16 June 1972
No fear of Don McLean ever being a misunderstood genius: he’s quite clearly dreadful. ‘Vincent’ is of a piece with ‘Streets Of London’, which we’ll see at the top of our charts a couple of years later: dreary, didactic cabaret-folk balladry that has Something To Say and will say it with the most condescending finger-picking schmaltz.
What makes ‘Vincent’ even worse is the nauseating conceit with which McLean in the lyrics clearly positions himself, equates himself even, with fellow artist Van Gogh. You see, Vincent, says Don, be it my superlative word-painting like “flaming flowers that brightly blaze” or your picture of a room or whatever, those knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing critics “would not listen, they did not know how” and “perhaps they never will” so I am uniquely placed to feel your pain, interpret it for the proles, and profit financially from it in ways you legendarily didn’t, which is all part of the kaleidoscopic depth of my troubadour genius. Next time you wonder why someone might want to get rid of their ears, now you know.
