Hawkwind in jail

Hawkwind In Jail

This article first appeared in the 17/2/73 issue of Melody Maker...

windows that defied the sun. Not that there was a sun to be seen that day. A warden — a screw, as the residents say — walked in front with a bunch of keys. There are keys for everything. If you wanted the toilet the first thing you looked for was a warden and a key. The venue was a lozenge-shaped assembly hall. The high ceiling and walls were naked but for a frail dressing of non-committal pastel paint, and there were rows of simple wooden chairs awaiting an audience. The light show scaffolding masked a pipe organ, and at the other end of the hall the stage set was sitting dormant waiting for action. The Space Ritual symbols, banners and emblems were on display. Behind the stage area were a couple of rooms that could be used for changing clothes. Stacia was transforming herself into an inter-galactic priestess, the rest of the group were talking and walking, and an inmate was serving tea and sandwiches. On the wall hung a calendar of "Golden Thoughts" provided by some Bible promotion society called the Trinitarians. The golden thought for the day was; "Take my yoke upon you, and learn of me" — Matt II 29.

The audience began filing through the entrance and sitting in complete, gapless rows. They were dressed in grey, and they had serious faces. One or two of the younger ones talked at each other. Most people stared at the stage as the roadies made their final checks. In the ranks, the rule seemed to be that the older you were the less you moved, including tongue.

Some were in their fifties. They might have been inside for ten or fifteen years. Why should they want to come and see Hawkwind, who sang about the freedom of Space and who, in comparison with prison life, must have looked as if they'd just flown out of it? They waited silently, immune to the pre-lift-off swooshes and gurgles of the Space Ritual. There wasn't much resemblance to Cash at San Quentin.

Lift-off. The group was on stage and a heavy rhythm pounded from the speakers. These were sounds that your own parents wouldn't endure, so what were the chances for this little trip through time, in a place where clocks stood still in grey uniformity.

It must have been around the time that Stacia first came on that the sound of whistling filtered through to the front, that people started standing up, and beating time with their feet and hands, that any fears that age might prove a barrier disappeared. They might have come only to break their monotony, but the motive was by then unimportant.

Stacia didn't introduce her usual bare-breasted routine. But she danced and spun and mimed until every stony face was involved. Hawkwind's sound — equipment and ability — has advanced remarkably during the last few months, and their light show has travelled with them. Its scenes of lunar landscapes, planets, stars, ships and spacemen made an impression, judging from comments overheard.

Weird

The rockiest number — " Orgone Accumulator " — got the loudest whistles. It was just a straight rocker with weird words, and the people didn't need to be told. The lyrics weren't always clear, but they were available in the Space Ritual booklet distributed around the seats before the show. Some of the concepts seemed totally alien to that hall and what supported it. Astrophonic metawaves, ley lines and roboscribes would even receive uncomprehending expressions outside those walls.

The end of the ritual was fast approaching. The group went into "Psychedelic Warlords"... "We're sick of politicians, harrassment and laws, all we do is get screwed up by other people's flaws. The world's turned upside down now, we've got nothing else to do except live in concrete jungles that just block up our views"...

Finally into "The Watcher." Nik Turner's grim metallic tones echoed the final message to the Blue Planet. The prisoners yell for more, but time has run dry. The main lights went on and the people filed out in orderly chains whence they came. It was like meeting someone on the brow of a rounded hill, neither one of you having much idea where the other came from. Backstage four inmates were collecting autographs, and a couple of warders were asking questions about the lightshow. Some of us wanted to go, not because the building was repressive but because it was sterile.

We looked for the warder with the key.

It’s a sluggish grey English evening, nearly five, and the rush hour droning on like a spiteful dream. Except where we're going they probably wouldn't remember much about traffic. Some of them might even feel lost a few hundred feet from their own front door. But they don't have much call to go out these days, so perhaps it doesn't matter.

A van approaches through the surrounding labyrinth of streets. There's no direct route from the main road. It's a case of driving in ever decreasing rectangles until finally you emerge in front of one of the most famous doors in London.

Walls

The vast brown semi-gloss slab that you see has in its time opened for some of England's most famous criminals, including some of the Great Train Robbers. Figures leave the van and walk self-consciously towards the barren, constrained architecture of the prison walls. A guard patrols twenty or thirty feet from the entrance. At their approach he tugs his alsatian, and it sullenly consents to stand behind him. A small segment opens in the main door, and there are more guards. Names are taken. Nik Turner, Dave Brock, Lemmy, DikMik, Simon King, Del, Bob Calvert, Stacia... It's like leaving your identity at the door. To be collected.

The procedure is brisk and well practiced. Very little time passes before being led through a set of cage bars, and Hawkwind are inside. There was little to see, no more than a primary school regular could imagine. Bare tarmac, smog stained brick walls and