HW: Gonzo Brixton

[Dave Berry]

Hawkwind are on stage, in a pool of melting light.  You're behind the main
crowd, so that you can see the stage from where the floor begins to slope
upwards.  Your chemically-enhanced vision makes out Ron, draped in a
wolfskin, darting around the two dancers.  Dave, Alan and Richard have
dropped the pace from the powerful beginning to a wash of eerie synthesisers.
And now they start to build it up again, slow, inexorable, inevitable; like
the materialisation of a brainstorm coming towards you down an empty path
on a moonlit night.

The anticipation builds within you, reaches out to the music, welcoming it,
desiring it, and the music responds, continuing its relentless crescendo.
Finally it hits; it's here, it's always been here, waiting; there is no such
thing as *a* Hawkwind gig, there is only *the* Hawkwind gig, ever-present,
out of normal time.  The music moves your body, fills your soul.  This time
flows on from last time, and will flow into next time, and the intervening
moments are just illusion; you've been doing this for twenty years, and it's
still growing and changing and developing and it's still the same, unchanging,
immediate feeling of pure music...

Dave.

"The instruments seemed to be communicating in some intergalactic language of
pure sound.  None of them knew a word."  -- Doremi Fasol Latido, sleeve notes.