HW: Gonzo Brixton

[Alex S. Garcia]

>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.

So... I guess you really had a bad time, eh ? ;-))



Alex S. Garcia.

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