When you think of Syd Barrett, you probably imagine the early Pink Floyd—wild, dreamy, strange, fragile, beautiful. When you think of Ray Davies, you likely think of The Kinks’ sharp portraits of England: working-class life, everyday people, humour, melancholy, pride, identity. David Gilmour has always looked up to Barrett as someone almost untouchable in his artistry. But he has also said that in his view, only one other rock star comes close to being on Barrett’s level in certain ways. That person is Ray Davies.
What Gilmour Actually Said
David Gilmour has described Barrett’s early work with Pink Floyd as “quintessentially English,” and said that phrase applies to Ray Davies as well.
He called Barrett “very clever, very intelligent, an artist in every way … a frightening talent when it came to words, and lyrics. They just used to pour out.”
Gilmour believes that Barrett, if things had gone differently — if Barrett had “stayed right” — could have “beaten Ray Davies at his own game.”
So in Gilmour’s eyes, Barrett wasn’t just a psychedelic oddball or a tragic genius. He was someone who, in terms of songwriting craft, emotional resonance, and lyrical imagination, could compete even with songwriters like Ray Davies, who are often considered masters of telling stories about people, place, and identity.
Why These Two Are Compared
To understand why Gilmour makes this comparison, it helps to look at what Barrett and Davies share — and where they differ.
What they share:
Strong Sense of Englishness
Gilmour emphasizes that Barrett’s early Pink Floyd work was “quintessentially English.” Davies built much of his legacy on writing about life in England—its moods, its humour, its everyday strange moments. Both songwriters painted with small details: childhood, landscapes, accents of emotional moods tied to the English context.
Lyrical Imagination & Storytelling
Barrett’s songs often have surreal imagery, emotional fragility, an almost poetic strangeness. Ray Davies, while less obviously “psychedelic,” uses narrative, observation, character sketches, irony, and emotional insight. Gilmour sees Barrett as someone whose lyrics “just used to pour out” — spontaneous, raw, yet full of vision.
Emotion & Identity
Both songwriters deal with identity—not just personal, but communal: who people are, where they live, what they feel. Davies often draws on class, culture, geography; Barrett evokes inner landscapes, moods, dreams, sometimes distress.
What differs or interrupted Barrett’s potential:
Barrett’s talent was shadowed by mental health struggles, inconsistency, and his withdrawal from public life. Gilmour, and many others, regret that Barrett couldn’t sustain what he started.
Ray Davies, on the other hand, had a longer, more continuous career as a songwriter, with many albums, hits, public visibility. This gave him time to develop, refine, and leave a large body of work. Barrett’s output was intense but short.
Why Gilmour’s Claim Matters
This is more than just praise or admiration. What Gilmour is doing by saying Barrett could have “beaten Ray Davies at his own game” is reframing what Barrett represents.
It suggests Barrett’s work isn’t just interesting historically or as a cult figure; it could have been—and partly is—on par with some of the finest songwriting in British popular music.
It pushes back against seeing Barrett only as “mad, tragic, psychedelic” and instead sees him as a serious poet, lyricist and artist whose potential was enormous.
It also helps us understand Gilmour himself: his standards, what he values in songwriting (narrative, identity, emotional honesty) and how he perceives musical legacy.
In the End
The comparison is bittersweet. Barrett didn’t “stay right” in Gilmour’s phrasing. Health, mental illness, unpredictability, and life itself intervened. But Gilmour’s words preserve an image: of a man who, in his early bursts of creativity, stood shoulder to shoulder with someone like Ray Davies. Someone whose songs might have done more, been more widely seen, had circumstances been different.
It’s a reminder that talent isn’t always enough; that art depends on health, stability, chance. It’s also a reminder that sometimes what could have been holds as much fascination as what was. And for fans of Syd Barrett, of The Kinks, of Gilmour himself, that reference—that possibility—still carries weight.