It’s 1970. A motley crew of unreliable thugs gather in Notting Hill (the Shoreditch of the 70s), name themselves Hawkwind after the disgusting personal habits of one of their members, and fuse hippy blues rock with wild psychedelic meanderings, throw in some cymbals and chanting and root it in the last vestiges of the 60s British Blues Boom. Led Zep (without Jimmy Page) on acid, basically. Thunderous rhythm section with unreliable analogue synths, a few wind instruments and a strong commitment to lengthy instrumental blues jams interspersed with frighteningly weird noises. The missing link between Can and Cream, if you ever wondered. Hauser O'Brien tells the story.
Filed in News at 14.00pm on 12 March 14
Debut album, ‘Hawkwind’ sets the agenda for a career of ruthless adherence to the ethic of making extremely loud space rock, which is great to get wasted to, with the occasional slightly pop tune your woman would dig. Start here and familiarise yourself with main man on axe Dave Brock, sax honker Nik Turner, knob twiddler Dik Mik, tub thumper Terry Ollis and revolving door of bass players (including Lemmy) and others. Far out and essential.
Follow-up, ‘In Search of Space’ starts as it means to go on with a 15 minute opener, ‘You Shouldn’t Do It’. Oh yes, I see the spirit in the sky, and it’s staring straight at me. That thundering rhythm section hooks up again with those weird noises from sax and synth and – well – man – this just flies. Like if Krautrock came from Deptford, Hawkwind belie their hippy trash roots and their music links out closer to their Krautrock cousins than a cursory listen to pop smash “Silver Machineʺ would indicate.
Classic track ‘Master of the Universe’ sounds like a spaceship soaring through the skies, it’s grimy crew dressed in dirty cut-off denim jackets, sweating over malfunctioning pistons. Sci-fi realism, a more blue-collar vision of the near future. Throughout their work, Hawkwind’s futuristic imaginations are fuelled by a more down-to-earth appreciation of the impact of technology. More Alien than 2001, say. Or, more pertinently, more Ballard or Michael Moorcock than Lucas. The dystopian nature of life, society and everything is so much more interesting than the fairy stories. Here and there, an acoustic guitar lulls the listener into a false sense of security before – WHAAM – we lurch into an alternate reality, a dark side driven by pounding rhythms and wailing synths. Great driving music. In the 1970s even Ford Cortinas could fly.
Then came ‘Silver Machine’. You cannot possibly imagine the impact this song had at the time, and since. A live recording from a Roundhouse Greasy Truckers show, written by Brock and new collaborator Robert/Bob Calvert (more of him later), Lemmys’ vocals dubbed over Calverts, grainy live video of a hairy, scary biker band with ever-present dancer Stacia on squeaky clean Top Of The Pops, home of Gary Glitter and Jimmy Saville. A mind-blowing bullet hurtling into the pop swathe and still resounding across the years just like the Big Bang of creation. Go to Youtube right now.
Later in 1972, ‘Doremi Fasol Latido’ - more lineup changes had led to the man we now know as Lemmy from Motorhead joining on bass. His musical expertise and physical presence (tough hardcore biker-look) reinforced the grimy character of the group, and added to its power. More space-blues-rock jams aplenty, Lemmy to the fore, his thudding yet intricate basslines providing more fuel, more methampheatmine than dilithium. His vocal on sparse malevolent closer, ‘The Watcher’ more Ray Davies than Klingon warlord.
More space to come: Space Ritual’s massive live effort, an in-concert version of ‘Doremi’ (Calvert on vocals), and a great way at the time to get hold of a band’s greatest hits for cheap (stunning remaster available, go listen). Then off to the ‘Hall of the Mountain Grill’, named after the band’s fave Notting Hill greasy spoon eatery. An album which diversified the lyrical subject to reflect the difficulties of being a grebo in mid 1970s London. Concrete jungles, that kind of thing. Contrary to popular belief, more punk than hippy, Hawkwind were moving with the times. The jams are still there (phew) but the work is at times more reflective, more intricate and more challenging. You gotta move on, right? Don’t worry you still get to do a head banging boogie here and there. Don’t wanna alienate the extremely loyal and ever expanding free festival audience.
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