Price paid: £7, Haystacks Music (Hay-on-Wye). 

The late Huw Lloyd Langton (1951-2012) represents a curious figure within the storied saga of Hawkwind. A more-or-less founding member of the group, he was a mere eighteen years old when he hooked up with Dave Brock, Nik Turner and co, jamming around Notting Hill at the tail end of the ‘60s, and his somewhat Gilmour-esque lead guitar work formed one of the more prominent elements of the band’s embryonic debut LP.

Shortly thereafter however, Langton exited Hawkwind (and seemingly the music industry as a whole) after suffering what can only be described, in the parlance of the times, as a severe freakout midway through an epic, acid-saturated residency which saw the band performing for several days straight within an inflatable geodesic dome illegally erected outside the gates of the 1970 Isle of Wight festival (which was actually charging people to enter if you can believe that - super uncool, man).

Some commentators (including Joe Banks, author of the recently published Hawkwind: Days of the Underground) have identified Hawkwind’s failure to replace Langton as one of the key factors which subsequently allowed the band’s signature sound to coalesce. Certainly, their position as a major ‘70s rock band without a conventional lead guitarist seems noteworthy. Brock’s relentless concentration on grinding, rudimentary barre chords went a long way toward establishing their now widely recognised proto-punk cred, whilst the lack of a melodic lead instrument conversely helped push them further toward the kosmische/‘krautrock’ realm, with Turner’s heavily effected woodwinds, DikMik and Del Dettmar’s primitive electronics and (later) Simon House’s baroque synthesizers all stepping up in turn to fill the void.

As valid as this argument may be however, regular readers will be aware that I am inclined toward the belief that any piece of music can be improved with the addition of a ragin’ guitar solo or two, and as such, I can’t help but find myself ruing Langton’s absence from Hawkwind’s golden age recordings, wondering what this pivotal / invisible figure may (or may not) have contributed to the grandeur of the Space Ritual, had he only kept his head together and made it to the shuttle in time for take-off.

Brave listeners who have allowed their Hawkwind “cut off point” to dawdle far beyond the Lemmy era though will of course had their chance to find out just what HLL (if I may) had to offer, as, in the dying days of the 1970s, he popped up again, seemingly out of nowhere, bringing a new sense of energy which to a great extent helped the band to retool themselves for the ‘80s, following the unedifying collapse of their Robert Calvert-dominated late ‘70s futurist art-pop era (which is another story entirely).

Langton’s work during his second tenure with Hawkwind can perhaps be best appreciated on the ‘Live ‘79’ LP, recorded mere months after he re-joined. Therein, his searing, virtuosic lead shred often dominates proceedings, suggesting that the poor lad may well have spent his ‘lost years’ obsessively practicing scales and lab-testing new amps. [Actually, Langton had spent ’75 to ’77 playing with the group Widowmaker, formed by ex-Mott The Hoople guitarist Ariel Bender - Fact Checkin’ Ed.]

Given the speed with which talented players were usually ejected from Hawkwind’s orbit under Baron Brock’s oft-paranoid leadership, Langton actually proceeded to hang on for quite a while too, overseeing the band’s transition to a more streamlined, metallic hard rock sound through the ‘80s before finally departing, for reasons unknown to myself, in 1988. (“All was not well with the band,” Wikipedia notes ominously.)

Which brings us, finally, to The Lloyd Langton Group, with whom Langton seems to have performed and recorded in parallel with his Hawkwind commitments through the mid/late ‘80s. Released in ’85 through the West London-based independent label Flicknife (who also handled the bulk of Hawkwind’s output through this period), ‘Night Air’ was their first proper LP, featuring a power trio line-up completed by Kenny Wilson on bass and drummer John Clark.

A consummate set of soaring, propulsive chromium-plated guitar rock, the album to some extent plugs straight into the legacy of the ‘70s underground, but does so with class rather than retrogressive boorishness, with the pioneering work of Martin Weaver (Wicked Lady / Dark) in particular providing a useful reference point, not least on the killer, slow-burning riffage of obvious single ‘Call Your Number’.

At the same time though, ‘Night Air’ is recognisably a product of the ‘80s. Though avoiding the more obvious clichés, its sound palette is redolent of that decade in a way that’s difficult to really put into words. Emptying out my brain-pan in search of a way to convey this highly specific ‘80s indie label trad rock sound, all I can really come up with is the impression of a time when yr average rock band guys used solid state amps, and actually thought they were cool. The warm, fuzzy weirdness which carried through from the late ‘60s into AOR’s imperial phase in the ‘70s has been squashed down here to a colder, sleeker sound, funnelled to the recording desk via lo-tech circuit boards and square, bakelite-coated boxes.

It’s a sound which makes me think of rack-mounted units fronted with cheap-looking black plastic, rows little knobs picked out in lime green or cherry red; of old speaker stacks reeking of tobacco, dragged out from some pub’s old backline, and of subterranean rooms done out like futuristic packing warehouses. None of which is meant as a criticism, I should stress - Langton’s guitar tone is often great here, whirring and whirling like a fairground organ on the extended outro to ‘Before is All’. It’s just… different, that’s all.

Conversely, there are some slightly Floyd-ish “introspection in the country house” type moments creeping in too here and there (you can hear ‘em in Langton’s strained middle-class voice and the faint ‘atmospheric’ keyboards just about discernable on the opening track, and in the faux-medieval acoustic recitation, reverbed just so, which closes out side one) - even though I daresay the closest these guys ever got to the shining castles of the rock aristocracy was zooming past a picturesque gatehouse or two on a mid-week schlepp up to a gig in Wolverhampton.

Overall, side # 1 probably fares best here. In addition to the aforementioned ‘Call Your Number’, the album’s title track, with its plaintive, minor key melody, singing-in-my-real-voice vocals and general air of sonic ambition transcending cash-strapped production, actually isn’t a million miles away from a late ‘80s Bevis Frond banger, whilst the upbeat ‘Painted Evergreen’ sounds like the kind of thing Motörhead might have come up with, had they taken their foot off the gas and spent a few weeks fortified by nothing but Earl Grey and scones.

Side # 2 largely stays on-message musically speaking, even as ‘Diseased Society’s lyrical concerns hit that hyper-specific “psychedelic hangover meets nebulous Thatcher-era social criticism” sweet-spot (you know the one), before ‘Lonely Man’ and ‘Candle Burning’ allow Lloyd Langton to spread his musical wings a bit, exploring more melancholic, spaced out territory, with creditable, if not exactly mind-blowing, results.

Only the closing ‘Lunar-Tic’ seems like an outlier - a sort of drugged out, post-punk-ish experiment whose jerky, cyclical rhythms and muttering, pub-loony vocals close out what has has otherwise proved a surprisingly uplifting and affirmative record with a dose of the kind of gloomy discombobulation you’d reasonably expect of a man best known for having blown his brains out with LSD and disappeared from view over a decade beforehand.

For the most part though, the material on ‘Night Air’ feels far more energised and inspired than the rather lumpen, “will-this-do?” approach taken by Hawkwind’s output during the same time period, suggesting that Lloyd Langton was already saving up his A-game for his solo work. Stronger writing and more nuanced playing bring a greater sense of excitement and forward momentum to proceedings, with the distant echoes of SF paperback psychedelia enhanced by Ande Tucker’s absolutely terrific interplanetary cityscape artwork, ironically providing the Lloyd Langton Group with a rocket-propelled kick that Hawkwind had largely abandoned by this point.

Though it’s unlikely to quite make the grade as a ‘lost classic’, anyone who shares my fascination with UK freak-rock and its aftermath should nonetheless find ‘Night Air’ a solidly rewarding listen, joining a few dots between sounds, scenes and personnel in engaging fashion, suggesting that the enigmatic Huw Lloyd Langton was, above all else, a gentleman of refined taste and no little talent - may he rest in peace.

‘Night Air’ by The Lloyd Langton Group gets a seemingly fairly blurry thumbs up! 

Labels: album reviews, Hawkwind, Huw Lloyd Langton, old LPs

One of the depressingly small number of female musicians featured at Desertfest (it’s kind of a drag to even feel obliged to draw attention to such distinctions, TBH), Tanya at least seems determined to make an impression as perhaps the single loudest featured musician, running her bass through what looks to be no less than eight full size cabinets (well, they’re all switched on and miced anyway - I suppose we'd have to question the sound tech for full confirmation).

I rarely use ear-plugs for live music, but we’re very much in plugs-or-die territory here, as the sub-bass pummels like an enthusiastic masseur and the drinks shelf screwed to the venue’s back wall buzzes like a chainsaw. The noise kind of makes my teeth hurt, which I think is a first. For once, the plugs work well anyway. They let through most of the treble, and I can feel the bass, so it’s all good.

Though the bottomless depths of Bismuth’s glacial doom matches early Sunn 0))) in intensity, this is far from just a formless drone, with tightly composed sections allowing the band to scale back on the distortion for some passages of glimmering, oceanic beauty. The rise and fall of the noise feels a bit like watching storm surges build up and dissipate in real time across some rain-lashed, Turner-esque landscape perhaps, with crowds of gulls occasionally flying free through patches of blinding sun. It is vast, serious, frightening and impressive music. Highly recommended, although live immersion is not for the faint-hearted.

Shortly thereafter, Notts stalwarts Moloch begin to tear through their hardcore-informed depths-of-human-misery sludge at only marginally lower volume. Airless, grim and defeated, the vocalist favours wordless bellows of pain, and, whilst the guitarist occasionally manoeuvres his fingers through some sweet, Sabbathian riff patterns, you can almost feel his bandmates glowering at him for attempting something so perilously close to being fun. Friends, it’s “heavy”, in the sense that hippies used to use the word as a synonym for ‘difficult’ or ‘threatening’.

Checking bandcamp, I see they did an album back in 2011 based around Andrzej Zulwaski’s ‘Possession’. Word. Next time I feel in the mood for total self-annihilation, I’ve got it cued.

Although I enjoyed Moloch’s set, it feels suffocatingly unnatural to be soaking up such punishment in a blackened basement this early in the day on a sunny Sunday, and as such, it’s with palpable relief that I at this point make a break for the outside, purchasing a really big ice cream to enjoy as I cut through the back streets towards the far more salubrious environs of The Roundhouse.

So – Roundhouse. Pros and cons. Though its pompous ‘historic cultural centre’ branding leaves a bad taste in the mouth with regards to what is still basically a “pack ‘em in / pile ‘em high” gig venue, a festival scenario like this nonetheless makes the advantages of its big bucks refurb (many bars, opens spaces, places to sit, friendly staff) quite welcome. The main room remains a genuinely incredible space too (the next time you’re there, LOOK UP). I was initially a bit miffed that the balcony isn’t open to general ticket holders, but later in the evening it became obvious that this seated area had been put side primarily for older attendees or those with mobility issues, rather than just fenced off for VIPs, which is a genuinely nice idea – no problems there. Sound mix meanwhile is sadly a bit meh (not much better than yr standard Forum/Koko mud-fest at times), and both sight lines and comfort down on the floor could be pretty lacking for a sell-out show (which thankfully this isn’t – Desertfest’s headliners may have a certain pull, but the room is vast).

Despite claiming to have arrived dazed straight from the airport, Elder nonetheless manage to achieve a mix that is louder, and about ten times clearer, than any of the other bands who will perform at the Roundhouse today, making the space a perfect fit for the group’s particular brand of Epic Modern Rock (caps engaged). Not quite ‘psyche-‘, not quite ‘space-‘, not quite ‘progressive’ and not quite ‘metal’, but skirting a little around all of these things, Elder’s music is carefully-wrought stuff, achieving transcendence not through noise and chaos, but through confident playing and unified compositions. Which I realise sound boring as hell, but the band are actually quite compelling… it’s kind of like music for gliding across some bright, vast alien landscape of unknown flora and awe-inspiring rock formations and stuff, I suppose. Did I already say ‘epic’? Yes.

Moving into the final stretch, Desertfest’s Sunday line up seems to have been consciously split between the two extremes of the festival’s remit, with an intimidating line up of total-fucking-doom at The Underworld whilst quasi-mainstream space-rock type stuff hold sway at The Roundhouse. With all three headliners at the latter falling broadly into the category of “bands I have a great deal of fondness for, but am uncertain about the prospect of seeing in 2018”, my decision is to stick with it. Satori meanwhile largely favours The Underworld, and subsequently begins to make me slightly regret my decision via an impressive stream of photos and videos of groups like Fister (BIG FUN?) and Primitive Man (just BIG, and a bit terrifying).

But, I shall not be moved. Roundhouse it is.

Like those long distant formative gigs I began this post talking about, my personal history with Nebula goes back to the early ‘00s. Transcending the rather plastic, mass-produced sound of much late ‘90s Stoner Rock (which at its worst was basically Warped Tour pop-punk for boys with long hair and flares, right?) whilst staying true to its essential sonic ideals, they rose above thanks to a gnarlier recorded sound (courtesy of Jack Endino), song-writing that saw them spread their wings into proper cosmic/psyche territory, and, most of all, front man Eddie Glass’s gloriously OTT guitar heroics (which was/is basically a perfect expression of the sound all gormless Bill & Ted teens wishes they could sound like when they pick up their first strat copy).

Hearing unrehabilitated rockist action like this start to break through into the indie compound was a joyous thing to me at the time (their 2001 Peel session remains magnificent – perhaps the band’s crowning moment), and I recall striving hard to try to make it to a London headline show they were playing at around the same time. I didn’t make it, and the band subsequently fell off my radar, so…. a little delayed, here we are in 2018. As it transpires, this set is actually the first sighting of the band since they split up in 2010-ish, with a line-up comprising Glass and – alarm bells, anyone? – a new, younger rhythm section.

Contrary to his persona on the records, Eddie Glass seems an unassuming sort of fellow, shambling on stage, eyes to floor and just getting down to business with minimal fanfare. Having never caught the band before, I’m not sure if this reflects a lack of confidence after so much time away or if he’s just always been like that. Not that it matters, you understand – after all, this is not the kind of rock music that needs some fist-pounding oaf in the driving seat. It’s all about the riffs and solos, all about the groove, and staying true to the core, shining awesomeness of the rock dream. Which, by-now-expected murky bass sounds notwithstanding, Nebula 2018 do very well.

Ploughing manfully through hits like ‘All The Way’, ‘Sonic Titan’ and ‘Let It Burn’ – truly, songs that legitimately deserve to be described as “joints” – this is a truly sweet time. Disappointingly, the crowd is considerably thinner than it was for Elder, but hey, this band are reborn representatives or a scene that largely slid into creative irrelevance over a decade ago, and, as noted, The Roundhouse is a vast room for them to try to fill. Sipping a beer, reflecting on the notion that this is basically the music that I think should be playing on all car radios all the time (well, either that, or Creedence, or ‘90s hip-hop), I had a nice time.

Sadly, I don't think Glass indulged in his former endearing habit of pausing to announce "geetar!" shortly before he himself plays a solo, mid-way through a song in which he has been soloing more or less continually throughout - but you can't have everything.

A few songs before the end of the set, Glass breaks his G-string and seems somewhat at a loss as to how to proceed. It speaks poorly of the level of camaraderie on this bill that there are no members of other bands rummaging around in flight cases to save the day, but, apparently lacking spares and/or the wherewithal to conduct an on-stage change, Glass opts to see out the set sans G-string, harshing the set’s buzz somewhat with some awkwardly re-worked riff parts and a chronic reduction in the kind of string-bending, sustain blasting action for which that magic third string is, uh, kind of essential.

Like I say, it was a cool set, I’d really glad I had the chance to finally see ‘em, but for a sort-of-legendary band theoretically making their glorious return in front of a crowd of genre die-hards, the reaction seemed… a little muted, perhaps? I dunno, what can ya say.

So -- Hawkwind is a weird one. Which I suppose is exactly as it should be, but still.

I’m sure I don’t need to fill you in on my history with Hawkwind. Simply one of the best bands ever, no caveats required. I’ve been meditating upon their mysteries to the point of near obsession for the past five years or so in particular. Still though, I don’t think I’ve ever consciously listened to anything they’ve done since about 1984, so… there’s that. My understanding has been that, across the past few decades, the band has more or less been truckin’ on in power trio format, with stalwart Dave Brock backed up by a reliable but anonymous rhythm section.



Based on the Desertfest performance though, it seems the ever-shifting sands of Hawkdom have been rearranged once more after these years of relative stability. For a start, who is this large gentleman in a Stetson and cut-off leather jacket, standing centre-stage, reciting Michael Moorcock’s ‘Sonic Attack’ monologue through a megaphone? [As usual, Wiki provides the answer: apparently he is Mr Dibs, and he been in place as de facto frontman since 2011.] In-between twisting knobs for instant, cheesy UFO noises on a portable synth (think Higashi Hiroshi in Acid Mothers Temple), he proceeds to handle lead vocals throughout the set.

In an odd but somewhat inspired move, Hawkwind’s set both begins and ends with songs written by the late Bob Calvert for 1977’s ‘Quark, Strangeness and Charm’ LP, and fair dos, Stetson-man does a pretty fine impression of Calvert’s distinctive vocal style. ‘Damnation Alley’ certainly emerges as a bit of a banger, with a largely keyboard-led sound nailing a style I’m sure young ‘uns in the crowd would immediately term ‘motorik’ or ‘kosmiche’, though one doubts that even the more recently recruited Hawklords could give a monkeys about that, whilst the closing wig-out on ‘Hassan I Sabha’ transcends the inherent ridiculousness of proceedings to become genuinely sinister and disorientating.

Sad to say however, that is Baron Brock remains the undisputed captain of starship Hawkwind, he was captain in name only on this occasion. Though his disinclination to act as front-man has been a constant since the band's glory days, having single-handedly held the group together for over fifty years in the face of nigh on unimaginable madness, I’ve always imagined he must be some kind of Ginn/Iommi/Johnny Ramone style guitarist-dictator, and the dominance of his “roaring after-burner” proto-punk rhythm guitar style across the years would certainly suggest as much. Tonight though, he’s looking fragile, and feels very much like a marginal figure in his own band.

One of the only guitarists I saw at Desertfest to eschew the temptation of Orange/Marshall stacks, he instead seemed to be plugged into his own strange arrangement of floor-level apparatus with many flashing lights and… this didn’t seem to be working out terribly well, to be honest. He and a sound tech seemed to spend the entirety of the set fiddling with it, and guitar was entirely inaudible for the first few songs, leaving Hawkwind sounding rather like some weird electronic pop band (which at least suits the ‘Quark..’ material, I guess). When it does cut through the mix, his sound is transistor radio tinny – weak fuel indeed for this hulk’s engines.

Nonetheless, the band bash through serviceable reiterations of ‘Born To Go’, ‘The Watcher’ and ‘Upside Down’, but tellingly, the only moment that really sees Brock summoning up much enthusiasm is a number that I think must have been taken from one of their recent sci-fi concept albums (most likely 2015’s ‘The Machine Stops’). Moving closer to centre stage and grinning broadly, this one – which sticks pretty closely to the classic-era Hawkwind template, to be honest - sees Brock dropping some appropriately gnarly solos, whilst the band respond in kind, turning the whole thing into exactly the kind of chaotic, open-ended jam you might reasonably hope to encounter at a 21st century Hawkwind gig.

Charmingly, Hawkwind don’t appear to have updated their video backdrop since the rave era, and ‘Hassan I Sabha’s “hashish, hashish, hashish” chant is accompanied by a head shop screensaver vortex of spinning, VGA marijuana leaves (clearly the band have a good idea of the audience they’re playing for at this fest, although I don’t notice much repetition of yesterday’s ‘smokin in the boy’s room’ antics at The Roundhouse), whilst the band’s dancing girl performs a ludicrous fan dance during an extended, ‘90s techno style interlude. (Beat THAT, Primitive Man.)

Ah, yes. Did I mention that Hawkwind have a dancing girl? And she’s no Stacia either, that’s for sure. Most of the men on the stage are old enough to be her father (please god don’t let that actually be the case), and… it’s all a bit uncomfortable, to be honest, especially given that she is the only woman to set foot on The Roundhouse stage across the whole day.

Still, isn’t this all the kind of thing you’d expect to encounter at a Hawkwind gig? Weird, ramshackle, baffling, uncomfortable, funny, simultaneously grotesquely out-dated and defiantly futuristic, hideously uncool yet undeniably awesome? It’s all a far, far cry from the grandeur of ‘Space Ritual’, of course, but what can we expect – that was literally a lifetime ago by this point. The very fact that such a volatile, self-sabotaging band can still get the motor running at all is worthy of celebration… but I do kind of wish they’d been able to summon up something a bit more substantial than the gig-going equivalent of a “so bad it’s good” b-movie.

Which seems like the perfect juncture at which to move on to Monster Magnet.

I never stooped so low as to recognise that whole moribund notion of ‘guilty pleasures’ that was briefly en vague about a decade ago, but, put a gun to my head and I’d probably have to nominate Monster Magnet for that category.

Combining lumpen riffs, ludicrous, laugh-out-loud lyrics and obnoxious, quasi-ironic rock star machismo whilst waving the remnants of a noble psychedelic/space-rock legacy around like a tattered ragdoll, their existence adds approximately nothing of value to the sum total of human cultural achievement. Checking out the MTV-aimed videos they made during the ‘90s is enough to drain the colour from your flesh and potentially make your hair fall out (please don’t try this at home), and yet… somehow, the obscene beauty of Dave Wyndorf’s maniacal vision of the perfect, ultimate rock n’ roll band still always manages to shine through.

They were, and they remain, fucking Monster Magnet, and, ever since a random second hand CD purchase of their major label debut ‘Dopes To Infinity’ shone a light of new possibility into my teenage years, livening up a grim era in which “psychedelia” remained a dirty word for most critics and musicians, they have had a permanent place in my heart.

Of course, I tracked further back from there, investigating the genuinely heavy, creepy shit they put out before inking their big deal with A&M (lest we forget, ‘Tab’, ‘Spine of God’ and their debut EP remain potent listening to this day for all fuzz-breathing sleaze-fiends), and forward toward to ‘Power Trip’, ‘98’s gloriously flawed attempt at a mainstream breakthrough. Thereafter though…. well let’s just say that all I remember about ‘99’s ‘God Says No’ is sitting in a Uni housemate’s room marvelling at the lyric “..you will swim in the sweat of a thousand orgies”, and after that…. nada. I just had enough Monster Magnet in my life I suppose, and the emergence of Youtube and the ability to watch those videos certainly didn’t help (shudder).

From what I gather, earlier Monster Magnet tours have boasted pyrotechnics, dancers in cages, probably whatever other ridiculous nonsense you could possibly imagine, but, after a few year that seem to have been spent stripping back on their mainstream/stadium-filling aspirations and attempting to reconnect with their ‘core fans’, the band’s 2018 fronting is a bit more down to earth. Tonight, they’re a professional touring rock band playing a headline show to a medium-sized crowd inexplicably inhabiting a large-scale venue – no more, no less. The sound is muddy and unclear, with bass distortion swamping everything, but in spite of everything Dave Wyndorf remains a compelling frontman – his voice is still amazing, his enthusiasm contagious.

I don’t think any other band members have been held over from the ‘90s line-up I’m most familiar with, but both guitarists are happy to do exactly wehat guitarists in bands like this are supposed to do, striding up to the monitors on a regular basis, playing their well-practiced solos with appropriate panache. They’re doin’ their job, and it’s a job they love etc etc… but is that enough?

I never thought I’d say this given that even their best albums tend to melt into undifferentiated, bombastic sludge by the mid-point, but it’s the strength of Monster Magnet’s material that really lets them take flight. With no call-back to the pre-major label era, it’s a “hits plus new bits” set-list, and ‘Dopes To Infinity’s title track still makes for a transcendent opener, it’s drifting, unglued melody about as subtle as Monster Magnet ever get, and it’s elusive wordplay (“..seen your mind on the hood of my car..”) triangulate the band’s contradictory aesthetic of sleaze, materialism and chemical-induced cosmic revelation in fairly sublime fashion.

Other stuff however fare less well. The band’s new single ‘Mindfucker’ is frankly pretty bad, built around a half-hearted bit of reheated misogyny (yes, it’s a “stop fucking with my mind woman” song, like the rest of the world gave up writing in 1974), and suggestive of some middle-aged men’s desperate attempt to try to extract some dollars from rebellious teenagers, a fair few years after the market for this kind of swear-in-the-chorus novelty mosh pit hit packed up and left town. Bogus.

Each time I’m starting to wonder why I’m still standing here though, another fantastic moment crashes in. More than any other song performed by the three headlining bands here tonight, ‘Look To The Orb For Your Warning’ (also from ‘Dopes To Infinity’) really takes flight, Wyndorf wringing shrieks from a table of vocal-mangling electronics as a loop of awesome, Jack Kirby-style comic book srtwork dominates the video screen and the song’s central, monolithic riff hammers down…. for a moment or two there I’m genuinely floating in the rafters, wondering how a group I was snarkily dismissing just a few minutes back suddenly got so mind-bendingly great. Somewhere, some kind of bull-shaped power amulet is being charged.

I even quite enjoyed the inevitable set-closing rendition of the band’s 1998 novelty hit ‘Space Lord’ – a song I’ve always considered a bit of a neutered, shark-jumping farrago in its album version (hilarious lyrics aside), but performed live with Wyndorf working the crowd, the penny finally drops, and the glorious stupidity of hearing upward of a thousand people chanting “SPACE LORD, MOTHERFUCKER!” on cue is both pure Monster Magnet brilliance and as perfect a conclusion to a Desertfest weekend as could be wished for.

Or, I supposed it would be, anyway. Maybe it was just the sheer size of The Roundhouse, or the unfavourable ratio between die-hard fans and random/curious festival-goers in the crowd, but reaction to Monster Magnet’s set felt a bit muted.

The band’s whole bombastic concept would seem to demand either a purely rapturous response or else nothing, but the crowd are less than ecstatic – silence and the occasional wolf whistle after a few moments applause - and the enactment old encore ritual is as robotic as it gets. Always a drag, and a sad reminder that, rather than galaxy-decimating space-lords, these guys are just doing their job, egging out a mixed bag of a career a little bit longer before the fans get too old to turn out and buy tickets – finishing off Sunday, ticking London off the list before they plough on to some draughty barn in Hamburg or somewhere. Which, broadly speaking, is why I tend to avoid going to these big tickets gigs in the first place. Ah well.

I am however extremely glad I finally made it to Desertfest. As was initially promised, the people were lovely, the organisation and logistics across multiple venues was little short of awe-inspiring and I basically enjoyed every single band I heard across the entire weekend. In spite of all my minor gripes and bitching above, it was an f-ing brilliant time that made me feel happy to be alive in a time and place that allows me to experience the pleasures of so much excessively loud rock music. What can I say? As far as festivals go, it hit the spot. Sign me up again for next year.

Labels: Bismuth, Desertfest, Elder, Hawkwind, live reviews, Moloch, Monster Magnet, Nebula

Lemmy’s closeness to death has been a bit of a running joke for what seems like years now, but I don’t think anyone was expecting the hammer to drop quite so suddenly. So long, Lemmy the Lurch; Farewell, Count Motorhead.

In the period since he took on the mantle of mainstream celebrity’s token unredeemed rock n’ roll bad-ass a few decades ago, Lemmy memories and anecdotes have come thick and fast, too numerous to catalogue – easily enough to keep a pub conversation going through several full nights.

From the ‘Kerrang’ cutting we used to have pinned to the wall in my old student house, in which Lemmy’s thoughts on various armed conflicts (“that was a fucking horrible war that was… brother against brother..”) were crow-barred into a sidebar fluff piece under the title ‘Lemmy’s Top Five Wars’, to sitting in a balcony seat watching Motorhead play in the early ‘00s, noticing that I could see straight into the backstage area, and being astonished / faintly disgusted to observe various young ladies hanging around in obvious ‘groupie’ attire – in the twenty first century! In bloody Leicester! With a band of pensionable age on stage! (They were great that night incidentally, but then you knew that.) Throw in your own stories in the comments box below, should you wish, and we’ll keep it rolling.

Whatever qualms you may have about Lemmy’s lifestyle though, and regardless of how much he gratuitously traded on his ‘image’ over the years, he always managed to come across as immensely likeable – a straight talking, non-fool suffering sort of good bloke… if admittedly one who in an alternate world might have found his niche issuing commands from the top of a tank turret rather than from in front of a amp stack.

It was great fun to hear him presenting a one-off show on Radio 6 last year. He didn’t say much, but every strained declaration of “this is a bloody good rock n’ roll track” or “I always liked this bloke” carried more gravitas than hours of blather from most other DJs.

Enough of all that bollocks though, let’s get to the music – that being an approach I feel he may have appreciated, however efficiently reheated tales of boozing and whoring might have paid the bills.

I’m afraid I can’t contribute much here with regards to Ian ‘Lemmy’ Kilmister’s early days playing in various hard-touring r’n’b and freakbeat bands through the ‘60s. My sole knowledge of The Rockin’ Vickers comes via the track ‘It’s Alright’ – a bare-faced rip off of The Who’s ‘The Kid’s Are Alright’ enlivened by a sloppy, rough-ass sound and a truly weird/wild guitar solo - and I’ve never got around to checking out Sam Gopal, with whom he played for a while.

As such, our default entry-point here is Hawkwind, for whom Mr Kilmister – in collaboration with drummer Simon King - acted as a veritable rocket up the arse, propelling them from their early hippie meanderings toward the genre-defining space-rock juggernaut heard on ‘Doremi Fasol Latido’ and ‘Space Ritual’, and thus essentially keeping the engine running on some of my favourite music of all time, his presence as indefatigable bass-monster and last-man-standing pace setter (not to mention vocalist on the odd chart-topping number the others couldn’t be bothered to sing themselves) providing an absolutely vital part of the legend of one of the greatest bands of all-time.

Lemmy’s assorted anecdotes and gripes about life in Hawkwind were priceless (look up the excellent BBC Hawkwind doc on Youtube for further details), but before we get distracted by those, let’s move on to Motorhead, formed of course in ’75 under the # 1 all-time best ever band name ‘Bastard’ (and only changed after somebody pointed out that they’d never get on Top of the Pops with a band called that).

Having previously only been familiar with the hits, I’ve actually been playing a bit of catch up with this unfeasibly mighty yet ever-eccentric band in the past year or so, and have been enjoying it a great deal. As a great aficionado of mid-‘70s British freak-rock, you’ll be unsurprised to hear that my favourite era is probably their embryonic period with Larry Wallis (ex-Pink Fairies and of future ‘Police Car’ non-fame) on guitar.

At this stage, with Larry also contributing quite a bit on the singing and song-writing front, Motorhead seem to have been torn two ways between the mechanized heavy metal blitzkrieg for which they would shortly become known, and what I can only describe as a kind of ragged, socially conscious, anthemic pub-rock, as exemplified on Wallis-penned tracks like ‘City Kids’ (b-side of their blinding first single; pick up a copy if you ever see one), ‘On Parole’, and the anti-music biz tirade ‘Fools’.

Fascinating though this period may be (it’s best heard on the early recordings comp ‘On Parole’, and crosses over somewhat into their superb self-titled debut LP), Lemmy’s unbeatable mission statement of seeking to produce “very basic music: loud, fast, city, raucous, arrogant, paranoid, speedfreak rock n roll ... it will be so loud that if we move in next door to you, your lawn will die” speaks for itself, as does the subsequent Motorhead catalogue, following the departure of both Larry and drummer Lucas Fox in ’76, and their replacement with ‘Fast’ Eddie Clarke and the late ‘Philthy’ Phil Taylor shortly thereafter.

At this point, my fancy wordage grinds to a halt, because what can you say about Motorhead that a quick spin of ‘No Sleep Til Hammersmith’ won’t render blindingly obvious?

Thus far, my trek through the back catalogue hasn’t got much beyond ‘Iron Fist’ in ’82, but if ever a band was critic-proof, well…. here ya go. How many times is it worth restating that Motorhead rock to about the furthest extent that human endurance allows, that all three members of the aforementioned ‘classic’ line up are fucking legends, and that, from this point onwards, Ian Fraser Kilmister, whatever kind of human being he may have been at heart, took to his ‘Lemmy’ persona like a pilot with a freshly waxed moustache jumping into the cockpit of a Spitfire, never looking back.

Skip forward forty years, and earlier this month, I happened to follow a link on XRRF to this gossip piece, reporting that Lemmy was sick of rude journalists asking him when he was going to kick the bucket:

"I'm sick of the fucking, 'Are you going to die?' line of questioning. It's getting really old, that question. I’m alright. I'm going out there and doing my best.

I have good days and bad days but mostly I've been doing alright. The last tour of the States was very good."

[...]

"I don't do regrets, regrets are pointless. It's too late for regrets. You've already done it, haven't you? You've lived your life. No point wishing you could change it.

I'm pretty happy with the way things have turned out. I like to think I've brought a lot of joy to a lot of people all over the world. I'm true to myself and I'm straight with people.

Death is an inevitability, isn't it? You become more aware of that when you get to my age. I don't worry about it. I'm ready for it. When I go, I want to go doing what I do best. If I died tomorrow, I couldn't complain. It's been good."

It’s hard to argue with any of that. I’ll skip further superlatives, but he was a fucking good rock n’ roller, and he gave a huge amount to those of us who love this music. I’m glad he made 70. R.I.P.

Labels: deathblog, Hawkwind, Lemmy, Motorhead

In lieu of any new content here, it occurred to me that readers might be interested in the somewhat music-related content of a piece I just put up on my other blog, telling you more than you probably ever wished to know about Hawkwind’s adventures in the field of paperback fiction.

Labels: Hawkwind, self promotion, spacefiller