Category Archives: Music

Kate Bush: Before the Dawn.


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Before the Dawn Sunset

Kate Bush with her son Bertie as the artist in A Sky of Honey

Spoiler and bad language alert: If you are planning on seeing the concert and you don’t want any of it revealed then read no further.  Also Kate Bush swears like a trooper.

I planned on writing this straight after seeing the concert but it’s taken me about five days for my thoughts to marshal themselves into any form of coherent sense. There was a point in the evening where I realised I’d paid a couple of hundred pounds to watch a 56-year old woman whirl around in circles on a stage doing bird impersonations – and that it was one of the best things I’d ever experienced in my life and well worth every penny. I’m not going to spend the next few paragraphs gushing about how brilliant the entire performance was – plenty of other people have done a better job and I realise not everyone reading this is a dyed in the wool addict like myself. Even Kate Bush herself clearly still doesn’t understand the effect she has on people. The opening line of the program explains that one of the reasons she wanted to go on stage was ‘to have contact with the audience that still liked my work’ (my italics) as if her fan base was about the same size as the two dozen losers who turn up to see Spinal Tap play second fiddle to a puppet show, and not the 80,000 who bought her tickets within the first 15 minutes of them going on sale.


This was more or less the part where she started making bird noises.

A good point to start is probably comparing it to her concert The Tour of Life 35 years ago, which I saw at the Manchester Apollo. At that time she had only two albums to her name, The Kick Inside and Lionheart so the two-hour set saw her go through her entire catalogue. She sang every song as a unique piece, changing costume for most, accompanied by a couple of dancers and the illusionist Simon Drake. As with Before the Dawn it was designed as a theatre piece in three acts, and everyone was supposed to sit down instead of leap out of their seats and pogo in the mosh pit like they did at all the other concerts. Kate Bush herself was 21 and by her own admission terrified, and didn’t interact with the audience at all, something which Charles Shaar Murray picked up in his damning review in the New Musical Express (his was a lone voice amid universal praise but then the resolutely pro-punk NME was a pretentiously grim slog at the time).


“You can’t fucking have bigger fucking waves!” – Kate Bush, 2014

In Before the Dawn she happily chatted with the audience, which on occasion was a bit surreal because she has a charmingly sweet, occasionally girly, voice, which contrasted alarmingly with (for example) scenes in which a puppet apparently batters a bird to death with a rock or she got chased round the set by fish skeletons. The two programs also make for an interesting contrast. The Tour of Life had very little in it and smacks of winsome theatre school artiness in its alternating poetry and stream of consciousness description of scampering through ‘rush-hour London, with … dancing clothes under my arm’. Before the Dawn, goes into fascinating detail about the concept, planning and execution of the two main dramatic pieces based on the The Ninth Wave sequence from the Hounds of Love album and A Sky of Honey from Aerial. It’s a wonderfully down to earth and often funny account of the herculean effort and massive attention to detail that made the evening such an incredible experience. In this prissy age I’d forgotten how sweary we all used to be in the 70s. Kate Bush clearly hasn’t (though to be fair she’d been submerged in a tank for 6 hours by this time and was suffering from mild hypothermia):

“You can’t have bigger fucking waves.” I said. “They go all over the fucking live vocal and they sound like a fucking bathroom, not the fucking ocean!”

“Well it doesn’t look right we need bigger waves.”

“You can’t fucking have bigger fucking waves!”


It came as shock to see just how scary Kate Bush’s vision can be.

The concert was divided into three parts. For the first twenty minutes or so she sang half a dozen songs from Hounds of LoveThe Red Shoes and Aerial. It’s clear she’s put a dividing line between the first four albums, and the rest, and that she sees the core of her musical development in longer concept pieces from The Ninth Wave onwards – so no Wuthering Heights or Babooshka. To be honest if she’d just carried on working her way through a set at the front of the stage with the band behind her it still would have been a stunning concert, but then she switched into the first of the two theatrical pieces and the genius knob went all the way up to eleven. The Ninth Wave is a thirty minute journey through the mind of a woman floating in the sea after falling overboard, oscillating between fear, desperate loneliness, hope and finally a glorious reaffirmation of life. The piece combined film, TV, music, dance, lighting, creepy sets and costumes and a big helicopter-style machine that lowered over the audience.


Kate Bush carried off by terrifying fish skeletons


The second piece, after the interval, was taken from Aerial. It’s less of a narrative and more a linked mood-piece centred around images of a sunset, birdsong and painting. This part of the staging used the motif of a painter’s dummy come to life to wander through the scenes evoked by the songs. This is when it struck me that Kate Bush’s vision is often a lot more sinister than I’d previously thought. Like the best fairy tales her music, and the visions she constructs around them, have a very dark side that on occasion took me by surprise. I’d always listened to A Sky of Honey (one of my favourites) as a beautiful elegiac sequence evoking long summer evenings and love. As the puppet wandered around the stage, and birds flew across the projection screen, it constantly felt as if the whole piece teetered on the edge of a nightmare (it takes a lot to make an enormous slow motion blue tit look threatening). The fact that the band wore bird skulls for this part didn’t lighten the mood. In fact the whole concert peeled away layers from the songs so that even though I know them all inside out and backwards, I now look at most of them in a new light.

Kate Bush

It was clear from the very beginning that Kate Bush was having huge fun throughout the entire three hours. When she sang the penultimate song, the achingly beautiful  Among Angels from 50 Words for Snow, her voice was just as rich and pitch-perfect as at the beginning. As someone said she’s set the bar impossibly high now and shown everybody else up big time. Interestingly I saw the gig the same week U2 dumped their tired going-through-the-motions stadium-rock on the world’s iPhones and the contrast was just embarrassing.

So it was as expected – certifiably insane and meticulously beautiful. Five days later I’ve still got all her songs running on an eternal loop through my head in that voice, to the point where I can’t listen to anything other artist right now because she drowns them all out.


The King of Elfland’s Daughter – 1977


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For years the TV program Top of the Pops and the Sunday Top 40 on Radio One had a stranglehold on popular music in the UK. Bands sank or swam depending on where they were in the charts and how much exposure they got on the BBC on a Thursday evening. Rankings depended entirely on singles sales, which were often fiddled (a scandal erupted when it transpired that major record labels were bribing stores to return false numbers). It was a system that lead to the most bizarre anomalies when dire novelty records like Father Abraham and the Smurfs rubbed shoulders with Generation X and The Stranglers. It also led to serious bands being unfairly associated with gimmicky one-off singles. A good example is The Strawbs, a folk rock band responsible for the glorious concept album Grave New World, but chiefly remembered for the frankly rubbish Pub Piano Oompah number Part of the Union. Steeleye Span suffered the same fate, being eternally associated with songs like All Around My Hat, a bouncy ditty that cemented them in the public mind as semi-comic manglers of traditional folk, an image that their appearance on the kids’ program Crackerjack did little to dispel. Folk Rock was always open to the charge that it was little more than a cider-quaffing Morris Dancers who’d found some electric guitars in the attic and decided to see if they could still play them with one finger in their ears. And yet, on the album side, there was a rich and magnificent tradition of entirely serious Folk Rock banging out interesting and complex concept albums – Jethro Tull being the chief movers, but also Steeleye Span. In 1977 two of the band, guitarist Bob Johnson and fiddle player Peter Knight, released The King of Elfland’s Daughter, a concept album based on Lord Dunsany’s 1924 classic fantasy novel.

Lord Dunsany

Lord Dunsany

The horrors of the First World War sparked off a massive crisis in Western culture. At the supposed apex of human civilisation, in a world achieving wonders of science and commerce and brimming with Imperial self-confidence, four years of bloody carnage laid waste to Europe and destroyed the Enlightenment certainties of Reason as the guiding principle in human destiny. It sparked off a rejection of faith amongst artists and intellectuals, one symptom of which was the birth of English Literature as a university subject. Christianity, marshalled in the support of slaughter (‘God is on our side’) had clearly failed to provide moral guidance, perhaps art and poetry could act as a substitute. Not surprisingly the medieval nostalgia of the Pre-Raphaelites, previously a response against the urban inhumanity of the Industrial Age, returned in spades. W. B. Yeats’ poetry mixed references to ancient Irish legends, Eastern mysticism and a lyrical Symbolism of stunning beauty. His friend, Edward John Moreton Drax Plunkett, 18th Baron of Dunsany, set out to achieve in short-story form what Yeats attempted in verse. His tales are gorgeously melancholy evocations of time, loss and longing set in distant faerie realms and suffused with the same elegiac lyricism as Yeats’ early poems. Even the titles possess their own resonant and lingering beauty – “Time and the Gods”, “Poltarnees, Beholder of Ocean” and the classic “The Fortress Unvanquishable, Save for Sacnoth”.


The Symbolist illustrator Sidney Sime's frontispiece to the 1924 limited edition

The Symbolist illustrator Sidney Sime’s frontispiece to the 1924 limited edition

The King of Elfland’s Daughter was Lord Dunsany’s second novel, and tells of the Kingdom of Erl, whose inhabitants, bored with their mundane lives, hanker for a magic lord to rule them. Alveric, son of the present lord, sets off to wed the King of Elfland’s daughter Lirazel, who lives in the Realm of Fairy, ‘beyond the fields we know, in the palace that is only told of in song’. Armed with a magic sword made of thunderbolts he journeys to Elfland, causes general mayhem and elopes back to Erl with Lirazel. There then follows a protracted back and forth in which both Lirazel and Elfland are lost and rediscovered, leading to a crescendo of nostalgic lyricism in which the rustic beauties of the English countryside are sealed forever in the lost dream world of Fairy. To get a sense of the layered beauty of Lord Dunsany’s prose – here’s a quote:

To those who may have wisely kept their fancies within the boundary of the fields we know it is difficult for me to tell of the land to which Alveric had come, so that in their minds they can see that plain with its scattered trees and far off the dark wood out of which the palace of Elfland lifted those glittering spires, and above them and beyond them that serene range of mountains whose pinnacles took no colour from any light we see. Yet it is for this very purpose that our fancies travel far, and if my reader through fault of mine fail to picture the peaks of Elfland my fancy had better have stayed in the fields we know. Know then that in Elfland are colours more deep than are in our fields, and the very air there glows with so deep a lucency that all things seen there have something of the look of our trees and flowers in June reflected in water.

The King of Elfland’s Daughter concept album was recorded at the same time as Jeff Wayne’s War of the Worlds (released in 1978). It’s similar to it’s louder, brasher cousin – Christopher Lee narrated condensed quotes from the novel to link the songs, and even sang one of the tracks – ‘The Rune of the Elf King’. In many ways it’s also a fantastic tribute to the novel, and an ambitious addition to the catalogue of Prog/Folk rock concept albums of the 1970s, but it also suffers from some of the same fundamental problems of Jeff Wayne’s album – chiefly because of the incongruity between the subject matter and the demands of rock and roll. Synthesisers and howling rock guitars might fit in with the image of Martian tripods wrecking the home counties with their heat rays, and we can almost (but not quite) forgive the casting, and outrageously ludicrous performance, of Thin Lizzy’s front man Phil Lynott as an English country vicar. In The King of Elfland’s Daughter, however, the disparity between Dunsany’s style and the sometimes Spinal Tapesque delivery results in a brave but often very frustrating attempt to turn the classic tale into a rock opera. The problem is exacerbated by Christopher Lee’s stately and magnificent readings, which entirely capture the lyrical wonder of Dunsany’ descriptions and make the transition to the songs even more jarring. To be fair, some of the tracks that follow fit well. The first number, ‘The Request’ is a marvellously anthemic plea from the Men of Erl to their Lord and has huge promise. The last track, ‘Beyond the Fields We Know‘, sung by Mary Hopkins is also a powerful and moving conclusion to the tale. In between the quality comes and goes. Frankie Miller, singing Alveric’s part, has the unfortunate tendency to end lines with a good old rock and roll hoarse-throated belt, which makes him sound more like Conan meets Little Richard than a fey, dreamy Dunsanian hero. Other songs are shot through with whimsy, some of which works (‘The Coming of the Troll’ is wonderfully daft) and some of which is just embarrassing (‘Too much Magic’ has novelty Top of the Pops single written all over it). In the end you feel a bit like one of Dunsany’s protagonists, witness to a brief gleam of beauties from beyond the fields we know, caught in that instant between twilight and lost memory among the harebells, before the disappointment comes crashing back as the rock and rollers gatecrash the party.

The King of Elfland - Christopher Lee.

The King of Elfland – Christopher Lee.

Yet despite its faults, The King of Elfland’s Daughter is a lovely album. Constantly undermined by the disparity between the vision and the music it still somehow manages to retain enough of the lyrical beauty of the story to hook you in. This is almost entirely due to Christopher Lee’s narration whose gravitas shows a real love of the material. What it really needed was musicians closer in spirit to the original, and in my opinion Steeleye Span’s take on Folk Rock wasn’t really the right medium. The Enid (who did their own fairy themed album, Aerie Faerie Nonsense), Sally Oldfield or perhaps even Mike Oldfield before he went commercial and crap, would have made a better job of Dunsany. Nevertheless as a slice of bizarre music history, showing what happens when classic fantasy feeds into a concept album, The King of Elfland’s Daughter is definitely worth a listen.

At the moment the album is available as a CD through Amazon. The reproduction’s not great – sound levels vary and there’s noticeable distortion, especially on the last track, but that was a fault of the original mixing, not the reproduction.

Kate Bush


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Tickets for Kate Bush’s first live concert in 35 years went on sale this morning and within fifteen minutes all 80,000 had gone. The fact she hasn’t toured for so long (and this isn’t really a tour as it’s just one London venue) only partly explains the frenzy. For some reason she has created a hugely loyal fan base over the years which is far out of sync with her fairly modest output (10 studio albums and one tour), including a whopping great 12-year gap in the middle.

When she first turned up on Top of the Pops in 1978 the reasons for a lot of her appeal were immediately obvious – stunning doe-eyed, big-eared teenager in a leotard gyrating in peculiar Lyndsey Kemp inspired dance routines. She had a voice that could shatter glass (Johnny Rotten’s mum called it ‘a bag of cats’) and she sang about Emily Brontë’s Wuthering Heights, that classic tale of tempestuous passion gone wrong. Gered Mankowitz’s photo of her in a skimpy top and no bra on a cold day ended up plastered on the back of London buses and added to the notion it was all about sex – fuelling the rumour that she’d posed nude for Penthouse when that magazine did a photo shoot of someone called ‘Kate’ who looked remarkably similar (the model Kate Simmons).


In the age of Lady Gaga (and before her, Madonna), Kate Bush seems less remarkable now but at the time she was part of a ground-breaking emergence of women artists taking centre stage in the rock world. Before Punk in the mid 1970s female singers in the UK tended to be winsome folk guitarists and/or Eurovision fodder like Marianne Faithful or The Nolans. Apart from Suzy Quatro, who dressed, acted and sang like a Rocker bloke, women in bands stood at the back, rattled tambourines à la Linda McCartney and looked cute. Punk changed that. On the back of the indie-based shake up of the UK record industry a group of female artists appeared in an explosion of demented music, all going for the same mad stare, letter-box mouth, Miss Haversham couture and weird jerky arm-waving dance routines – Lene Lovich, Hazel O’Connor, Nina Hagen and Kate Bush. Instead of crooning about flowers, puppets on strings and falling autumn leaves they sang about sex and death, and what a bunch of arseholes most blokes were.

Kate Bush was different from the rest. Although she appeared on the back of punk she, by rights, shouldn’t have been as successful as she was. Anything that smacked of pretentious progressive rock or hippy music was roundly sneered at, yet here she was a woman from a resolutely bohemian artist family singing songs about Gurdjieff, Peter Pan and ‘England My Lionheart’. Johnny Rotten, one of the most articulate of the punk musicians, loved her stuff, and not just because at the time her voice was a falsetto wail that took some getting used to.

So why is Kate Bush so popular? I can only articulate my own reasons for being completely in love with her but I think there are a number of things that have led to her accruing a following whose interest and loyalty continually baffles her.

1. She does her own stuff when she feels like it, full stop. Apart from the second album Lionheart which she was pressurised into bringing out on the back of her initial success, and is filled with the songs she didn’t think good enough to put on the debut LP The Kick Inside, she cheerfully follows her own interests and instincts without paying the slightest interest to any other trends. In this she’s a lot like David Bowie, who is a clear influence on her own music. For this reason she’s a role model for anyone who wants to do their own thing artistically and turn left, regardless of whether critics, listeners and the world in general think she ought to go right.

Channelling Eisenstein

Channelling Eisenstein

2. She’s bonkers – often producing stuff that is utterly insane, and yet she rarely misses a step. She has a magpie mind that picks out ideas and images and then bangs them together in weird and wonderful combinations. She’ll sing about sex with snowmen, failed bank robberies in the strangest faux cockney accent, incorporate Bulgarian folk wailing in a song about fireworks and write an ode to the Easy-Care cycle on a washing machine as a metaphor for something or other. She wanted to put Molly Bloom’s monologue to music but the estate of James Joyce said no, so she wrote her own version The Sensual World. They relented in 2011 and let her use the original on her album Director’s Cut, but I honestly prefer her lyrics.

3. She’s surprisingly down to earth. Like Enya her resolute refusal to engage in any self-promotion, and her 12 year disappearing act to look after her son, has led to speculation that she is a weird recluse, somewhere between Miss Haversham and Miss Whiplash as one biographer put it. Either that or she really had gone bonkers and lurked in her mansion terrified of emerging and ballooning on Snickers. In reality she comes across as totally straightforward in the rare interviews she grants (as does Enya) and talks about her own music in a completely unpretentious manner that sometimes borders on the dismissive – famously calling her film based around the album The Red Shoes ‘a load of bollocks’.

4. She simply has no comprehension of the effect she has on other people, often to an absurd degree. Perhaps it’s a symptom of distancing yourself from the music world between albums, but she comes across as genuinely shocked by the response she gets whenever she sticks her head above the parapet. She releases a song in a manner that suggests ‘here you go, let me know if you think it’s crap or not’ and then is baffled when the world goes into meltdown. “It’s all very flattering, but have you all gone completely mad?” she asked, somewhat ingenuously, in one radio interview when Director’s Cut appeared to the inevitable response. Apparently her reaction when hearing of the frenzy around the announcement of her upcoming concerts was a similar WTF?

katebushlion5. She’s very English in her content and treatment – which is why she’s never really taken off in the US. Listening to her music over the ten albums is like dragging a garden rake through an old second hand bookshop with a particularly large children’s section, tucked away in some sleepy market town. One of her biggest influences is Monty Python – which explains the constant strain of comedy surrealism in her songs.

I saw Kate Bush live in 1979 at the Manchester Apollo. She spent two hours singing and dancing her way through what was then her entire catalogue, changing costume for nearly every song. It was incredible and the audience sat open-mouthed in stunned silence till the end, when they went completely berserk. She didn’t tour again, though she put in a few one-off appearances at various shows. She’s performing live again at the end of the year – by some colossal fluke I managed to get a couple of tickets so it’ll be interesting to compare the two. These days her songs run between 7 and 12 minutes and are perhaps even more deranged than before. My mind is boggling already.

Dead Can Dance


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Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard from the early days of Dead Can Dance

Brendan Perry and Lisa Gerrard from the early days of Dead Can Dance

I was introduced to Dead Can Dance by some very cool French friends in Tokyo, and was immediately sold. Their combination of what can only be described as Medieval wailing, Renaissance dance music and Frank Sinatra does Kurt Weill sent shivers down my spine and I immediately bought all their albums, and the DVD of their concert Toward the Within. At that time they were with the label 4AD, who specialised in Dark Wave, a genre that combines poetic lyrics with floaty ethereal music. Essentially New Age music for absinthe drinkers and despairing poets.

Dead Can Dance is an Australian band consisting of Lisa Gerrard and Brendan Perry, along with a number of backing musicians who have changed over the years. Lisa Gerrard is known to most for her film soundtrack work. Her big break came with the movie Gladiator (2000) in which she sang over the closing credits. Since then her phenomenal contralto voice has appeared on the soundtrack to many films and she released a series of successful solo albums. Brendan Perry is less famous. His musical style centres around guitar-backed folk ballads. When Dead Can Dance split up in 1998 (before reforming in 2005) he released an album called Eye of the Hunter, and then faded into the background before getting back together with Lisa Gerrard. His second album, Ark, finally came out in 2010.

Their latest album, Anastasis (2012)

Their latest album, Anastasis (2012)

The two singers have wildly different styles, and approaches to music, and nowhere does this come across more starkly than in the interviews on the live DVD. Lisa Gerrard is clearly as mad as a sack of badgers, has an incredible classical contralto voice, and sings most of her music in a made-up language with her eyes rolled up in her head and her bottom lip aquiver. Apparently the language is known as idioglossia – the invented talk kids use to communicate with their invisible friends and to annoy their parents and everyone else. So don’t bother trying to figure out the words to ‘Now We Are Free’ or the majority of her other songs, it’ll send you mad. Her analysis of her own art also places her firmly on the other side of the barrier that separates Elfland from the Fields We Know, – “People are desperately trying to find a way of releasing themselves from this fleshy prison, you know, and they turn to you and see you escaping momentarily and ask ‘How did you get out?’ and, you know, it’s very easy.” A Yorkshireman’s immediate response to this is ‘Speak for yourself, love,’ but my God her songs are among the most beautiful I have ever heard. If you want to know what the angels in Dante’s Paradiso sound like, listen to ‘Sanvean’, which she sang on the Toward the Within tour and later released on her first solo album, The Mirror Pool.

Here’s another example of the power of Dead Can Dance‘s music and Gerrard’s voice in particular. This is the opening sequence of the 1992 film Baraka set to their song ‘Yulunga’.

Brendan Perry is definitely the more nuts and bolts of the duo – his interviews tend to be along the lines of ‘this drum makes this sound if you hit it here, and different one if you hit it here.” The most bizarre aspect of his music is that he sounds like Frank Sinatra, not surprising considering he counts him as one of his greatest influences. Having said that, he then matches that voice to songs that are distinctly different from, say, ‘Send in the Clowns’ or ‘Fly Me to the Moon’. A lot of them have strong Brechtian undertones, or conjure up elegiac images of forlorn love set among the tattered playbills of departing circuses, or odd Catalan style folk songs. One of my favourites is ‘Fortune Presents Gifts Not According to the Book’ from the album Aion. To hear what sounds like Sinatra sing

What various paths are followed
In distributing honours and possessions
She gives awards to some
And penitent’s cloaks to others

When you expect whistles it’s flutes
When you expect flutes it’s whistles

is disorienting to say the least.

When you put Brendan Perry’s surreal take on post-Swing crooning next to Lisa Gerrard’s spaced-out wailing the effect can only be described as stunning. My favourite song of theirs is ‘Rakim’, an astonishing piece that opens the live part of the Toward the Within DVD. It moves from Lisa Gerrard in full Pre-Raphaelite garb playing a Chinese zither to Brendan Perry giving us his Sinatra in what sounds like faux-Persian, then back to Gerrard for a bit of contralto idioglossia at full belt, ending with Perry singing a poem in English.

Dead Can Dance reformed in 2005 and recently toured again. Sadly I couldn’t make it, but I snapped up their new album Anastasis. While not as stunning as their earlier work, the opening song ‘Children of the Sun’ is as good as much that has come before. For people unfamiliar with their music (except perhaps Lisa Gerrard’s film work) then I’d definitely recommend Aion or The Serpent’s Egg. The live album of Toward the Within is also wonderful.

Here’s the official video of ‘Children of the Sun’, which pretty much sums up the whole Dead Can Dance aesthetic.

Tangerine Dream – Phaedra


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I started reading science fiction round about the same time I got into music, and so being a fairly literal minded so-and-so I immediately embarked on a quest to find albums I could read Asimov, Heinlein, and Moorcock, to. Of course there were a few attempts to write directly SF-inspired music. Who can forget The Carpenter’s Calling Occupants of Interplanetary Craft, which I have on my iPod running playlist at the very end? This is because it always inspires me with a last burst of speed so I don’t have to listen to too much of it.

Science Fiction Monthly helped out with an article on SF-inspired rock in one of its early issues, though in retrospect this was more of a trawl through the writers’ record collection. Jefferson Starship’s Blows Against the Empire left me cold. It just sounded like hippy folk rock and even now I have difficulty separating it in my head from Benson Arizona, the theme song to Dark Star. Pink Floyd’s Saucerful of Secrets was completely ruined by the Kazoo riff in Corporal Clegg despite the vaguely spacey noises in the rest of the album. Hawkwind, on the other hand, became one of my favourite bands of all time (though only up until their Moorcock-inspired album Warriors on the Edge of Time).  I was still several years away from appreciating just how much SF, and particularly New Wave SF, soaked through David Bowie’s work.

Tangerine Dream

Tangerine Dream

What the article didn’t really touch on was Progressive Rock, and particularly the soundscapes of Mike Oldfield, Yes and Tangerine Dream. I’ll talk about Oldfield another time, but it’s enough to say here that listening to Ommadawn for the first time was my Keats On looking into Chapman’s Homer moment.

This post is about Tangerine Dream, and in particular their album Phaedra which is perhaps their purest work. At this time the band consisted of Edgar Froese, Chris Frank and Peter Baumann. They produced soundscapes by programming enormous analog sequencers and oscillators. They found out that temperature changes caused the music itself to shift, producing what became a characteristic signature of their music.

Tangerine Dream‘s early works build up hypnotic layers of sound over repeated phrases. It’s hard to put into words, but a typical live concert in the mid 1970s consisted of an initial ten minutes of Wubba Wubba Wubba Wubba Wubba Wubba Wubba Wubba laid over a sweeping synth background. After a while a valve would go pop or a coil would overheat and expand and the music would go Wubba Wubba Wubba WOBBA WOBBA WOBBA – at which point the audience, stoned and lying on their backs  on the floor of whatever cathedral the band were performing in, would erupt in applause, shrieks and whistles of delight.

Peter Baumann at the controls

Peter Baumann at the controls

You get the idea. Yet the music is genuinely hypnotic. Whether you have it on in the background when reading or not, it really does evoke alien, cosmic spaces. Of course the problem nowadays is that anyone with a £199 keyboard from Argos can create an entire Tangerine Dream album by pressing two buttons and leaving them on repeat for twenty minutes. Yet at the time Phaedra was released the musicians performed with temperamental machinery fifteen foot high and spent their time running back and forth between bakelite control panels like the desperate factory workers in Fritz Lang’s Metropolis.

The classic Tangerine Dream albums are, for me, Phaedra (1974), Rubycon (1975), Ricochet (a wonderfully dark live album from the same year),  Stratosfear (1976) and their magnificent live double-album Encore (1977). After that they changed direction, moving away from their abstract sweeping soundscapes to more easy-listening short-track electronic albums with (shock horror) singing. Listening to post Encore stuff is often painful, although to be fair they redeemed themselves with the wonderfully odd Madcap’s Flaming Duty (2007) which includes the German singer Chris Hausl singing the poetry of William Blake and mispronouncing half the words.

By modern standards, and compared to people like Blixa Bargeld and Alva Noto, Phaedra can sound a bit passé, but only because Tangerine Dream have influenced so many people since they started. I would recommend anyone to stick their headphones on, forget all bourgeois notions of melody and harmony, lie down under a starry sky, turn Phaedra up to 11 and let their brain gently sizzle away for forty minutes.

Nemesis the Warlock – Shriekback


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The anarchist demon alien Nemesis battles the fascist minions of Torquemada

In the mid 1980s England was ruled by a right wing conservative government under Margaret Thatcher. Like Cameron’s Tories and New Labour under Blair they espoused the values of liberty and justice while simultaneously suppressing free speech and clamping down on Trade Union rights and minorities. It was the first time in the 20th century that a British government had deliberately divided the population using ‘Them and Us’ rhetoric. In the wake of the Falklands War Thatcher famously referred to striking miners as ‘The Enemy Within’, an Orwellian divide and conquer strategy used by every oppressive government since the dawn of time. With the trade unions on the run, and traditional socialist opposition in tatters there emerged a new politics of dissidence. Essentially if you create a Them and Us mentality in society and label Them as ‘deviants’ and ‘outsiders’ they, more often than not, will respond with ‘Wahay’ and then set about exposing the cracks in the dominant world picture by making lots of noise. The new discourses of protest coalesced around feminism, LGBT movements and the politics of race, which moved in to fill the gap left by the disappearance of traditional union-based protest against Thatcherite capitalism and all its ills.

Nemesis the Warlock

At this time the comic 2000AD was at the height of its popularity. 2000AD grew out of an earlier comic called Action, which itself had created controversy with its brutal, anti-authoritarian story lines and sparked a brief moral outrage similar to the Horror Comics panic of the 1950s. The main character in 2000AD was Judge Dredd, but perhaps the strip that most closely captured the spirit of the times in Thatcher’s Britain was Nemesis the Warlock, written by Pat Mills and Kevin O’Neill. The first strip was based directly on the song ‘Going Underground‘ by The Jam, and described the anarchic alien rebel Nemesis being chased through a transit system on a future Earth ruled by the fascist overlord Torquemada and his hooded minions. Subsequent tales made it absolutely clear that the Grand Master Torquemada’s fascist state was the direct outcome of Thatcherism. In one episode the villain channels for previous rulers like himself, including the leader of a British right wing government in the late twentieth century. The essential creed of Torquemada’s state is one of racial and ideological purity, combined with eternal vigilance. His code is summed up by ‘Be Pure, Be Vigilant, Behave’. By definition all non-human aliens are deviants who must be expunged from the galaxy. Nemesis, the demonic alien, leads the resistance against the forces of Torquemada, a battle that played out through ever-increasingly complex story lines.

Kevin O’Neill’s artwork bordered on the hysterically surreal

The main difference between the comic strips in 2000AD and those of, say, Marvel, was the constant current of Pythonesque humour that ran through the stories. Nemesis the Warlock is often very funny, with constant in-jokes and references to the joys of living in 1980s Britain. “Here comes my nineteenth nervous breakdown” says one citizen staring out of the window in the giant planet city of Termight. The style of the series became more extreme and violent as it progressed. Kevin O’Neill really went to town on Torquemada himself, often illustrating him surreal, hysterical detail that added to the overall feverish quality of the strip. The series finished in 1989, with a sequel volume appearing in 1999.

The 80s Indie band Shriekback were huge fans of 2000AD, especially Nemesis the Warlock. Their album Oil and Gold alternates between belting post-punk anthems to reptilian evolution, anarchy and decadence, and eerie ballads describing a post-apocalyptic wasteland. “Shameful and naked, out there in the great cold outdoors we have to learn these things again” are the lyrics to the haunting track ‘Faded Flowers’. The single ‘Nemesis’ is a direct tribute to Nemesis the Warlock, with its bizarre refrain “Big Black Nemesis, Parthenogenesis, no-one move a muscle as the dead come home.” In the video to the song you can see Nemesis the Warlock himself hovering in the shadows at the back.


You can view the video for Shriekback’s Nemesis on YouTube

The complete Nemesis the Warlock series is available from Rebellion in three volumes, though sadly the first one appears to be out of print.

Space Ritual


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In the mid 1970s New English Library published the magazine Science Fiction Monthly, a huge format magazine which reprinted book covers by the likes of Chris Foss and Bruce Pennington for teenage boys to stick on their bedroom walls. Interspersed with these were short stories and articles, including one about science fiction in music. This was just before punk and the UK music scene was dominated by Glam Rock and the tag end of Progressive Rock, mixed up with some of the most horrendous rubbish that has ever been pressed to vinyl.

Out of all the various bands and singers who occasionally nodded in the direction of SF (David BowieGongYes etc..) Hawkwindstood out as a band who, through their links with Michael Moorcock, deliberately set out to write music about their Acid-addled vision of a dystopian future. By this time the personal rot was well embedded and I was consuming anything to do with SF at a rate of knots. The article went on at great length about Hawkwind’s live album Space Ritual so I dutifully saved up the princely sum of £4.00 and toddled off to W.H. Smiths in Harrogate to buy the cassette.

Now up to this point my experience of modern music consisted of mainly Sérgio Mendes & Brasil 66The Beatles and singing along with my dad to 8-Track cartridges of Sinatra on the way to school. I was too young to be into bands like The Who, and it would be another four years before my brain would be irrevocably fried by the sight of Kate Bush rising vertically out of a bank of mist to screech Wuthering Heights at the nation, and the sound of The Clash hammering out Tommy Gun.

So the first time I put Space Ritual on it seemed like the most unholy din, especially as it begins with what sounds like a cat being forced down a toilet. However, being a persistent little so-and-so, I kept playing it in the background until one day something clicked and I realised just how brilliant the album is.

Space Ritual is essentially one massive heavy metal jamming session combining guitar, drums, synthesizer, saxaphone etc and interspersed with short pieces of poetry describing the experiences of a spaceship crew flying through the universe in a state of suspended animation. I’d heard nothing like it then, and nothing like it since. To my unprofessional ears it sounds like the strangest combination of hard rock and jazz, lacking in all of the stupid posturing that characterises most heavy metal, and without a lot of the pretentious artiness that plagued other Progressive Rock bands like Yes and Genesis. It’s interesting to note that Punk bands like the Sex Pistols, who were openly contemptuous of prog rock, liked Hawkwind, probably for their raw energy and anarchic delivery.

I regret never seeing Space Ritual live. According to the BBC 4 documentary the band were out of their heads most of the time, which helped their music no end, and were often accompanied by the dancer Stacia who one night climbed on stage, took all her clothes off, added her own interpretation of the band’s lyrics to the show, and thereafter became a semi-permanent fixture.

Hawkwind produced two more studio albums: Hall of the Mountain Grill (1974) and Warrior of the Edge of Time (1975) (in which Michael Moorcock reads poetry based on his Eternal Champion novels). In 1975 Lemmy was kicked out because he was wrongly arrested by Canadian border police for drug offences. (a bit of a hypocritical move given that the rest of the band relied on Acid for much of their inspiration). The departure of Lemmy, who later formed Motorhead, was, in my opinion, a musical disaster. Everything after 1975 seems tame compared to the sheer free-form energy of Space Ritual.

I realise that this kind of music’s not to everyone’s taste but for me Space Ritual is one of the very rare albums I’ve never tired of, even after 36 years.