Hawklords

Around about this time last year, The Brickmakers came perilously close to shutting down. I said then what a splendidly quirky and eccentric venue it was, and how great a loss it would be to Norwich. Having made my annual pilgrimage in honour of the Hawklords, the point was proved. Looking around the assembled Bruegelian crowd, I realised the night was what the venue is all about – a home for idiosyncratic acts that don’t fit in anywhere else – acts that feel at home not so much because of the building, but because they are surrounded by their equally idiosyncratic fans.

This time last year Nik Turner was absent due transport failure, but there was no mistaking the angular, hunched figure sitting centre stage on this occasion. He seemed happy enough to chat away on his tod to those intrepid enough to come forward to say hello. Very much like an audience with royalty, he sat hugging his saxophone, resplendent in his teddy boy suit and leather porkpie hat charming one customer after another, as he waited for the rest of the band. He was showing his age, though, and it made for a disconcerting sight. Perhaps he was only resting his knees, but it was a shock to see he wasn’t quite the ageless master of the universe many of us presume.

Such maudlin thoughts were quickly dispelled, however, when Jerry Richards and the rest of the band took to the stage. Anticipation sated, it was nonetheless quickly replaced by confusion and consternation at the absence of Harvey Bainbridge. I last saw Turner play with Harvey in the early 80s, when all three of us were very different ages and shapes and had been looking forward to a reunion. Sadly, what the space gods give with one hand, they take away with the other. Nik may have turned up this time but, shockingly, Harvey was missing. For many, the Hawklords and Harvey Bainbridge are indivisible. He is the very essence of what makes the band. His absence surely warranted an explanation, but none was forthcoming. In his place was Dead Fred, who took over keyboard duties with a quiet confidence that looked to be beyond that of a temporary substitute, but that is a seismic change if permanent. That said, I thought the same when Ron Tree left and I was wrong then. It is a testament to the strength of their new material that even without Harvey’s considerable charm, the evening was a resounding success.

Having opened with a couple of familiar numbers, most notably a cover of Calvert’s Aerospace Inferno, the band bravely launched into a selection from the new album. Largely due to Nik Turner’s inestimable parping, there was an altogether more mellifluous tone to this new stuff, with Isle of the Dead a particular highlight, while Dead Fred’s lean piano noodling lent an almost jazz feel to music more usually associated with grand synthesised soundscapes. There was no denying the giant, Bainbridge sized hole on stage, and those songs most associated with him were noticeable by their absence, but the tangible shift in tone was both enjoyable and intriguing. With Dave Pearce holding it together on drums, and Jerry Richards and Tom Ashurst splitting up vocals and guitar duties, this was still recognisably Hawklords, but there was something reinvigorating about hearing a remodelled sound.

Granted, it was not all innovation, but you could hardly miss out on Master of the Universe with Nik Turner in the house, a classic Hawkwind song that prompted all manner of loon dancing and merriment from an audience that had previously been respectful, but reserved. It was the first time during the performance that Turner took to his feet, renewing my surprise at how frail he looked, but Nik was obviously enjoying the intimacy of this tiny venue. Although the Joker then reared his head, for the most part we were treated to yet more new material, with the acoustic We Love You followed by the excellent One Way Trip, consolidating the opening night of a tour set to determinedly look forward rather than back.

The gentlemen of Hawklords have long since been able to stand on their own feet, a comfortable distance from their Hawkwind association as they prolifically pump out freshly minted material that continues to impress. I hugely admire them for it. But I was still pleased they finished on Brainstorm. Standing for only the second time of the night, Turner grinned from ear to ear while defiantly punching the air. Here was a man determined to not go gentle into that good night, reminding us all that old age should burn and rave at close of day.