WARRIOR ON THE EDGE OF TIME
“I want to stand as close to the edge as I can without going over. Out on the edge you see all kinds of things you can't see from the center.”― Kurt Vonnegut
As time marches on, Hawkwind has gained more and more frequency on the Katznelson turntable. A hairy, scuzzy leather-clad band of misfits underappreciated for the influential guitar-drum attack and relentless grooves pushing through each release, with a die-cut super designed artistic aesthetic applied to each record release to match: the space jamming dark, mysterious electric mayhem that was Hawkwind launched a sound that would end up weaving itself into the future of dance music, rock music, experimental and noise music and most probably music made by aliens after their sonic attack waves were picked up extra-terrestrially. And during the classic Hawkwind period, atop all of the fuzz madness, was the hail of a saxophone, a constant call of the wild, played by incorrigible furry space traveler, Nik Turner.
Turner passed away this Thursday passed after announcing less than a year ago that he would be retiring from touring due to health issues. Judging by social media posts by his family and close comrades, the serial touring and recording pioneer experienced a final chapter of pause, willed with love, family and friends….still producing psychedelic sounds in the studio, still always with a sly devilish grin.
There is a great doc on Hawkwind available on youtube, telling the tale of the rise of the band from London’s Ladbroke Road, with Turner a key player in the bands sounds and chaos, to their success internationally; Turner became the heart of Hawkwind, causing a schism between he and founder David Brock, leading to Turner’s jettison from the band in 1976. And while Hawkwind still records solid records to this day (a pretty amazing feet), they were (and are) never as good without him. Turner went on to found his Space Ritual, continuing to experiment with the space rock idiom releasing record after record, touring the world.
I was stumbling around the Green Fields of Glastonbury late one chaotic eve in 2017 when I came upon a bouquet of embers launching from a fire pit beside a medium size rag tag circus tent. A long haired creaturette of the night, right out of the romanticized slums of a Dickens novel—like Nancy from Oliver Twist—came from within, sitting down next to me with eyes electrified by the flame— open and crazed. She tended the fire while welcoming me to the tent of Nik Turner. She had been to the legendary shows Hawkwind had performed during the early years of Glastonbury, and this tent was the place where the lasting friends and family were still gathering, with Nik as conductor, sewing their music back into the ley lines of the land that King Arthur had once galloped upon. She talked of ritual magic inside that I needed to experience, telling me to come come back in the morning to get lost in the madness that was the true heart of the festival.
That next day, I woke up and hiked back up the long path through meadows of just-waking artisans and acrobats and organic eateries of the Green and Future fields, to Nik Turner’s tent of exploration. The legend was taking the stage with a group of musicians young and old, from various bands whose names I have seen on progressive and psychedelic music compilations, some with top hats and tails, others with head to to tie die, some trail weary and other just beginning their musical journey. They were just starting to create a riff they would hang on and improvise from for the next half hour, conducted by the eyes of the glittered sax-player Nik Turner. It was a wave of sounds overtaking the atmosphere (being fueled by a lone dreaded biker riding a contraption that was electrifying the entire tent, utopian hippy style).
The band played….morphed…with new musicians joining as others took seats next to me. I was in an evolving musical organism providing sounds for a mind adventure, and while I was too young to witness the greatness of Hawkwind during the Nik Turner years, I got to witness his art form seep from his pores through his bandmates scatter-shot into the crowd of friends and new friends.
I have been listening to a hell of a lot of his music since his passing…great records like Warriors On The Edge Of Time and In Search Of Space, grateful for the artistry of Nik Turner. RIP.
Colin Consterdine, who was working with Nik til the end, would think me remiss if I did not direct you to his bandcamp page (press HERE) to hear a release that they worked on together. Colin, you are incredible for giving Nik the room to continue to create in his final days.
Top 25 Most Expensive Items Sold on Discogs in October 2022
Ahhhh…who wants a blood-filled pressing of the Friday the 13th soundtrack for over $4000???? As usual, the list is a fascinating read.
The Clash’s Paul Simonon Has A New Art Show
I always knew that Simonon was a visual artist as well as a great bassist, but this is the first time I have actually seen his work…
Birmingham musician Sun Ra part of upcoming Smithsonian exhibit
History is HIS-STORY….I want to talk about MY story: “Herman Poole Blount, who grew up in Birmingham before taking the name ‘Sun Ra’ and embarking on a decades-long musical journey with his longtime band, the Arkestra, will be part of an exhibit at the Smithsonian’s National Museum of African American History and Culture called ‘Afrofuturism: A History of Black Futures.’”
Remembering an “effervescently affable man”: Kurt Vonnegut at 100
A sweet tribute by John Self for the great author on his centennial.
Warhol Museum discovers rare master tracks of Velvet Underground debut
File this under: HOW MANY VELVET UNDERGROUND RECORDINGS ARE LEFT TO BE FOUND??! The band was not around ALL THAT LONG and yet….and yet….they keep finding more and more and more music from them. And I want to hear it all.
The Mind Is An Enchanting Thing
By: Marianne Moore
is an enchanted thing
like the glaze on a
katydid-wing
subdivided by sun
till the nettings are legion.
Like Gieseking playing Scarlatti;
like the apteryx-awl
as a beak, or the
kiwi’s rain-shawl
of haired feathers, the mind
feeling its way as though blind,
walks along with its eyes on the ground.
It has memory’s ear
that can hear without
having to hear.
Like the gyroscope’s fall,
truly equivocal
because trued by regnant certainty,
it is a power of
strong enchantment. It
is like the dove-
neck animated by
sun; it is memory’s eye;
it’s conscientious inconsistency.
It tears off the veil; tears
the temptation, the
mist the heart wears,
from its eyes – if the heart
has a face; it takes apart
dejection. It’s fire in the dove-neck’s
iridescence; in the
inconsistencies
of Scarlatti.
Unconfusion submits
its confusion to proof: it’s
not a Herod’s oath that cannot change.