Why go in search of space when you’ve already found it? You would have to ask the space rockers in Hawkwind, which on its 1971 sophomore LP In Search of Space takes you on an aural tour of the cosmic beyond on a psychedelic double-decker bus, pointing out the sites while reminding you, on “You Shouldn’t Do That,” to not feed the pulsating Day-Glo protoplasm. I know, I know—it looks friendly. But it will envelop your hand like the Blob, and have the rest of you for dessert.
What differentiated the early Hawkwind from their psychedelic rock brethren was their rich instrumental palette and decided Krautrock tendencies. They came at you with guitars, flute, saxophone, synthesizer, and audio generators, lots of audio generators. And they sure knew how to establish a killer drone. The almost sixteen-minute ”You Shouldn’t Do That” dispenses with choruses and bridges and all of that nonsense because they just kill the momentum—I doubt you’ll find any bridges in the furthest reaches of space, but who am I to say? I should have flunked physics (and would have had my teacher not been terrified of seeing me again) and for all I know the universe is one big chorus.
In Search of Space revs its engines with the aforementioned “You Shouldn’t Do That,” which opens with the sound of eon-glugging space whales, then rockets you into the psychosphere (a word I may have just made up!) at the speed of lava lamp. Nik Turner’s alto saxophone and what sounds to me like the whistling noise on Flipper’s “Sex Bomb” join some group vocals that sound like an endless repetition of “Chick-fil-A.”
After that Turner and electric guitarist Dave Brock really get down to business, accompanied by lots of soaring intergalactic noise (and some cool hissing), and my only problem are the lyrics, which reveal that like David Crosby and so many other freaks of the era, Hawkwind had a pathological fear of what Freud called “hippie hair castration,” as demonstrated by the lines “You try so hard to get somewhere/They put you down and cut your hair.”
The intergalactic jam “You Know You’re Only Dreaming” opens with some spacey “ooooooos” and has a Pink Floyd feel to it, that is until Dave Anderson’s bass and Brock’s electric guitar come in with a vengeance, joined by Turner’s orbiting flute. Then the tempo goes from fast to slow to sideways, up and down, and Turner adds alto saxophone to his flute. But don’t let the flute and sax fool you—the rhythm section and Brock’s ax lend the song muscle.
“Master of the Universe” is a real guitar rave-up, with Brock delivering on some power chords to the accompaniment of one very heavy rhythm section and lots of swooping, whooping synthesizer. Turner (who sings lead) piles on as well with both saxophone and flute. Then you get a false ending, the bass comes back in followed by drums and some chukka-chukka guitar, and just how cool is this song? I’ll tell you. The Ford Motor Company featured it on a TV ad in 2012, presumably to market their new F-X-1000 Space Chariot, which could go from zero to five million mph in the time it took me to write this sentence. Unfortunately it had to be recalled because it vaporized at high speeds.
The folky, acoustic guitar workout “We Took the Wrong Turn Years Ago” reminds me of Jethro Tull, that is if you added the big bang at the beginning and a flock of lunar seagulls. Synthesizers to the left of you, synthesizers to the right, and just as you’re sinking into the loveliness, the song it takes off like a nuclear rocket sled, only to slow again, with Brock singing about either ecological doom or egg salad–the lyrics are rather vague. “Children of the Sun” also features the acoustic guitar and is a real bummer until Turner’s flute comes in and Brock puts some elbow grease on the guitar to take things out.
“Adjust Me” is a total mind fuck, psychedelic rock at its freakiest, what with the synthesizers making all manner of noise until Brock comes along playing a single electric guitar riff followed by an increasingly cartoonish voice repeating the words “Adjust me.” Then the song commences to march along to the sound of Brock’s electric guitar and lots of out-of-kilter synthesizer, after which Brock plays an actual guitar solo. I’ll bet it sounds great if you just won first place in an LSD sugar-cube-eating contest, and it even sounds great to a non-competitor like yours truly, who only dropped acid once and spent the next 11 hours on my hands and knees looking for it under the sofa.
We’re all earthbound, although William Shatner got far enough away from our planet to appreciate the view. Fortunately we’re awash in great psychedelic bands, Hawkwind, in my humble opinion, being the best of them, as anyone who has heard “Silver Machine,” “Fable of a Failed Race,” “Lord of Light,” or “Motorhead” will attest. Let the riff-raff go with Pink Floyd. Hawkwind has played Jupiter. And I’m talking the entire planet. Pink Floyd has to be content with arenas. Add that to the bricks in your wall.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
A
