Nik Turner
Space Gypsy

Although its release criminally went unnoticed, “Space Gypsy” was one of last year's most sensational works. First of all, because the signature on its cover is by someone who turned seventy-three on August 26, 2013: Nik Turner, born in 1940, saxophone, flute, and voice of the legendary Hawkwind, a member since their origins until the late seventies, and then an undisputed guru of space rock in the years that followed (his collaborations and simple appearances are countless). “Space Gypsy” (a title, a program) is his latest work on a long distance, after a more than decade-long discographic hiatus (as a solo artist).

A sensational album, indeed, because it is incredibly fresh, vital, energetic: characteristics not typically found in someone who carries over forty years of career on their shoulders (and I don't believe that over the years, Turner has taken much care of himself). A bit like his old comrade-in-arms Ian “Lemmy” Kilmister (putting recent ailments aside), Turner passes unscathed through the perils of old age, as if the spatial ritual consumed in the early seventies had given the members of Hawkwind an aura of immortality. And in 2013, he releases the album that could bring joy not only to those who have always revered the mother band but also to those who are astonished whenever the imposing nature of hard, rocky, hammering rock manifests itself, injected with visions/hallucinations derived from the blackest, morbid, dizzying psychedelia. Vintage charm, of course, but nothing shamelessly revivalistic.

Fifty minutes in which an authentic sonic monument is erected, a monolith of Kubrickian memory (for the occasion repainted with fluorescent colors), floating in the vastness of a firmament dotted with constellations made of grotesque and fantastic figures: it is the Space Ritual that immortally renews itself in the present, the colossal pyramid-shaped vessel (and I do not say this at random, given that references to Maya mythology and Egyptian ones, always inspirational sources for the English musician, are still present), which will ferry us along the stages of an interstellar journey through the coils of unknown dimensions, past (musical) epochs; a journey that will be cloaked in arcane moods, fairy tale atmospheres, brazenness, risk, a desire for audacity, and the black and terror of the unknown.

And so departure! “Fallen Angels STS-51-L” and “Joker's Song” are two punches that highlight the clattering guitar of Nicky Garratt and the bass of Jeff Piccinini, both with backgrounds in the late seventies London punk scene (and it shows). Not to mention the drum assault of Jason Willer (an unstoppable generator of astral rhythms and pulses) and the synthesizers, the mellotron, and the hallucinogenic effects (exquisitely space!) curated by German Jurgen Engler, already in the ranks of the industrial act Die Krupps. Talking about a supergroup is not out of place, considering that none other than Simon House (High Tide) and Steve Hillage (Gong), standout figures of unconventional progressive music of the seventies decade, will participate in the venture: the violin of the former and the guitar of the latter will thus be the precious complement to the cosmic experience staged by Turner, who puts his own voice into it, a spectral, reverberated, remote, phased drop, a lament out of time, “out-of-time” compared to the incendiary fury of the space jams he directs and in particular compared to the spirit of improvisation that animates the twisting (now wild, now seductive) of the wind instruments he himself handles.

This feeling, which we well perceive with the monumental third track “Time Crypt”, with which the work changes pace, taking on a more cadenced and, if we will, more doom, sepulchral, mysterious approach. Turner's voice is that of a doped priest who, with a shimmering robe and megaphone in hand, talks to us about impossible feats and stories, worlds alien to us: magic, pure phantasmagoria, almost a Religion. Here, freed from the weight of the electric armor, the two following tracks, “Galaxy Rise” and “Coming of the Maya”, land in the acoustic dimension: the first, a folk/prog ballad in early King Crimson style (mind you: King Crimson soaked from head to toe in a barrel of LSD); the second, with a hypnotic pace that cannot help but remind the more lysergic Pink Floyd from the time of “A Saucerful of Secrets” (and it is no coincidence that Turner in the past covered “Careful with that Axe, Eugene”).

The equally valid side B is composed of the same ingredients: if with “We Ride the Timewinds” (a kraut ride shaken by Willer's frenzied beat) the spaceship gallops back at sustained speeds, with the subsequent “Eternity” (another intriguing space ballad) a break is taken, landing near “Planet Caravan” (and it is not out of place to invoke the most visionary Ozzy). “Anti-Matter” and “The Visitor” make a splendid pair, representing the most exquisitely progressive phase of the work: majestic the sax in the former, which, interspersed with Turner's evocative narratives, weaves the perfect airy soundtrack for an ideal sci-fi cop movie; irresistible the lighthearted progression of the latter, almost seven minutes, an anarchoid and libertarian folk, which in the second part fades into psycho-ambient tones, where solo instruments come into play (true cosmic disintegration psychedelia).

The bonus track “Something's not Right” closes the discourse by recovering the harder side of Turner's visionary art, who with this album – it's ugly to say – demonstrates he's got balls as big as asteroids.

And the kids... take notes, please.