Greg Shaw, R.I.P.
He Put The Bomp . . .


Editor's note: Everybody at CREEM was sad to hear of the passing of the great Greg Shaw. He played such an important part in the CREEM story, from the letter he had published in one of the earliest issues of the magazine (March '69) to the following pieces from 1972 and 1973. Everything we came to know about Shaw is present in these reviews of Slade and Hawkwind—the fact that he liked raw, unpolished music, and that he approached it with a tremendous level of scholarship and passion.

The folks at Bomp sent out a tribute that asked people to remember Greg "with anything but a moment of silence." So we're cranking one up—not to 10, not even to 11—but so loud that we're pretty sure he can hear it wherever he is now.




Hawkwind
In Search Of Space
1972 United Artists

Have you ever felt the urge to visit the distant reaches of the galaxy? I don't mean in some freaked-out 2001 Pink Floyd acid trip, naw, forget that—it's no fun to take the universe that solemnly, nobody cool wants to be the psychic mad scientist. Instead, imagine yourself Danny Dunn, Junior Space Cadet, making a run to the teenage stars. Maybe you don't have enough imagination, but that's OK because Hawkwind supplies that and all the visual aids you need. Inside this bizarre interlocking cover with pictures of strange figures in control rooms throbbing with unearthly lights comes a little booklet (it came in my copy anyway—they do sometimes deprive you peasants out there in Retail Land of these goodies) called "The Hawkwind Log." (Every cadet worth his rocket insignia knows a starship must carry a log.) Inside are all kinds of nifty pix of star clusters and a lot of random quotes from scientific pamphlets. Also a generous serving of hogwash about chakras and mantras and plenty of mystical pieties, but you see the captain of the Starship Hawkwind is a crypto-Buddhist, chasing the Tao through space like Ahab's whale.

You can even sneak into the captain's cabin and read the log while you listen to the record, if you find that helps. You shouldn't need much help though, with songs like "Master of the Universe," which combines the swirling electronic gibberish sound effects of every 1957 science fiction flick from War of the Doom Zombies to Journey to the Center of Uranus with a melodramatic voice intoning "I am Master of the Universe". Go on, don't be ashamed to say it, every cadet does on his first trip out. Being in space does sort of give you that feeling anyway, especially if you've got one of these new modem souped-up jobs that can whisk you from here to Betelgeuse before you can say, "Warp factor eight, Mr. Sulu."

But you should've realized you'd get caught reading the captain's log, and now you must sit still for one, of the old coot's tiresome lectures, this one titled "We Took the Wrong Step Years Ago". Man, you think if only those stupid hippies back in the 20th century hadn't loaded the ancient teachings down with all this moralistic self-righteousness, and if only Captain Kilo hadn't been raised in one of the last psychebiotic communes, I wouldn't have, to listen to this dreck today!. But then, youth is always impatient with the foibles of the elderly. Just remember, all things must pass.

Luckily for you the sermon is cut short by a red alert—a real outer space rock 'n' roll emergency! Freddie the Friendly Computer is desperately trying to explain his malfunction as circuits overheat into the danger zone and his voice starts going faster and faster until it peaks off the deep end, pleading frantically, "adjust me, adjust me!!" There are tense minutes ahead as the crew work swiftly and bravely to repair the damage and you revel in the excitement of it all, power chords and churning guitars in your head along with the everpresent synthesizer noise.

But the day is saved of course and you spend the rest of the voyage perched before the big screen on the Bridge, daydreaming the light years away with fantasies of bold explorations and heroic achievements in quadrants where no man has gone before. And like every kid, your head is also full of rock 'n' roll, for the most part (since after all you're concentrating on other things) those same repetitive chords and distant muffled drums that have been identified with deep space ever since Pink Floyd first recorded them way back sometime in the last century on a song called "Interstellar Overdrive". Nobody's captured the romantic aspects of space travel any better in all the years since then, and besides the music does go awfully well with that cauldron of synthesizer stuff every startstruck junior cadet likes to pour into his head.

Side two (labeled side one but they mixed 'em up somehow) of the Hawkwind album provides 23 minutes of this, and if that's enough for you (or so the old spacehands' saying goes) you're probably too much of a dreamer to ever make it through the Space Academy.

Final note to the weary record buyer: this album is exactly the same as their first one except that it didn't have as many sound effects. Both provide good energetic background music. They new one is better if you're getting into the Psychedelic Nostalgia movement, however—it even comes with a big beautiful art nouveau poster (copied from one of Mouse's 1967 Avalon jobs, I think) that says—get this—"Love & Peace." These guys don't miss a trick.

Slade
Slayed
1973 Polydor

People sometimes ask why a serious, well-educated, intellectual fellow such as me wastes his time and enthusiasm on the most insignificant passing trends and the most contrived, trashy music he can find. And I don't know what to say. I just can't get into George Harrison, Seals & Crofts or even Van Morrison and the Band. I like that stuff, but it simply doesn't excite me the way, say, Bobby Sherman or David Peel do. I must be sick.

But then, intellectual that I am, I have naturally found a rationale for my tastes. Take the Band. Rock of Ages was a good title for them; they make music for the ages. That's great, the kids in the next century gotta have something to study, but when it comes to right now, this every moment, the Band don't seem to have anything to do with what's happening. Not, for that matter, do any of the mature, professional musicians in their '30s. Their stuff is great, but it just don't relate—to the teenage condition, that is.

And I guess that's why I get so excited about groups like Slade. Their music is unimaginative, formulaic and monotonous and it teaches us nothing. But does it ever sound good! Heavy beat, pounding rhythm, lyrics about drinking, dancing or nothing at all. And in some way I can't define, it's exactly right for now. A year from now they may be forgotten (just like T. Rex, their predecessors on the treadmill) but there'll be some other group supplying the same thrill, so who cares?

Well, enough justification. The fact that Slade currently makes some of the very best records a rock 'n' roll fan could desire is all that matters. Their sound may be simple but it's effective. They've got those ageless Chuck Berry chords, squeezed to a raw trebly intensity, and Noddy Holder's widely copied vocal style. Those elements, together with the weird spellings they've become known for, can be plugged into just about any song and produce good results.

Slayed is their second album for U.S. Polydor. Some of their best recent singles belong to Cotillion, but they did include 'Mama Weer All Crazee Now' and 'Gudbuy T'Jane.' The only obvious omission is 'Take Me Back 'Ome' but you can still (and should) get it on a single.

On the whole it's a better album than Slade Alive or Play It Loud. "Gudbuy T'Jane" is almost a carbon copy of "Mama Weer All Crazee Now," which means it's great, 'The Whole World's Goin' Crazee" is another fine statement of their collective philosophy, "I Won't Let It 'Appen Again" is good enough to be a single, and "Move Over" succeeds in making a fine raver out of Janis Joplin's strained funk original.

The best part, though, is "Let the Good Times Roll," actually a Shirley and Lee medley (even if it was lifted from Bunny Sigler) including "Feel So Good". The demented black R&B groups of the early '50s who played dances every night and tore thing part with their screaming saxes and totally incoherent songs about having a good time, usually couched in heavy sexual innuendo, provide a perfect parallel to what Slade is all about. If they succeed in making you forget everything and just get crazee for awhile, they're satisfied because that's all that matters to them. The groups may come and go but the Spirit lives on, and right now it lives in Slade. What else can I say? To quote Rodney Bingenheimer, "They're what's happening!"

—Greg Shaw April 1973

Photo: CREEM Photo Archive