Hawkwind

If you were to take bits of poetry, outer and inner space, trippy synths, ripping guitar riffs, a pinch of insanity, a goodly amount of bass, driving drums, a dash of Pink Floyd inspiration, and concepts from orgone energy to industrialization to terrorist attacks to a bicycle, and shake them up a bit, you would get something very like Hawkwind.  The band is probably best classified as progressive rock, but even that doesn't quite fit....  So we call it space rock and let it define itself.

This is not just a rock band but an experience.  One stage show, based on science fiction author Michael Moorcock's Eternal Champion saga, involved swordplay and exotic dancing.  Another show was a "space ritual," with the band at Pythagorean intervals and the audience filling in the representative void between the celestial spheres.  Audience reaction to the performance fuels this mental spaceship of which all involved are part.  And it really flies!

The band's songs from 30 years ago are still appropriate today, some dealing with the Internet, privacy, debris in space...  The gritty reality of slum life, urban guerrilla tactics, and prostitution are other topics for songs.  The future is not forgotten either.  Others' visions of the possible are found in the Hawks' music too; science fiction fans will easily find something in the tongue-in-cheek "Steppenwolf" (from Herman Hesse's seminal work), "Damnation Alley" (based on the book by Roger Zelazny), "Fahrenheit 451" (based on Ray Bradbury's book), and much more.  The band even bends time, at one moment sampling Black Elk or Shakespeare and at the next moment singing about the last days (or seconds) of Earth.

The group is still recording music.  Original band member Dave Brock is still on board the ship.  Many others went on to do their own thing but retained ties to the group.  Bassist Lemmy (Ian Kilminster) went on to found Motörhead, said to have inspired Douglas Adams's description of the band Disaster Area in the Hitch-hiker's "trilogy."  Robert Calvert (some of whose solo work is featured below) wrote a novel, a musical soon to be staged in London, and a lot more.  Moorcock's association with the band led him to play banjo(!) on one of Calvert's albums and even write a novel called The Time of the Hawklords.  Before giving you a couple links, I'll just put in a few random quotes and clips from songs (okay, maybe I got carried away):

The Awakening

I would rather the fire storms of atmospheres

Than this cruel descent from a thousand years

of dreams into the starkness of the capsule,

 

Where two of our crew still lay suspended cool

in their tombs of sleep,

Those nagging choirs of memory,

The tubes and wires,

Worming from their flesh to machinery.

I would have to cut.

 

Such midwifery is but one function of the leader here,

Floating in a sac of fluid dark,

A clear century of space

Away from Earth,

While one man stirs from the trauma of his birth,

Attending to the hypno-tapes

Assuring him

That this was reality

however grim.

Our journey's end.

 

Landing itself was nothing.

We touched upon a shelf of rock

Selected by the automind

And left a galaxy of dreams behind...

 

Black Corridor

Space does not comfort.

It does not sleep.  It does not wake.

It does not dream.

It does not hope.  It does not fear.

It does not love.  It does not hate.

It does not encourage any of these qualities.

  Space cannot be measured.  It cannot be angered.

It cannot be placated.  It cannot be summed up.

Space is there.

 

Coded Languages

Investigate the meaning of your sentence.

What is it telling you?

Where does it begin and where does it end?

Question the nature of your orders...

A rendezvous upon the sound --

The cars rev up; the word goes round.

Their words are weapons of their will.

Their words can hurt.

Their words can kill.

A burning phrase can burn a town.

A syllable can bring you down.

Their languages are coded.

Your image is eroded...

Their sentimental calling signs

Are calculatingly designed

To rob you of your mind and time,

And still you listen to

The lulling drone of reassuring voices,

Tunes to take away your choices,

Make you slaves to fancy words and phrases

Until you're pushing up the daisies.

They steal away your freedom

and your love.

 

The Damage of Life

Can't you see the pain tattooed on faces,

Cracks appearing on a broken plate?

Mirror, Oh, Mirror, is there any answer?

But the mirror drops, smashing our fate.

Dust of Time

Looking from the future into the past

Footprints of awareness approaching so fast

Queues of sterile mothers waiting for inspection

Populace diminished -- everywhere there is rejection

 

Dust of time caught in your eye

A fleeting glimpse gone in a sigh 

Infinity

She led me to a palace gate

With constellation towers.

She is the keeper of my fate.

I sleep locked in her powers.

She turned the key

Of endlessness and locked me

In a dream.  Infinity.

Living on a Knife Edge

Every time I go out, I think I'm being checked out,

Faceless people watching on a TV screen.

Do you begin to sense it, just beneath the surface,

Reflections of a window whilst walking down the street?

   Computers are abused.  School records are fed.

Police are checking on what you've said.

The number of your car's fed into a box.

Your journey's being checked; it's a paradox.

Duplicate forms and ID cards are next in line to disregard.

Future generations are relying on us.

It's a world we've made -- Incubus.

We're living on a knife edge, looking for the ground.

Ode to a Time Flower

But not quite as easy after all

I find.  As my fingers reach to grasp

Your gleaming head to wrench from its tall

Transparent stalk, they refuse to clasp,

As did Pandora's eager hands hold still

At the thought of the box containing ill

Or the stoned explorers of Medusa stall

For time not entered in their log

Before they dared the petrific fog

That holds them still in its timeless thrall...

 

a nectary of time

That with my fingers I could pluck as easily

As sounding strings to recite their chime,

And your most exquisite petals melt icily

In my palm.   To hold the flow of moments past

As carefully as I would my last

Few seconds left on Earth -- Would that be crime?

Or if I picked you just to see you turn

To crystalled pearl in my eyes and learn

How man is Angel on his way from slime .... 

Psi Power

When I was a kid in school,

They showed me symbols on cards.

Then they showed me from a locked and bolted room.

I had to fake that it was hard....

And all I said was "may I please take a rest?"

I didn't want them to know I was possessed

with Psi Power.

 

Psi Power

Psi Power

I can read your mind like a magazine.

I see where you're at.

I know what you mean.

I get all the secrets that you'd rather keep...

 

Psi Power

It's a gift that soon turns sour.

Why don't they let me get some rest?

It's too much to understand,

Too much to digest.

Psi Power

 

Reptoid Vision

Reptoid Vision, silicon eyes.......

Digital crystal, scratched with the scene

Escalator sidewalks, split at the seams

Fire created the chemical motion

Tidal wave curve on the rise of the ocean

 

Robot

Nine to five or ten to six, up to the city and back to the
     sticks.

You've got to unwind your mind. You've got to unwind your
     mind.

Sit back.  Switch on.  Your face has got a twitch on.

Your fuses are blown out in a double bind.

Air-conditioned, psycho-analysed -- you're very nearly human,

You're so well disguised.

Robot, Robot, you're a Robot, Robot.

 

You're warm when it's cold.  You're cool when it's hot.

Your life is recorded on a micro-dot, Robot, Robot.

You'd hold the whole world in your metal claws

if it wasn't for the three laws of robotics.

 

Automated homunculus, you queue for the paper.

You queue for the bus.  You're a "good morning" machine.

You're a "how are you?" device.

Sit back.  Light up.  Never put a fight up.

Sit there fuming till your face turns green.

Air conditioned, and desensitised -- you're very nearly human

You're so well disguised.

Robot, Robot

 

Running Through the Backbrain

There's a roaring in my ears that will not die

And signals in the sky I can't identify.

My eyes are melting and my lips are moving

And the words that I am hearing are not soothing.

 

Breathing's getting harder.

There's nothing in the larder.

The building's falling over,

Or the Sun is going nova,

Or is it my old-fashioned paranoia?...

 

A myriad of letters

From my elders and my betters.

The Killer's moving faster.

He tells me that he's my master.

Or was he just asking me "the time please?"

 

The Secret Agent

I was trained in Arizona

in a secret desert camp

where we did night manoeuvers

without a lighted lamp.

I've got an old worn Trilby hat

that doesn't keep me dry.

When the rain falls on my mack

it plays havoc with the dye.

I wear my dark shades every day of the year.

When I see my reflection, it strikes a note of fear.

 

I've got a dozen gadgets concealed in my clothes.

I've got some suicide pills that taste like herb of cloves.

I've not got a single friend -- just my armpit gun,

and when I go to bed at night it certainly helps me, son.

I'm always getting in tight spots.

I manage to escape

by either jumping off a train

or swimming in a lake.

Soon I'm in a right state.

 

I'm a secret agent; there's nowhere you can hide.

I'm a secret agent taking you for a ride.

What's your name?  What's your game?

Details never stop.

Work alone on your own,

collar up, hat pulled down,

on the beach, with a peach,

sometimes good, sometimes bad,

drinking coffee, feeling sad.

 

Seven By Seven

Lost am I in this world of timelessness and woe.

Can I find the doorways through which I must go?

Is the key to this plane too much for me to try to gain?

Is the passport to this world my astral soul?

 

Sonic Attack -- ( from planned government development of sound
                as a weapon or crowd suppresser)

In case of sonic attack on your district, follow these rules:...

 

Use your wheels. It is what they are for.

Small babies may be placed inside the special cocoons,

which should be left, if possible, in a shelter.

Do not attempt to use your own limbs.

If no wheels are available, metal, not organic, limbs

should be employed whenever practical.....

 

Statistically more people survive if they think only of
    themselves.

Do not attempt to rescue friends, relatives, or loved ones.

You have only a few seconds to escape.

Use those seconds sensibly or you will inevitably die.

Do not panic.

Think only of yourselves....

 

You can help no-one else, No-one else, No-one else...... 

Treadmill

I am so distant

        And so cold.

I've lived too long

        And I'm so old.

I've tried so many distant ways.

I've watched each one of them delayed.

 

I can't expound for the ages

While we are leafing through the pages.

The office blocks from which we march

The mirrored shades of the Patriarch.

 

Caught by streams of constant motion,

Most of the workers have no notion.

Sitting glued to the computer screens

Fingers raised -- "must finish the scene."

 

TV Suicide

All our life is squarely pictured.

An eye on the world    It's no mystery.

Grazing with the handset  is a nightly feature.

Everything I need is on my TV:

     Soft soap, Hard Sell         Infrared Remote Control

Your finger is on the button.

But who has got your soul?

     Soft Soap, Hard Sell, Come on down the price is hell.

Can you tell the difference?

     Soft Soap, Hard Sell, Come on down the price is hell.

Hit pain where it hurts.

     Soft Soap, Hard Sell, Come on down the price is hell.

Have I ever let you down?

     Soft Soap, Hard Sell, Come on down the price is hell.

Trust Me, Trust Me.

     Soft Soap, Hard Sell, Come on down the price is hell.

 

Watching the Grass Grow

Particle Accelerators

Morality Degenerators

Data Disseminators

Cyclotron attenuators

Hyperspatial Conflagrators

MEST Integrators

 

Letting the grass grow

Letting the grass grow

We all know where the flowers went today:

Media explosion blew them all away.

After the thunder

Always comes the rain.

We're coming up again.

Letting the grass grow

Letting the grass grow

 

Post future reality -- it's a better real world.

Post future reality -- it's a real better world.

Post future super-reality -- it's a real super world.

Post holocaust hilarity -- it's a super real world.

Post future surreality -- it's sure a surreal world.

Post future surreality -- it's a real surreal world.

 

The Welcoming Hands of Space

The stars are sprinkled in handfuls tonight.

They are something we can't crush or deface,

Rough cut diamonds in a juggler's palms.

The welcoming hands of Space

The welcoming hands of Space

 

Orbital junk and failed re-entries,

Unclear warheads and nuclear waste,

A fragile girdle, jet-propelled

Into the welcoming hands of Space

Into the welcoming hands of Space...

 

Blind alleys, divine ironies

Launch us out to the cold embrace

To seek enclosure and completion

In the welcoming hands of Space

In the welcoming hands of Space

 

Xenomorph

Antibodies feel me.

You can't even see me,

Synthetically productive

Xenomorphic blood test

My blood type has raped you.

I'll have to sedate you.

You'll have to escape through

The tunnel of light.

Robert Calvert's Solo Work

The Song of the Gremlin

I focused the magnifying glass

that brought the downfall of Icarus.

Balloons were easy:  a simple pin.

Or a knife in the case of the zeppelin.

      That blade was the cause of many a prang

in the early days of stick and string.

      I am the gremlin. I was there,

Making mischief in the air,

and always will be, wherever man

flies in the face of Creation's plan.

 

The Luminous Green Glow of the Dials of the Dashboard (at Night)

The digital read-out of the fuel and the pressure

The flickering needle of time overloading

The glare of the headlights reverts in the distance

 

The luminous green glow of the dials on the dashboard at night

 

The nebula city's like a video coin-game.

On the curved screen of real-time, the lights blink like radar.

The radio static white noise fluctuations.

The changes of accent as you glide through the stations.

 

The luminous green glow of the dials on the dashboard at night

 

Spotlit intersection indicate overtaking.

Turn down the dip-switch, the world's just a blurred frame.

Peripheral detuned forever perspective

Morse code off the white line, the motorway flare path

The service is neon, a juke-box of concrete.

 

The luminous green glow of the dials on the dashboard at night

 

All the Machines are Quiet

we're walking out

we're downing our tools.

this management

they take us for fools.

all we're asking is

a living wage...

and now

there's nothing i can do.

i spend my days in dreams

and join the endless queue,

so far from the machines,

all the machines are quiet.

i could scream.

all the machines are quiet.

 

Fly on the Wall

While you wait in the queue

hanging round in the foyer,

there's a lens fixed on you.

(no, it's not paranoia.)

It's a steel toothed comb

like the ones used for head-lice tests.

You can tell by the tone:

hollow echoing on the phone.

It's all on tape --

your voice-print's wave shape.

It's stored on file.

 

There's a sign on the door:

The Department of Secrets --

And in there there's yours,

all your hopes and your regrets.

They've invaded your home.

They've invaded your privacy.

You thought you were alone,

but there's always the microphone

listening in -- before you begin

it's all on file.

 

Here are a few links:

Welcome to the Future -- The official Hawkwind web site

This site is a labor of love by Knut Gerwers, who recognizes the many talents of deceased band member Robert Calvert, a man ahead of his time.  Leave a fair amount of time if you plan to visit this site.

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© 2005 by Frances Shefl
Album art and lyrics belong to Hawkwind.