Get a load of these figures: during his career, Nick Drake sold about 30,000 albums. Since his death in 1974, he has continued to sell about 200 a week. Just recently, that figure has gone up to 2,000 a week. It's not because people have suddenly realised that Drake created impossibly beautiful music and yes, they really should have all his albums in their collection. No, it's because one of his songs is featured on a car ad. Ignoring the horrible irony that Drake couldn't drive and was the epitome of the "pastoral" gent, what does this tell us about the links between music and consumerism? Probably nothing.
But Nick Drake on a car ad? What in the name of pivotal indie/folk iconography is going on? Somebody pass me my well-worn copy of Judith Williamson's Decoding Advertisements and a large bucket to be sick into. Maybe it's coincidental, or maybe not, that his record company has just reissued all three of Drake's albums at the same time that the demand for the man's work is at an all-time high. Not just bogstandard reissues these, though; they've been re-mastered using 24bit Super Bit Mapping. Which isn't just industry nonsense-speak - it means they've gone back to the original masters, done a bit of eq'ing and generally tidied things up a bunch. Speaking as someone who's deaf in one ear (handy for the job, I know) and an arch-cynic about these sort of things, there is a discernible difference on these new recordings - certainly compared to my old vinyl copies of his stuff.
Even if it takes you a poxy car ad to get into Drake's stuff, it's worth it. Over the course of these three albums you'll be inducted into a world where romantic lyricism meets folk rock, where the Vaughan Williams comparisons make more sense than the "English Bob Dylan" ones, and where everyone from Kate Bush to The Tindersticks has lingered for a while in recognition of his talent and on the lookout for inspiration.
An enigmatic figure, stricken by depression, Drake was brought up in a quiet village in the English Midlands. A Cambridge graduate, he began as a coffee-shop folkie, albeit one more influenced by the metaphysical poets than anti-war demos. The three albums he recorded during his short career - he died of a suspected accidental drug overdose in 1974, aged 26 - are stunningly evocative and romantic. Five Leaves Left (1969), Bryter Layter (1970) and Pink Moon (1972) garnered rapturous critical acclaim at their time of release, but little else. Musicians who happily guested on the albums included Richard Thompson, John Cale and most of Fairport Convention. And we're only left guessing what could have been possible if he had hooked up with Sandy Denny.
Very Olde Worlde in that the rest of his contemporaries were well into psychedelia at time, the albums have the sort of ethereal (a word you can't avoid with Drake) quality which has been oft replicated but never bettered. It's only listening again to Five Leaves Left, and all those sumptuous string arrangements, that you realise how many bad Nick Drake imposters are around at the moment.
Despite his poor sales while he was alive, there were pockets of support. David Geffen (once of the eponymous label, now with Dreamworks) tried to sign him to a deal in the US and make him as big as Dylan and Neil Young. It never happened, and Drake became more reclusive - once he famously turned up at his record company offices after a few years' absence, handed a tape to the receptionist and said "that's my new album". If you really want to get behind the man and the myth (and there are many) you should have a look at Patrick Humphries's biography, simply called Nick Drake, which is published by Bloomsbury. A very clear-eyed account of a man and his legacy, it's a needy counterpoint to all the feverish activity available on the many web sites dedicated to the man, where "intense" isn't the word. Your only starting point, though, should be these three albums. Listen and learn.
Five Leaves Left, Bryter Layter and Pink Moon are all on the Island label.
