A remembrance of Nick Drake

Nick Drake’s music can sometimes seem like a trick of the light. Just when you think its shape is clear, it shifts to reveal itself as more complex and less determinate.

The singer-songwriter, who died in 1974 at age 26, was a cult figure for decades, attracting a few perhaps overly romantic obsessives. (I was one, discovering Drake in 1986.) But as underground-pop fans became mainstream tastemakers, his wistful voice became more prominent.

New or repackaged CDs have illuminated his art; the latest include “Family Tree,” a compilation highlighting his influences, and an updated version of the 1999 box set “Fruit Tree.” But Drake’s heartbreaking story still often gets in the way of his music.

His depression and possible suicide make his bleak lyrics more poignant, but that calamity isn’t as important as the rare and delicate fusion within his music.

Many times, artists with emotional disorders carry their illness into their work -- consider the cosmic weirdness of Syd Barrett or Roky Erickson. But Drake’s graceful integration of jazz, folk-blues and classical sources stands in contrast to his fragmented emotional life. His music grows richer once his biography is put aside.

Friday at the Egyptian Theatre, the American Cinematheque played host to an evening that cast light on Drake’s gifts. “A Place to Be: A Celebration of Nick Drake” is one of several innovative events his estate has recently endorsed; others have taken place in Seattle and San Francisco.

As a model of posthumous promotion, “A Place to Be” was tasteful, ambitious and satisfying. Still, it sometimes fell victim to that tragic mystique.

“A Skin Too Few: The Days of Nick Drake,” a 2000 documentary by Dutch filmmaker Jeroen Berkvens, opened the evening. Shot in the mystical tones of a Terence Malick movie, relying heavily on interviews with Drake’s family and materials provided by his sister, Gabrielle, this is an intimate and reverent portrait. But reverence doesn’t always enhance a legacy, and too often the film drifted into hagiography.

An ensuing panel discussion was more effective, largely because of Robin Frederick, an American who met Drake when both were teenage folkies in France. She has devoted herself to decoding Drake’s musicological language, and her comments, augmented by thoughtful anecdotes from Gabrielle Drake and Joe Boyd, Drake’s former producer and longtime champion, emphasized the innovator over the Sad Boy.

Playing an electric keyboard, Frederick gently dissected a few Drake songs, showing how he altered tempos and chord structures to reinforce his melancholy lyrics. Boyd backed up her explanations with great stories from the studio, recounting the songwriter’s love of English composer Frederick Delius and affinity for jazz session men.

Boyd also provided a nontragic explanation for Drake’s appeal: “There’s a certain lapel-grabbing aspect of most musical performances,” he said. “Nick’s music was so self-contained. It was sitting back within itself.”

The program closed with “A Place to Be,” a collection of musical and screen homages introduced by Drake’s estate manager, Cally Callomon. Heath Ledger and pioneering avant-gardist Jonas Mekas were among the Drake interpreters, but the standout came from New York filmmaker Nicole DiDio.

“Home” juxtaposed Drake’s “Day Is Done,” in a swinging version by Norah Jones and guitarist Charlie Hunter, with images of a typical crowded Manhattan day. Only as the song unfolded did a cloud of smoke billowing behind the skyscrapers start to take over. Soon it became clear that this typical day was Sept. 11, 2001, and that smoke would soon overtake everything.

This subtle transformation, like a Nick Drake song, asserted that sorrow doesn’t always hit like a bomb: It lingers like a cloud of dust, or fading light.

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ann.powers@latimes.com