MUDKISS FANZINE

Maybe I’m just a shallow thrill-seeker, but I was hoping to see Arthur Brown set fire to his head. He, of all people, would understand this – after all, Arthur’s been tapping into the primal nature of man’s relationship with fire since shortly after flint first hit stone. As it happened, he didn’t. This probably has more to do with intrusive Health & Safety rules than it does any reticence on the great man’s part. The public have to be protected from any passive effects derived from inhaling Arthur’s flaming bonce, I suppose. Although it would undoubtedly provide a decent hit.

Brown’s Crazy World is now a trio. There’s a fella named Jim Mortimore done up like Didier Malherbe playing everything from Mandolin to laptop Mac, and Steve Watts, a big lad with nice hair in a gold lame suit on keyboards. Arthur emerges wearing a full face black mask – Had there been some kind of unfortunate flame/face/colander interface earlier in the tour, perhaps? After the first number, he removes his face wear to reveal that he’s unscathed, although it’s hard to tell with the stage make up and that ... he did look a bit red.

He’s a lot of fun – A veteran performer who clearly enjoys what he’s doing and transmits it to his audience, regardless of the fact that most of us only know ‘Fire’. Those that have met him universally say that he’s a good egg and it’s easy to see how he connects with people. Despite the absence of any self-immolation, Arthur maintains visual interest via a series of costume changes. He owns several pairs of parachute pants, which he wears very well. That’s not something you can say about many people. Arthur’s 40 minute set included a pleasingly un-saccharine version of ‘Put A Spell On You’ and, unsurprisingly, culminated in an energetic rendition of ‘Fire’.   

As the heady combination of patchouli oil and Thai grass drifted through the cool air outside the venue, it was evident that Hawkwind have a transgenerational appeal. Yes, there was plenty of bald guys clinging onto their ponytails despite all logic dictating that the smart thing to do would be to cut the silly thing off and move on, and there was the odd aged crusty, determinedly sporting that full scalp tattoo that seemed like a good idea after those mushrooms, but there was also a decent number of people too young to remember the halcyon days of Lemmy and Stacia, or to have been rudely awoken as the solstice sun rose over Stonehenge. There was also a bloke knocking about who looked uncannily like Conway Twitty.

Hawkwind gigs have punctuated my life over the last 30 years. They’re a bit like running into a gang of fellas who used to live in the squat down the road, and increasingly struggling to recall any of them from back in the day. This time, I only recognised Dave Brock. Then again, it’s been a long flight, and crew members seem to appear and disappear like wraiths from Solaris. Only the Captain constantly mans the bridge, occasionally disappearing backstage to take on vital nourishment.

The current line up seems a lot more cohesive than the incarnation I saw at the Royal Festival Hall several years ago. They certainly seem happier. Although the technical wizardry of the likes of Dik Mik is long gone, Theremin, keyboards and even a fiddle are used to good effect to create a suitably cosmic sonic attack on the district. There’s a pounding version of ‘Angels of Death’ that features duelling basses and even ‘Silver Machine’ gets an airing. Interestingly, it is the 1980s material such as ‘Fahrenheit 451’ that seems to go over best, although the whole set was greeted enthusiastically.

Of course, you’d expect visuals – and we were treated to a light show, film projections and stilt walking from dancers Steff and Laura – who managed to cram in about eight costume changes in the first dozen or so songs. The two hour set rarely sagged and it seems that Captain Brock and his crew will continue their forty year mission in good shape.