Las Mejores Críticas de RYM: ozzystylez reviews Five Leaves Left by Nick Drake (Nov 16, 2009)

On the photos that adorn the inside covers of this record Nick Drake bears an uncanny resemblance to my father when he was a young man, so much so that conspiracy theorists and nut-balls alike might be inclined to argue that Drake never actually died but slipped away from the lemon light (never having experienced the lime light) in order to marry my mother and start a family with her.  I know this to be untrue as my mother has never heard of Nick Drake, and neither had my father for that matter until I brought his doppelganger to his attention.  Unless of course they are continuing to live out an elaborate lie to which I can never be privy. 

Fortunately I am neither a conspiracy theorist nor a nut-ball and do not think for a moment that I might be the offspring of one of the 70's most unappreciated talents.  There are many logical reasons for me to think this way, not least among them being that my father, though a fan of music, displays very little musical talent.  Sure, he played drums in a band up until he was over his mid-life crisis, and true, he taught me some of the skills which helped me become the drummer I am today.  However, sit him in front of a keyboard or plonk a guitar on his lap and he takes on the appearance of a first grader discovering a book on complex algebra and trying to apply it to the picture book reading material they give to kids today.  Unless he is taking his elaborate lie to the extreme of never wanting to touch the guitar again in his life then he is clearly not Nick Drake because Drake's finger picking style belies a love for music and a dedication to his art.  Touches of classical brighten up more traditional folk styling and make songs such as the brooding "Day Is Done" or "Three Hours", with its thrilling pace change, into masterpieces that once written could never go un-played.   

Similarly my father’s piano playing abilities are non-existent and whilst Drake's are in no way virtuosic nor a match for his guitar skills, he does have a lovely way about him and "Saturday Sun" is evidence enough of this making for a wonderfully uplifting album closer right up until the last couplet where the Saturday sun turns to Sunday rain.  My father would never think so morosely as this either, he has an upbeat temperament and, aside from when he is sitting in traffic or making sure we all get somewhere on time, tends to look to the positives in life, unlike Nick. 

Having such little musical ability on anything beyond percussive instruments, my father would likewise struggle to know where to begin with orchestration for larger ensembles of musicians which would make his ability to write songs such as the stunning and haunting "Way to Blue" nigh on impossible because if you can't comprehend something then there is little chance that you could use that lack of comprehension to create something so musically brilliant and moving almost completely by accident, with or without the help of Robert Kirby or Harry Robinson. 

And, unless my father is determined to conceal every part of his considerable talent in order to live out this elaborate lie, then his ability as a vocalist certainly would prove beyond a doubt that he is not Nick Drake.  My father refrains from singing as much as possible but when I do catch him singing along to his favourite songs, which never have included anything particularly folksy, his understanding of tone, pitch or melody are conspicuous by their absence and his attempts to stay in tune are heavy handed and in direct opposition to Drake's soft, calming and meditative note perfect voice. 

Finally, if my father was Nick Drake and if Nick Drake was determined never to play music again and wanted to hide his abilities for the rest of his life, then surely some of his talent would have passed down the DNA chain to me and I would be able to write, if not songs of equal magnificence and majesty, then at least ones that are even halfway decent, but as years of trying have proven that that is not the case. 

So, in conclusion, Nick Drake is not my father; he died years ago when everyone said he did and took with him the talent which has been recognised more and more with each passing year.  But I am glad of this as I like my Dad the way that he is, and living in the shadow of such a musical talent would be hard, especially as I seem to be amounting to nothing more than a struggling musician myself.  But then Nick spent his life being unappreciated so we may not see evidence of my own genius until I have either died or taken on a whole new identity and begun living the lie myself.