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London Camden Panic Station [1988? 1989?]

Lost In Space 

They look great on the video screens, believe me. Flashing white lights penetrate the shadows and they’re creating Close Encounters Of The 30^th Kind. Christ knows what they look like on stage but he ain’t telling. 

Apparently it doesn’t matter – Spacemen 3 are a non-visual band (so why bother doing gigs?) where individual reactions are far more significant than participation in the usual communal gig-goers frenzy. 

Sex! Don’t need it, writhe and wriggle to the sensuous, sinewy rhythms. Drugs! Don’t need ‘em, just slum against the wall and get stoned on the atmosphere. Rock ‘n; roll! Merely stand on a spot, and spot except mine, and nod along to the groove. Simple, eh? 

To the naked ear, little separated Spacemen 3 from their spinning contemporaries, or as the bandaged Sonic Boom would have us believe, the copyists. Fortunately, my ears are impeccably dressed. 

This is a trippy ride, from 'Rollercoaster' all the way to 'Suicide': cyclic riffs, temolous vocals, howling guitars, prowling basslines, minimum fuss followed by maximum volume, mellow lethargy and rabid fury. Round and round it goes, a mesmerising merry-go-round.

Of course the sound is indulgent and bloated. It’s possible to leave during the opening bars, pop out for a pie, do some shopping and still be back in time for the climax of the same song. Thanks to ponderous keyboard creativity they can even walk in Pink Floyd’s shadow, no reference to the hip Syd-era Floyd, either. 

Getting lost in Spacemen 3, becoming immersed in their implosions, is the task. Having been submerged, the Spacies then become whatever one wants them to be. The only hindrance is your imagination, or the lack of it. 

By ignoring the rules of the ‘80s (short, sharp, hummable) they defy dissection and definitive description. As a wall-slumper says, “You really have to be here.” 

The finale is perfect: a distortion pedal is left to eat itself while 500 people stare at an empty stage. Way to go. 

Simon Williams