Everybody Loves "Silver Machine"

Hawkwind - Silver Machine

If there was ever a genre of music that was idiosyncratically European it was the brief period that spawned space rock. Strafing through the first half of the Seventies, space rock blew minds all over Europa and hardly made a dent in the United States. Psychedelia mixed with sci-fi and surreal theatrics, bands like Hawkwind, Magma, Gong and Amon Duul, to name a few, took Pink Floyd's blueprint for musical madness and took it ten steps further.

If space rock ever produced a hit single for the Top 40 charts it was the insanely catchy rocker "Silver Machine" sung by none other than future heavy metal hero Lemmy Kilmeister, then Hawkwind's bass guitarist. Originally released in 1972, it ripped brains apart with a locomotive 4/4 beat, hypnotic guitar power chords and enough white noise to keep the space heads happy. Silver Machine was a million seller that enjoyed repeat releases selling millions and topping the charts every time.

Silver Machine features lyrics that recall hot rod songs from the Sixties making space travel exciting with promise of a thrilling ride. Who wouldn't want to jet away to the cosmos on a supersonic space craft with topless dancers and Lemmy toking a joint with you?

Sex Pistols - Silver Machine

You can't keep a great rock & roll song down so naturally Silver Machine has had its share of covers, and what wild covers to choose from. Pictured above are The Sex Pistols from their last tour playing the space classic. The song fits in so perfectly with The Pistols' oeuvre it's positively uncanny: Steve Jones summoning up Mick Ronson's power chording, Paul Cook's behemoth foot stomp and John Lydon topping it all with insane abandon. Miles, nay, light years cooler than "Holidays In The Sun".

James Last - Silver Machine

Just as nutty is James Last's hipster big band cover with musicians looking like Eurotrash porn stars and rockin' out with vintage Blood, Sweat & Tears style aplomb. Thank God they sound better than they look! Love this one. By the way, if Mr. Last wants to cover the Trash Can School songbook I would be thrilled beyond belief!

Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain - Silver Machine

Rounding out our tribute to Silver Machine is a brilliant and unexpected version from the Ukulele Orchestra of Great Britain, happily chugging away on their exotic gee-tars and sending me to outer space via the UK, Maui-style. One wonders what other uke gods like Tiny Tim and Arthur Godfrey would have done with the same tune. These guys are great.

Every time I hear Silver Machine I just want to get up and dance and I know I'm not the only one. The song's been played in countless TV shows - all European, of course - like the awesome comedy Manchild as well as others. I'm looking forward to hearing more versions of Silver Machine to come, the weirder the better.

The Rubber and Leather T Chronicles

When you’re discussing fashion you don’t hear the word “mystery” come up very often, but if there was any way to describe my sense of style in the mid-Seventies it was pretty mysterious. I was the kid in high school who wore a leather jacket and jeans on Monday, suit and tie on Tuesday, and just to confound my teachers and classmates wear an industrial shop apron the next. And we didn’t have a shop class in my school!

While my dress sense came off a little confused, it was more eclectic than anything, a teenager’s refusal to be categorized and filed away in the social index of teen cliques.

It was 1976 and the era of glam rock was slowly fading away, my elephant flares and fluorescent six-inch heeled platforms losing their spark. I was looking for something different, and it came in the form of the new phenomenon coming from the United Kingdom: Punk Rock.

I saw exciting pictures of The Sex Pistols and their wild fashions, featuring ripped t-shirts held together by safety pins, tartan bondage pants with buckled straps, and those three-inch soled brothel creepers (again with the elevated footwear!). Since my twentieth birthday was approaching my father asked me what I wanted for a gift, and I asked for a plane ticket to London. After all, it was Bicentennial Summer in America, so what better way to celebrate than to visit our forefathers?

I read that The Sex Pistols had their clothes supplied from a boutique called “Sex” on King’s Row in Chelsea. I made it one of my first destinations for cool rock wear, something to replace my now-archaic Gary Glitter togs.

The “Sex” staff looked pretty wild but so classically British (i.e. very polite) like Jordan, who was great. She introduced me to the head designer and co-owner of the shop, Vivienne Westwood. Ms. Westwood was a very small, delicate woman with short, white hair spiked up high dressed in black leather trousers. She was one of the nicest and friendliest ladies I’ve ever met; for all her punk appearance she was absolutely charming and easygoing, no attitude whatsoever.

I spun around in circles in Malcolm (Maclaren) and Vivienne’s shop looking for something I could wear which would stand out anywhere, especially back home in America. Decisions, decisions!

Would it be the “Cambridge Rapist” t-shirt? No, not my style. Would it be the one with the two gay porn cowboys in a clutch? No, nyet, nope. One last look before I give up, and there it was: the most amazing thing I saw in “SEX”: a black leather t-shirt.

The black leather t-shirt was made of cowhide, not lamb or pig skin, and had thick metal zippers on both sides to help slide the thing on. Jordan recommended I put baby powder inside the shirt to make it even to slide in. One try and I knew I found my Vivienne Westwood original.

In addition to the leather t-shirt I also bought a great silver rubber t-shirt, also awesome, and both sporting the immortal pink label with “SEX” written in big black letters. What becomes a legend most? Clothes like these.

I wore these shirts at the two Sex Pistols shows I attended (the leather at an all-nighter at Islington Screen On The Green and the rubber at The 100 Club). I met Malcolm and tried to get him interested in a band I knew from LA, but he politely declined. They were called The Motels, so I think things worked out well for them, anyway. I also saw Vivienne, who remembered me and noted my new acquisition from her store.

Those days were about so much more than just punk rock: I look back on that summer of leaving my teenage years and entering adulthood with my leather “SEX” original. Thanks, Vivienne. By the way, I still have the shirt and I also now design my own rock clothes, all fabrics, leather a specialty.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++

High Heel Realness: Recently I drove to Lucha Va Voom from the wilds of Hollywood to Downtown LA on a Friday night, the only catch being that I wore my new Fluevog Prince George boots that sport 4-inch heels! It was a little scary, not just because traffic was so heavy but that I never drove in heels before. It was a real acid test, but I learned a lot from the experience.

When driving in high heels your heel is already in an elevated position with the sole of your foot bearing down on the accelerator. Just as you walk slowly and carefully in heels you should also be delicate in the application of your sole on the gas pedal. In other words, don't stomp it unless you want to get killed!

The foot should never stray too far away between the accelerator and the brake pedals, because once you get lost it's going to be a bitch getting that grand funk boot back in position. God forbid it could even get caught between both pedals, in which case you need to decide what kind of flowers do you want over your grave, roses or tulips?

Driving in heels should be approached as some kind of fine art, attempted with sensitivity and finesse, and even getting in touch with your feminine side.