Like the Queen, Hawkwind just go on and on. But whereas Her Majesty's stock price continues to drift gently downwards as the realisation continues to dawn that really she's just a woman born into aristocracy and the monarchy, and doesn't do anything much that many others couldn’t easily do, Hawkwind are close to gaining the status of 'national treasure', for there really isn't anyone else else who can do what they do.
Leader of the space-rock giants, Dave Brock may be 74 now, and long ago eligible for a bus pass and able to draw on his state pension, but there's life in the old hippie yet. The thought of settling into a slippers'n'pipe comfort zone is most certainly not what Brock & Co are thinking as they continue to explore possible dystopian futures, whilst sounding at times as energised and indeed rough'n'ready as they did back in the glory days of the 70s. Back when they found their voice via a fusion of spacey effects, and pumping acid-rock grooves, all wrapped up in a grungy, undistilled production that positively reeked of the 'underground' and 'alternative’, as well as the green stuff.
Based on E.M.Forster's short science fiction story of the same name, The Machine Stops is a chiller about the role of technology, and retains its relevancy in the 21st century as 'the world' continues to struggle with technology's fast changing implications, its isolating tendencies, and in particular the rise of 'robotisation' which is fast becoming a hot potato as advances in this area threaten skills, jobs and, well, humans. Forster’s work provides a prophetic warning of the dangers of isolation, and the reliance on technology and the effects upon society, and Hawkwind run with this as they conceptualise these ideas via their music and lyrical interpretations.
Moreover, The ‘wind have dialled all the way back to their heyday when Lemmy was still in the band; they were enjoying a most unexpected chart hit with ‘Silver Machine’, and the Amazonian figure of Stacia was a feature of their live show. It was also when they were truly at the vanguard of the space rock scene, but when everything was analogue and still done by hand and indeed, trial and error. In fact, The Machine Stops sometimes comes across as gritty and as lo-fi as some of that early Hawkwind music (although at the time they were also considered futuristic and ‘advanced’). They are but another contemporary band who are eschewing clean digitalisation in the quest for authenticity.
In fact, deja vu sets in immediately with the Robert Calvert-style monologue (this time courtesy of Mr. Dibs) that opens up the album; a foreboding tale about how technology could make us all alike, where individual personalities are unwittingly eroded. "The machine feeds us, clothes us and houses us. In it, we have our being. The machine is the friend of ideas, and the enemy of superstition." It's the start of an album that adapts Forster’s forewarning as the basis for this tale of technological enslavement, where domination and destruction has driven people underground, living and hoping to feel the sun again. This is followed by ‘The Machine’, one of a number of tracks that harks back to their punk and new wave phase, while ‘King of The World’ is a dead ringer for any number of Hawkwind tracks circa Space Ritual, a dirty Lemmy-style bass providing a little melody, before abruptly switching tack. Swirling atmospherics lead into what sounds disarmingly like ‘Lord of Light’, from the 71 album Doremi Fasol Latido, before this abruptly segues into a mish mash of the sound of rain and thunder, and general effects galore. It’s a little cack-handed, but perfectly mirrors the approach of the band at that time, and indeed now. The same can be said for the punk/space rock youthful swagger of ‘Synchronized Blue’, initially a brightly buzzing number that manages to lose its way with a disorganised middle eight.
Elsewhere, Pink Floyd The Wall-era comes to mind with the plodding ‘Thursday’, a trippy pastoral vibe is produced by one Dead Fred, who wrote and performed all of ‘Hexagone’, and doesn’t appear elsewhere on the album. The more modern techno-Arabian fusion of the instrumental ‘The Harmonic Hall’, more straight-ahead punk chordage on ‘A Solitary Man’, more trippy sounds via the jazzy prog fusion of ‘Tube’, and album highlight, the easy going and yes, tripped out grooves of Living on Earth, which somehow manages, mid-point, to strap on a bluegrass/hoedown segment. Final track Lost In Science seems to bring everything together; from punk rock beginnings, before it morphs into a foreboding instrumental passage, some closing thoughts courtesy of Mr Dibs, before slowly fading out with some theatrical piano work courtesy of Brock. It’s mad, but it works somehow.
Hawkwind. They still know how to groove, and yet to come up with the unexpected, in making music fit for the headphones and/or number 11 on the dial. Moreover, they continue to retain their underground/DIY/punk/alternative credentials, whilst winning many new fans curious as to the involvement of Lemmy, or the legend of their Stonehenge shows, or the general mystique of a band that was barely captured on film. And in Dave Brock they have had the right person to enable them to have lasted so long (disciplined and hard working is Mr. Brock), who wisely brings in many younger folk to help him along.
Even though this is their 28th studio album, it is perhaps one of their very best since the 80s. Lyrically, it sort of fits together, even if musically it’s really just a collection of disparate fragments put together as tracks. Still, a remarkable achievement for a remarkable band.
Jeff Hemmings
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