protagonist Matt accidentally bumps into Pink Floyd on a ferry from Ibiza to Formentera. What follows is a lifelong fascination for all things Floyd and, eventually, acceptance into the bandâs inner circle. Travelling the globe, Matt meets a lot of interesting people: Syd Barrett, Roger Waters, David Gilmour, Richard Wright, Nick Mason, Steve OâRourke, Ginger Gilmour, Snowy White, Polly Samson, Tim Renwick, sir Bob Geldof and many others. Matt joins Pink Floyd on tour, in the studio and even on the golf course, building a fragile bond of trust and friendship with the band along the way. Following him on his musical journey, we revisit some relevant moments in Pink Floyd history, including The Paradiso, Amsterdam (1968), Abbey Road Studios (1971), Wembley Empire Pool (1977), Potsdamer Platz, Berlin (1990), Live 8 (2005), O2 Arena (2011), Berkeley Hotel (2017) and the Victoria & Albert Museum (2017)
Uncertain whether the assistant considered me a daredevil or just plain batty, I wheeled the rental bike out of the shop and rode to the hostel to pick up my stuff. I was planning on spending the next couple of days on the island of Formentera, and a bike would be much more convenient than ambling about on foot.
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I whizzed through the narrow streets at breakneck speed, indifferent to the short steep climbs, brutal descents, and the spattering of Spanish curses along the way. It was clear the local people were not used to seeing a fearless young tourist hurtle his bike over pedestrian walkways. When some refused to let Flash-Gordon-on-two-wheels pass, it took some spectacular breaking and skilful steering to avoid a couple of head-on collisions. With last monthâs TV footage of Tom Simpsonâs tragic death on the slopes of Mont Ventoux still fresh in mind, I slowed the Tour-de-Ibiza down until I reached the hostel where my rucksack lay waiting patiently next to the front desk.
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A few handshakes and âadĂossesâ later, I was back in the saddle. This time it was me doing the cursing. I had not expected the weight on my shoulders to unleash the rivers of sweat that were now gushing out of almost every pore of my body. I pedalled the last stretch to the ferry terminal as slowly as I could. Drenched and with the sun already burning my skin, I was glad to finally board the ship. A refreshing draught instantly cooled my overheated limbs, and I decided to stay put. When a rough-looking man told me I was blocking the way and to move on, I complied and secured my bike in the designated spot.
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For such a small island, a surprisingly large number of people had booked the 30-minute trip to Formentera; the boat was buzzing with day-trippers, long-stayers and general sightseers. There were a couple of Americans, some locals, a few European tourists, and hippies. Lots of hippies. I didnât really know what to think of them. Their music seemed OK and some so-called hippie artists I liked a lot. Jimi Hendrix, Janis Joplin, Jefferson Airplane, and a few others Iâd been introduced to by my older brother. It was creative, exciting new stuff. I wasnât too keen on the way they dressed, though. I couldnât see myself wearing leather vests, tie dye shirts, grungy jeans, sandals, let alone the Peace Symbol, which was pretty much a hippie fashion essential.
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Since most passengers had made a beeline for the shade over the lower deck, I had plenty of empty chairs to choose from. As the ferry left the dock and the wind picked up, I no longer noticed the sunâs rays on my skin.
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It didnât take long before people returned to the upper deck. Some went straight to the railings to watch Ibiza recede into the distance, others settled down on a chair. One rather exotic and bohemian-looking group came over to where I was sitting and plonked themselves down onto the hot metal floor in front of my chair. The cheerful, laid-back mood of the party mesmerised me. Most were in their early twenties and some were smoking what looked like giant cigarettes. One guy with long curly black hair and dark eyes stood out like there was a bulb above his head. When someone handed the charismatic man a guitar, the others eagerly gathered around.
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For a while, he just sat there with the instrument resting in his lap, smoking and chatting in a soft, dreamy voice, but I couldnât hear what he was saying. It must have been a fascinating story because everyone listened enthralled. He had the natural charisma of a bright young film star, and I imagined he was telling tales of his travels and the amazing people he had met along the way; how heâd gone boozing and gambling with Jack Kerouac in San Francisco, written poetry with Serge Gainsbourg in Paris or met Brigitte Bardot on the beaches of St. Tropez.
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Slowly, my eyes drifted over to one of the three girls in the group. She was without doubt the prettiest of them all. With long blond hair wafting in the sea breeze, sparkling green eyes and Mona Lisa smile, she had a distant air as if she was on a different planet. Or a different ferry. Sailing from Ibiza to Nirvana.
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Enjoying the view, I continued to gaze unnoticed for another couple of glorious minutes until, suddenly, I felt the pat of a hand on my shoulder.
âSheâs way out of your league, man,â a voice whispered from behind. Taken by surprise, my heart skipped a few beats and, blushing, I turned to see a tall man in his mid-twenties looking down on me with a somewhat cruel, yet disarming smile.
âHi, Iâm Roger,â he said, holding two cans of lager in his left hand.
I was too startled to speak.
âAnd thatâs Syd and a few of our friends,â he added, nodding at the guitarist.
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Roger walked over to the guy heâd said was called Syd, handed him one of the beers, returned and dropped onto the empty chair beside me.
âDonât mind if I sit here, do you?â he asked with a slightly posh British accent.
âNo, not at all. Iâm Matt,â I replied and shook his hand.
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Roger had a long pale face with high cheekbones and piercing, grey-green eyes that were half-hidden by a mane of dark brown hair. Dressed in jeans and in an unbuttoned, long-sleeved black shirt, he didnât look like your average British tourist.
âAre you guys hippies?â I asked, regretting the question almost the moment it left my mouth.
âGood God, no!â he replied, still grinning.
âFuckinâ hate hippies. Lazy bunch of wankers if you ask me. My friends Syd, Rick, and I are musicians. Weâre taking a break for a few days of to get ourselves some sunshine.â
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Syd had started playing his guitar. Waterloo Sunset, if I was not mistaken. He was softly humming the words with some of the group singing along.
âIs she your girlfriend?,â I asked, pointing at the girl with the rippling blond hair. âOr Sydâs?â
Roger shook his head. âNah, sheâs one the girls we met in Ibiza. Sheâs a beauty, isnât she? We call her the Queen of Spain. Premier league, if you know what I mean. No use in trying. I think she fancies Syd.â
âDoes he fancy her back?â
âWith Syd, you never can tell. He makes up his own rules and they change from day to day. Some girls are attracted by that, Matt, although most of them just find it confusing. I think our Spanish queen will need an armada, not just a ferry to conquer his heart.â
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Syd switched from the Kinks to The Beatles, but after a few chords of Penny Lane got bored and changed to a song I didnât know. Something about a cat and a witch. It sounded like a catchy tune. Then he looked bored again and stopped playing altogether. The group carried on talking. And smoking.
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âI think Iâll join my friends, if you donât mind,â Roger excused himself. âNice meeting you, Matt,â he added, jumping up and dropping onto the floor right next to the Spanish royalty.
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Even though I was sitting ten feet away from them, I suddenly felt I was crashing a private party. Besides, I was starting to notice the sunâs blistering effect on my skin. I got up, went inside, walked straight up to the bar, and ordered a beer. At home, I had two suspicious parents lurking around almost every domestic corner, so except for the odd party with buddies from school, my life up to this moment had mostly been alcohol-free. Here, on my first ever solo holiday adventure, drinking cervezas was exhilarating and it made me feel mature. Seventeen, but no questions asked.
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Shortly after arriving at our destination, I walked back to the car deck to pick up my bike. I saw Roger and his friends waiting near the passenger exit.
âSee ya!â I called over with a wave.
âHave fun, Matt,â Roger called back.
âNice bike, man!â Syd added.
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Stretching eleven miles from one end to the other, Formentera is the smallest of the inhabited Balearic Islands and has no airport and only a few paved roads. To me, it looked like a piece of brownish rock sticking out of the azure sea. In Ibiza, some friendly natives had advised me to follow the road into Sant Ferran de Ses Roques where I would find a restaurant and bar called La Fonda Pepe, a hostel, a bakery and a few houses. Sant Ferran seemed like a good place to be for my two days of sight-seeing. Luckily, the hostel had a bed to spare for a reasonable rate. Check-in was swift and painless, so after dropping my gear, I went looking for the one thing left on my mind: another cold, refreshing beer.
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It was late in the afternoon and, with the cool sea breeze gone, relaxing out on the terrace seemed the sensible thing to do. It was busy outside the cafĂ©. People were standing around talking or sitting, reading a book or newspaper. One man on the corner was writing notes, looking quite intellectual and preoccupied. I found a table with a couple of free chairs, and sat down, unsure of what to do or what to expect next. Nobody paid any attention to me or my beer, as if I was already part of the regular clientele. The cheerful sound of Scott McKenzieâs San Francisco wafted out of the pubâs open windows, followed by The Spencer Davis Groupâs Iâm A Man. A perfect soundtrack to a perfect day.
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âHello, bicycle boy,â I heard a timid voice next to me say.
I looked up to see Syd from the ferry smiling down at me. These guys continued to surprise the hell out of me.
âHey, hello!â I said and held out my hand. âIâm Matt.â
âRoger,â he replied quietly, âRoger Barrett. My friends call me Syd.â
âCool place, isnât it?â I said.
âYeah,â Syd answered. âGood vibe. I like the music too.â
âIs Roger, your friend I met on the ferry here too?â I asked out of curiosity.
âNo, heâs here visiting friends for the day. Heâs going back to Ibiza tonight.â
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There was something about this guy I found intriguing, although I couldnât quite figure out what it was. His face was pale and he looked kind of tired, but from under his black curly hair his eyes sparkled with an enchanting mixture of mischief and mystery. No wonder the girls on the ferry were drawn to him.
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âRoger said you play in a band together.â
âYeah, weâre called The Pink Floyd. Weâve just finished touring the UK. Itâs been pretty busy.â
âThe Pink FloydâŠ,â I repeated, adding apologetically: âDoesnât ring a bell, Iâm afraid.â
âNo worries, man. Weâve only had one single out so far. But Iâm not really into all that. Bringing out singles or being famous doesnât do much for me, I just want to write and play my songs.â
âWhat kind of music do you make, Syd?â
âWe play songs for people to dance to. They donât seem to dance much now, but that was the initial idea. We play loud and we mess around with electric guitars using all the volume and the effects we can get. Right now, weâre trying to develop this show using lots of lightsâŠâ
âSounds interesting,â I replied. âHave you released any LPâs, yet?â
âYes, in fact we have. Our first album was released just a few weeks ago. But hey man,â Syd said, abruptly standing up, âIâve got to split. Come and look us up when weâre playing sometime. Bye-bye, bike boy.â And off he went.
A girl Iâd not noticed before was standing on the street just a few yards from the terrace, smiling and waving wildly at him. I watched as he went to meet her. When theyâd disappeared, I stood up and walked over to the man who was still writing away on the corner.
âExcuse me, Iâm sorry to disturb you, but could I borrow your pen for a second?â
Without looking up or saying a word, he lifted his hand and offered me his pen. I picked up a beermat from an adjoining table and wrote three words on it: The Pink Floyd.
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Back at the hostel, my sunburn and a massive thunderstorm kept me awake half the night. The next day I decided I should take it easy: a bit of sightseeing, a swim and, hopefully, a kip on the beach would be just fine. I asked the landlady for a large towel, wrapped it around my neck, filled an empty bottle with water and got on my bike.
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I headed for the market at El Pilar de La Mola and followed the paths to the eastern tip of the island, in search of good sea views and a beach. The dusty roads wove through a barren moonscape, but I was enjoying my little touristic trip. And with almost no traffic to watch out for, my thoughts drifted back to my encounters with the two Rogers. Syd was obviously a dreamer: a charming, romantic, and creative poet-type. The other Roger was more of an outspoken and energetic go-getter; not someone you want to mess with. I wondered how their music sounded and what it would be like to play in a loud band. I smiled, realising I didnât even know what instruments they played. Noisy electric guitars, most likely. The Pink Floyd⊠I reminded myself not to forget that beermat when I return home.
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Thanks to last nightâs thunderstorm, the temperature was not as relentless as yesterday. I stretched out on the white sand and I closed my eyes. By the time I opened them again, a good hour had gone. After a quick swim to get the juices flowing, I was all geared up for some more sightseeing.
As I coasted towards the islandâs small capital of Sant Francesc Xavier, there was plenty of time to take in the breathtaking scenery. I promised myself I would return to Formentera. Maybe I would buy a house here, write a book, take up painting or, who knows, even write some music of my own. To be a successful artist and live on a sunny island. Wouldnât that be something.
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I continued my reverie until, reaching the outskirts of the little town, I suddenly saw a familiar figure standing a hundred yards off to the side of the road. Hitting the brakes, I gaped in disbelief at the strangely disturbing scene. There, in front of two whitewashed windmills, was the unmistakable figure of Syd Barrett. Motionless, he was staring up at the rotating wooden sails. But that was not what bothered me. It was more about the way he was standing there, perfectly still with his arms stretched out to the sides. With his long dark hair and a white, long-sleeved linen t-shirt hanging loosely over his shorts, he looked like Jesus. Like a human cross in the desolate field of his promised island.
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Something was definitely amiss. Not wanting to crash in on him, I got off my bike and wheeling it beside me, approached him on foot. Iâd got to about ten yards from where he was standing when he abruptly lowered his arms and hugged them tightly to his body.
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âSyd, itâs me, Matt. Are you alright?â I asked, with concern in my voice.
Barrett stared at me blankly but didnât reply.
The sparkle in his eyes was gone. I wasnât even sure he was seeing me at all.
âIs there anything I can do for you? Would you like some water?â
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Nothing.
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I took the bottle from the bike and was just starting to move forward to give it to him, when he suddenly turned around and walked away. I watched in disbelief as he strode with a firm step in the direction of the town where the setting sun was disappearing behind a row of white houses. I was too dumbfounded to do anything, nor did I realise I would never see The Pink Floydâs Syd Barrett, again.
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Pink Floyd is one of the most legendary bands in Rock and Roll history. Their albums have sold in the tens of millions, especially their seminal 1973 release "Dark Side of the Moon". Their rise, fall and rebirth has been written about in articles, books and the occasional documentary. The glut of information appears to be a hurdle for any writer attempting to write about the band and their legacy. Yet "Lost Souls" makes the insurmountable feat possible in seeing the band's journey through the eyes of a friend of the group who bears witness to their rise to the stratosphere of Rock and Roll and Pop Culture.
Matt is a college age youth who is still sputtering in his plans for the future. A trip to Ibiza leads to a chance meeting with the initial band....Namely Roger Waters and Syd Barrett. Barrett appears as gregarious, yet enigmatic to Matt. Waters possesses a jocular demeanor, mixed with a sharp wit. The toxic mix of psychedelics and schizophrenia are soon to wound the mind of Barrett, leading Pink Floyd to bring David Gilmour in as lead to replace Barrett. The acid rock that the band initially embraces hooks Matt in as a fan.
Matt emerges as a rock journalist, his acquaintance with the band gives him access for future assignments. He engages in conversations with the jokester drummer Nick Mason and introspective discussions with Richard Wright. Matt views the band's initial post-Barrett efforts as promising, but mediocre. The band is searching for their true voice and sound. Gilmour strums the lead guitar while assuming vocal lead, Waters furiously penning the majority of lyrics and playing a mean bass, Wright adding ethereal keyboard arrangements, while Mason's drumming keeps impeccable time. Matt sees "Meddle" as the turning point for the band's path, and "Dark Side of the Moon" as the high point. Yet, signs of discord are starting to be displayed, Waters and Gilmour battling for the soul of the band. Multiple albums selling millions, riches being made and squandered, relationships ended, new ones started...Rock and Roll in every aspect.
"Lost Souls" is a poignant view of a storied band. The author does an admirable job in personalizing the triumphs, foibles, ins and outs of Pink Floyd. This is a great read for all...whether fans of the band or not.