Storm Thorgerson: The thing was that all those guys had to cope with Syd out of his head on Mandrax half the time. He got so 'mandied' up on those sessions, his hand would slip through the strings and he'd fall off the stool.
John Marsh: I saw him years later, on South Kensington tube station. He looked like a picture of the middle-aged Aleister Crowley. Totally bald, about 15 stone, wearing a Hawaiian shirt and Bermuda shorts.
Jenny Fabian: Years later I found him again living up the road from Earls Court in a flat where he had room. Again he didn't speak much. He was sitting in the corner on a mattress and he'd painted every other floorboard alternate colours, red and green. He boiled an egg in a kettle and ate it. And he listened over and over again to Beach Boys tapes, which I found distressing. He was still exactly the same, only now he was only Syd Barrett the has-been rather than Syd Barrett the star. Years after that I was told that he lived in the Penthouse Club and was very fat and got a weekly cheque from the Floyd. I prefer to remember him as this thin, white, violet-eyed nutter who didn't speak much and who wrote wonderful songs.
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