Review: Hawkwind, Marble Factory

Being a Hawkwind lifer entails putting up with quite a lot. Lowlights include Sam Fox singing Master of the Universe (this actually happened, though many persist in believing they just had a particularly bad trip), that ill-advised ’90s detour into the ravey-davey cul-de-sac, and gigs that have frequently been marred by a terrible muddy sound mix in which the guitars all but disappear.

Then suddenly, gloriously and unexpectedly, they pull off a magnificent show like this. Maybe it’s due to the Marble Factory’s PA, or perhaps their engineer finally had his ears syringed, but this is what we want 21st century Hawkwind to sound like – a hypnotic, propulsive and dynamic modern space-rock band putting those legions of stoner whippersnappers firmly in their place.

Rising to the occasion, founder Dave Brock is positively animated and engaged, sticking to guitar throughout rather than hiding away behind banks of keyboards as he is often wont to do. Mind you, that may be simply because it’s bloody parky in here and he’s just trying to keep warm (the old boy’s 73 now and could be forgiven for opting for pipe’n’slippers). After a couple of songs, he even takes his coat off. Then he thinks better of it and puts it back on again.

If the Hawks had intended to showcase this return to sonic form, they couldn’t have chosen a better opener than the riff-driven Motorway City. Having revisited the Michael Moorcock era on the Warrior on the Edge of Time anniversary tour, they now restore more of the Robert Calvert material to its rightful place in the set, the typically brain-frying projections incorporating clips from Dr. Strangelove during Damnation Alley.

For agit-prop, they mine opposite ends of their lengthy career: We Took the Wrong Step Years Ago from 1971’s In Search of Space, which also harks back to Brock’s very early busking years, and Seasons from 2012’s Onward, which is accompanied by scenes of strife and protest (or “the world’s most depressing screen saver,” as a pal quips).

Keyboardist Dead Fred whips up a violin frenzy during an epic and very welcome Born To Go, while the refreshingly clear sound mix reminds us that Hawkwind are one of the few bands to use drums as a lead instrument. Richard Chadwick’s busy yet rhythmically precise playing wouldn’t be out of place in the most accomplished prog rock act.

Tim Blake still rocks the unfashionable keytar unashamedly, while occasional bassist Mr Dibs has toned down the grandstanding a bit and is developing into the best vocalist Hawkwind have employed since Calvert. Possibly for budgetary reasons, we get just the one lithe and acrobatic lady gyrator tonight, though her impressive routines would perhaps have worked better if they’d been incorporated into songs rather than giving the band a couple of fag breaks. Encore time brings the dystopian masterpiece Spirit of the Age, allowing us all to sing along to that “Oh for the wings of any bird other than a battery hen” line.

Lights go up. Brock bids Farewell. Audience starts to shuffle out. But what’s this? Here’s Dibs again, coaxing the rest of the band back on stage to treat the suitably orgasmic remaining faithful to a magnificent Orgone Accumulator, with projections of naked breasts serving as their incorrigible old hippy salute to International Women’s Day.