On the Theme of Star Wars

Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens has opened. Initial indications are that it’s what we suspected it would be: a JJ Abrams film.  In other words – to put it somewhat bluntly – a festival of glorious visual storytelling without, in fact, much of a story underneath to tell. This does not surprise me, since ‘Made by JJ Abrams’ is exactly what the label said on the can. I will hold off further critical comment on the specifics until I’ve actually seen the film. But I have some comment on the generalities.

Abrams isn’t alone in being a modern, high-profile 2010s director whose creative output is synonymous with ‘style over substance’.   I’d argue that from the 1990s – from Quentin Tarantino,  in fact –  directors of my generation (Gen X) have  focused largely on recreating the look and feel of films they liked. Without, it feels, understanding how the underlying stories worked, and particularly how they were structured in terms of theme rather than mere plot or even drama.

The films of the 1970s-80s, in other words, aren’t just about what happen – or even how much you care about what happens – but about a deep sense that things in this filmic universe happen for a reason.

While there have been some startling moments (George Lucas’ prequel trilogy and Ridley Scott’s Prometheus among them) where 1970s-80s directors, making films in the 2000s-10s,  have fallen prey to the same problems as younger directors – on the whole those directors weren’t just trying to make spectacle or to echo previous films. They were  quite serious about the nature of film as art; they were attempting to ‘say something’, not just repeat and remix.

George Lucas was definitely saying something with Star Wars in 1977. But – exactly because that film has been so successful – it might not be obvious to audiences today what that was.

Lucas’ first movie was THX-1138 (1971), which itself was an extension of a film school short piece. It’s a very bleak dystopia modeled somewhat on both 1984 and Brave New World; a nominally capitalist (though with overtones of the USSR) dystopia where workers have completely lost their personal identity to a production-oriented space age society that controls their every thought with computers and mandatory drug. (A ‘drug offense’ in this society is refusing to take your medication). The hero, after his individuality is awakened by forbidden love, escapes the underground city in a tense vehicle chase. At the last moment, when it seems all is lost,  capitalism itself proves the system’s undoing: a ‘cost to recover asset’ counter clicks over on a computer board somewhere, and the robot police are called off. THX-1138 escapes to the surface, seeing a sunrise for the first time.

THX-1138 didn’t do very well commercially. His second movie, American Graffiti (1973), was a complete reversal: an intimate, semi-autobiographical nostalgia portrait of small-town Americana in 1962. A group of high school leavers and street racing fans hang out, race, and sort out their personal lives and futures in that liminal moment between childhood and adulthood; between the America of the 1950s and the one yet to be born after the 1960s. American Graffiti touched a nerve somewhere in the zeitgeist; it sold really well, kick-started Harrison Ford’s career, and allowed Lucas the space to work on his dream project, an adaptation of the space-themed comic books he’d loved (he owned a comic store and – a little like Tarantino, later, with film – was a huge fan). He wanted to do a straight adaptation of Flash Gordon, but couldn’t get the rights, so painstakingly created his own.

There was a nostalgic component to this dream – and to his next successful project, the revival of ‘Saturday afternoon serials’ with Indiana Jones. But I think he wasn’t just doing this for nostalgia, but from the sense that something important to humanity had been genuinely lost. What Lucas was after was nothing less than a new mythology for the space age. And I believe that – like most of the idealistic media students of his generation – he wanted that mythology not for its own sake, but as a machine to generate social and spiritual change.

Lucas wasn’t alone in this quest. The 1970s was a philosophical decade. There were huge debates on campus and off about the future of society. There was a sense that American – and by extension all modern, Western – culture was deeply flawed and in crisis. A popular source of blame was the technocratic elite of the military-scientific-corporate-educational establishment – the faceless ‘organization men’ in suits who had created terrifying space-based weapons of mass destruction, and huge centralised computers which were feared as a cold, depersonalising force.

Alongside this deep fear of technology, there was a surge of counterculture interest in both the ‘hippie’ interests of extra-sensory perception (ESP),  psychedelics and consciousness expansion, and a new thing being called ‘personal computing’ which promised to help turn the tide of technological centralisation.

Within the rationalist technological establishment, there were already defectors; people arguing that the soul or spirit might really exist, that telepathy and telekinesis might exist, could be studied and developed. Hal Puthoff and Dean Radin, for instance, became vocal advocates for a new generation of parapsychology with their pioneering ‘remote viewing’ research (a whole another subject, but it’s important to remember that ESP – and both hope and fear around its potential weaponisation – was a huge factor in the intellectual life of the 1970s, and directly inspired Star Wars’ ‘force’).

There were also technologists arguing that although centralisation was a big problem, technology could be tamed, that it didn’t have to strip our identity away and reduce us to numbers. The machine could work for us. Stewart Brand, for example, promoted the concept of technology as a liberating, mind-expanding tool for political decentralisation with his ‘Whole Earth Catalog’ (and later the pioneering online service, ‘The WELL’). Ted Nelson’s ‘Computer Lib / Dream Machines’ (1974) also advocated the concept of ‘hypertext’ for personal thought liberation. Both of these ideas would go on to deeply influence the 1990s World Wide Web.

In Star Wars, while the Empire has vast, faceless, centralised technology, the robots and X-Wings represent technology ‘repurposed’ by individuals – themselves empowered by a wider, more spiritual, more creative  worldview – for subversion of the wider system.  This concept of ‘turning the Empire’s tools against it’ shows up throughout the 70s and 80s – for example, it’s a central theme and preoccupation of the rock music movement.

from Jefferson Starship’s ‘Blows Against the Empire (1970)

You know – a starship circlin in the sky – it ought to be ready by 1990
They’ll be buildin it up in the air even since 1980
People with a clever plan can assume the role of the mighty

to Roger Waters’ ‘The Tide Is Turning’  (1987).

I’m not saying that the battle is won
But on Saturday night all those kids in the sun
Wrested technology’s sword from the hand of the war lords

So all these threads were in academia and the youth and counterculture of the 1970s, and Lucas wove them with his love for 1930s Flash Gordon comics and movie serials to create a story. But not just a story. I would argue that Star Wars resonates so deeply because it is a story about stories – a story about the conflict between reason and myth. This wasn’t an accident. Lucas, like other media students of his generation, was consciously trying to ‘overthrow the Empire from within’.

The fundamental theme of Star Wars is a cold world of empty ‘rationality’ overthrown by primal, mythic intuitive creativity. And a key element of that creative ‘force’ Lucas was trying to summon is storytelling itself: the will to believe, the drive to make myth.

To that end, the universe of Star Wars is consciously constructed from found media. The very texture of the galaxy is built from preexisting components of cinema. C3PO is a gender-swapped Maria from Metropolis, the very first science fiction movie. From westerns come the sands and Mexican-themed cantinas of Tattooine. From the samurai films of Kurosawa, the empire and the robed swordfighting monks. World War II films, with the Nazis as the machinelike villains, hold the whole construct together. NASA footage and the groundbreaking space visuals pioneered by ‘2001: A Space Odyssey’ lend a sharp, super-scientific visual feel. The TIE fighters take some of their shape from satellite solar panels, and R2-D2’s dome reflects the design of Telstar, the first TV satellite. Even Luke’s lightsaber handle is a flashbulb grip. That’s why Star Wars feels at once exciting and exotic yet also familiar, lived-in, like we already know how its universe works – because we do.

Star Wars’ prime conflict, of rationality vs intuition, is not new. It’s the same theme as Kubrick told in 2001: A Space Odyssey. But where Kubrick’s gaze was icy and abstract, reducing astronauts exploring the universe to to space monkeys pounding on an alien black box they could never understand, Lucas (with the help of his close scriptwriting friends) gave his new mythology a warm, beating human heart of friendship. We could learn to understand ourselves and the universe, it suggested. We might come through this okay. This was a radical concept for the 1970s, which was majoring on either grim  dystopia, or ‘back to the land’ mysticism right then.

Star Wars came along at just the right time when American society, troubled by Vietnam and Watergate, and frightened by the rise of space technology and computer processing. was ready to hear ‘believe’. Believe in yourself, believe that you are more than a machine, believe in a more spiritual, a more natural, a wider world than you’ve been taught. But you don’t need to abandon technological society entirely. Take charge of it; believe that the machine can be your tool and your friend; that the robot can work for you and help you hack the system. ‘Machines of loving grace’ as Richard Brautigan wrote in 1967.

It’s no coincidence, I think, that Star Wars’ release coincided with the home computer ‘trinity of 1977’: Apple II, TRS-80, Commodore PET. They both were products of the same rebel technoculture.

‘The Jedi are extinct’, mocks Grand Moff Tarkin. ‘Their fire has gone out of the universe’.  The Empire – at least in that first movie – is a sort of heat-death of technological culture, where machines have replaced emotions – literally, for Darth Vader, with his body driven by machine implants. Ben Kenobi, on the contrary tells Luke: ‘Reach out with your feelings’ To succeed – as in 2001 – Luke, as an authentic human, must turn off his computer and trust to instinct. But even at that point, the droid R2-D2 –  though he can’t possibly understand the ways of the Force – remains Luke’s friend.

Everything in the plot of that first Star Wars is in service of this twin theme of intuition/creativity and a warm reappraisal of technology. So it wasn’t just a fun story. It was a deeply felt and deeply thought manifesto about the relation of man, machine and art.

It was also, incidentally, a perfect weapon for selling lots and lots of toys. But they would never have sold without the instinctive love for the movie that came from a young human being responding, at a core emotional level, to its deep thematic structure.

Could we make a movie that resonates like Star Wars, today? I think so. But, so far, we haven’t. And we won’t get there just by copying the surface detail of the stories of our childhood. We need to first sit down and ask ourselves why those stories work; what deep questions they ask, what fears they confront, and what hope they offer. And ask ourselves if those questions, fears and hopes are the same as they were for our parents’ generation.

I’m pretty sure they aren’t, because we’re in a different cultural moment. To give one example: when we have young, rebellious, self-made Internet billionaires telling us to ‘do what you love’ but nevertheless building giant central machines of control and surveillance….  on which we happily share cat pictures, until we make one ‘Like’ too many and ….  we’re not in the 70s anymore. We’re now facing a sort of weird fusion of Empire and Rebellion, of hyper-individualism for some and conformity for most, that’s still oppressive. A world where we rolled back ‘big government’, but got drones, climate change, and the Donald Trump. A world literally drowning in myth but parched for truth. A galaxy where Luke Skywalker won – but it all still got worse.

And that – and far more importantly, how we fix that – is the blockbuster story we need to tell ourselves right now.

Boytronic: Red Chips (1983, Germany)

We crossed the oceans of megabyte
When the diskettes start to burn like candles

I usually think of William Gibson’s Neuromancer (1984) as the prototypical Cyberpunk work, but of course it wasn’t even Gibson’s first story set in the Sprawl  (1981’s Johnny Mnemonic) or the first one featuring his videogame-like Cyberspace (1982’s Burning Chrome).

Meanwhile, Vernor Vinge’s 1981 cyberpunk novella True Names featured a slightly different take on the ultimate computer user interface; one that ‘evoked’ images in a person’s mind rather than a visual field of pixels, and was conceptualised in terms of magic. Of the two writers, Vinge was the only one working as an actual computer scientist at the time, and would have experienced first-hand the pseudo-anonymity of computer chat forums that we now take for granted as ‘the Internet’.

Finally, in 1982, Disney released the movie Tron, taking place inside a computer from the viewpoint of programs, and giving a third popular fictional impression of ‘cyberspace’ based on mythology and analogies to videogames. Wikipedia suggests that development of Tron began as early as 1976, as a response to the popularity of Atari’s 1972 hit videogame Pong.

(It’s fascinating to think how long it takes for technology to migrate to popular culture: in the case of Pong to Tron, about 10 years. So the seeds of cyberpunk, even in its earliest fictional form, would likewise go back to the early 70s. What’s being sown now, in the years after Snowden, I wonder?)

On the music front, in Germany, Kraftwerk had also been doing weird things to synthesizers since the very early 70s – their breakthrough album Autobahn came out in 1974 – so it’s not surprising, I guess, that by 1982 Germany had a strong synthpop / New Wave / dance scene.

The German band Boytronic was also, and much more creatively, known as ‘Bryllyant Berger and the Tronic Twins‘ which has to be a pretty good cyberpunk name right there.  To be honest their music, like much of the era, is mostly dance and doesn’t do much for me.

(Their initial 1983 hit You demonstrates why the 80s New Wave synthpop period was so short-lived: keyboards and dancing do not go together. You have to love the ‘expensive electronic hardware in burned-out urban wasteland’ vibe of the set though.)

But it’s one track from their followup 1983 album The Working Model, which intrigues me. It’s still just a dance track, wearing out its welcome after about a minute and a half. But for theme it  goes right for the cyberpunk lingo mixes elements from Burning Chrome/ Johnny Mnemonic, True Names and Tron in a way I’ve not seen anywhere else, in English language, quite so early. Computer interface as knights and dragons, the story told from a program’s perspective, and the whole thing catching fire. Is there more cyberpunk than that? No. None more cyberpunk.

Okay they ARE pronouncing megabyte as ‘meegabyte’, but a megabyte was still a mythological figure for most consumers in 1983, something reserved for mainframes or minicomputers. The IBM PC/XT, with its 10MB hard drive, would only ship in August of that year (in America, that is; in New Zealand, hard drive machines would remain unaffordably expensive for several more years, and things were probably similar in the UK and Europe).

Red chips – burning, burning…

We crossed the oceans of megabyte
When the diskettes start to burn like candles
The data enter shows the warning light
“This program is to hot to handle”

Red chips – burning, burning…

We beat the knights of interface
And crushed the dragons of both poles
But our program lost the trace
I hope our user saved our souls

Freur: Doot-Doot (1983, Wales)

Look at them fall
Flicker and fade

There’s a line in the genetics of popular music that goes: 1970s disco -> 1980s synthpop -> 1990s club electronica -> whatever it is came next in the 00s and the synthpop revival of the 2010s.

(Of course, that’s an exaggeration; there are many other strands of DNA in the 80s synthpop primordial soup: the musique concrete of the 1950s avant garde, electronic experimentation from the 1960s,  Kraftwerk in the mid-70s with their ‘German electro’ sound which then detonated like an atom bomb around the British scene in the early 80s. And if we want to get truly nerdy (and of course we do) then most of the 1990s in computer gaming  was dominated by synthy sounds otherwise forgotten a decade earlier by the analog ‘MTV unplugged’ mainstream.)

But that line weaving from disco, into synthpop and back into club dance music still intrigues me, mostly because – generally – I’m not hugely into 70s disco, and the 1990s drug-culture club music mostly left me cold. Why? I’m not sure. I think because although I love the pure tones of synthesisers, I also love the poetry of words, and a song doesn’t really register with me unless it combines both. Dance music is music that has its eyes squarely elsewhere: it’s music not intended to be primarily listened to, and it just doesn’t work if you’re not there, live.

A band that seems to exemplify this trend is Freur, who fall neatly into three separate phases. From 1982 to 1986, a Welsh New Wavey synthpop group; reformed as Underworld from 1987 to 1990 as  more mainstream pop-dance-rock; then from 1991 on, a techno/acid house electronic dance band becoming hugely famous with the soundtrack to Trainspotting. Today, Underworld continue to be beyond huge in the British scene; they ran the music for the 2012 London Olympics. That’s pretty much the definition of ‘made it’.

This was their big breakthrough hit, in 1996: the deliriously named ‘Born Slippy .NUXX‘ (best not to ask really). Absolutely world-shattering stuff; doesn’t do a thing for me, I’m terribly sorry.  This is why I’m old. Though I was 24 at the time and it still didn’t help.

Drive boy dog boy
Dirty numb angel boy
In the doorway boy
She was a-lipstick boy
She was a-beautiful boy
And tears boy
And all in your inner space boy

1988’s Underneath The Radar I find a lot more interesting. A bit long, but it’s got that 80s sound and the authentic tang of Cold War mixed hedonism/despair in the lyrics:

We kiss underneath the searchlights
And we live underneath the bomb
We live underneath the radar
There’s no way that you’re ever gonna get far

It’s perfectly acceptable. Yet for me it’s that first 1983 hit that sends shivers down my spine: Doot-Doot. Why? I don’t know! Only I have a deep memory of hearing this tune. And it has the same nostalgic melancholy for abandoned media (that seems so cute and yet so true now) that inhabits those early Buggles songs.

… And, well, just because that’s the noise that those beepy boxes of the future make, that’s why. And you’re singing along too. You might as well admit it.

Doot. Doot doot.

For extra bonus Eighties, the live version. Remember when you watch it that these people had perfectly good music careers afterwards – and still do.

What’s in a name?
Face on a stage
Where are you now?
Memory fades
You take a bow

Here in the dark
Watching the screen
Look at them fall
The final scene

And we go doot
Doot doot

Look at them fall
Flicker and fade
Gone are the screams
I put them to bed
Now they are dreams

And we go doot
Doot doot

Dollar: Videotheque (1982, England)

Slowly senses leaving me
Once the two are in 3D we play the game

I have a strange relationship with a lot of music. There are bands who are huge names, critically acclaimed cult favourites in the music literature; in many cases, these leave me cold. Or, I’ll find one or two of their songs – sometimes a single, sometimes an obscure track – which resonate with me, while the others fly completely over my head without leaving a mark. On the other hand, sometimes the only song I’ll like from a band will be the one which, in fact, was their chart hit, proving my tastes are solidly mainstream.

New Wave and Synthpop as genres are particularly fraught for me. There are giant names – Kraftwerk, Joy Division, Gary Numan, Siouxsie and the Banshees – to whom I have an almost physical allergy. Their sound is somehow too harsh for me, too bleak.  There are plenty which are just too experimental: Art of Noise. Then there are ones which are too empty, too poppy: Duran Duran maybe. Then there are ones which are on the edge, but mostly too famous: Eurythmics, Rush, Thomas Dolby, Ultravox. (They may come up later).

The Buggles, sadly, fall for me mostly into a mix of ‘too experimental’ and yet ‘too famous’. There’s that one song which if you’re of a certain age you know by heart –

— you remember, of course you remember, you have to remember, it opened MTV in 1981–

They took the credit for your second symphony
Rewritten by machine with new technology
And now I understand the problems you can see

Video Killed The Radio Star. Man, does that ever get old? It does not, and it never will.

Sidebar: VKTRS was of course itself remade in 1998 by  alt-rockers The Presidents of the United States of America, and in perhaps the single most terrifying stroke of genius of that entire sad benighted decade they rewrote those literal lines:

They took the credit for your second symphony
Rewritten by machine with new technology
And now I understand the supernova scene

So do we all. So do we all, now. I am in awe.

But everyone knows that one, did the Buggles do anything else worthwhile?


The band’s lifeforce Trevor Horn went on to start the before-mentioned avant-garde probably-geniuses-but-I-don’t-get-it The Art of Noisebecame a world famous producer, pretty much produced every record in the UK ever, got Knighted by the Queen of England for it all… so yes?

(Literally. The Buggles duo did an album in 1980 with prog-rock group Yes.)

But music all comes down to taste and,  well,  most of this music simply doesn’t connect to me. There’s a couple of Buggles tracks I maybe half like, both from 1980’s The Age of Plastic:

Johnny On The Monorail:

Oh my my, you are so sci-fi
Please will you let me ride

and Elstree:

Elstree, remember me
I had a part in a B-movie

(Sidebar: There is actually no Elstree Studio! It’s a town in England with a bunch of different studios most of which are not actually in that town.)

But (there is of course a but). In that magic year 1982, Trevor Horn wrote several songs for an otherwise fairly undistinguished pop duo – Thereza Bazar and David Day, otherwise known as Dollar. And one of them was a haunting, wonderful half-remembered song that I was startled to discover wasn’t officially a Buggles after all: Videotheque.

There’s a twining set of themes in this early Trevor Horn work –  of nostalgia, fashion, film,  illusion. For me they all come together, echoing the spirit of the early 1980s, in this song. A retro-futuristic image of holographic virtual reality (that we didn’t even have the words for then); an imagined space somewhere between film noir, disco, and cyberpunk, constructed out of the romantic ruins of lost media and the dawn of a new glimmering machine age.

In 2015, we’re approaching that space for the first time, yet it feels like we’ve been here before. And we have.

When the VJ shoots the beam
I take my partner from the screen
And hold her close, I hold her close
One more chance to make it right
Holding hands in black and white
I’ll meet you there, I’ll meet you there

Leave my mind back in my room
Maybe I will blow it soon and fall in love

At the videotheque (the videotheque)
We can dance forever
At the videotheque (the videotheque)
We control it all
At the videotheque (the videotheque)
Ghosts are only lovers on the screen

Only pictures on the wall
They don’t mean a thing at all
And I don’t care
When the visions start to form
The same illusion takes us all
And you are there, and you are there

Slowly senses leaving me
Once the two are in 3D we play the game

At the videotheque (the videotheque)
We can dance forever
At the videotheque (the videotheque)
We can fall in love
At the videotheque (the videotheque)
Ghosts are only lovers on the screen
The videotheque
The videotheque
The videotheque
Only ghosts are lovers on the screen

Tandy Morgan Band: Princeton (1984, England)

But we cast aside the reck’ning
for stars they were a-beck’ning

Music is a strange odyssey sometimes. In searching ’80s synthpop I came across this little gem: Hiroshima by the German singer Sandra. It fit the early-80s anti-nuclear mood perfectly, but it was recorded in 1990 – too late for the period I’m capturing. Or so I thought.

And the world remembers his name
Remembers the flame was
Hiroshima, Hiroshima, Hiroshima

But of course there’s more to it.

I was out by 20 years. The song Hiroshima was actually published in 1971 (recorded 1969 says Wikipedia) on the album of the same name by the English band Wishful Thinking, but it was written by a DaveMorgan.

Here, have some really slow 1971 folk-rock with wibbly guitar bits in, as was the style of the time.

I can’t emphasise enough to post-Gen-Xers just how much Hiroshima dominated my thoughts as an 80s teenager. There’s plenty of terrifying things in 2015 – terrorism, anti-terrorism, government, lack of government, economic crashes, economic booms, climate change – but they absolutely pale in comparison to the grim certain knowledge we all had that were were all going to die, vaporised in a preordained apocalypse, and none of our leaders could or would stop it.

What I’m saying is there will be a lot more songs about nuclear war before this blog is over.

So who was that Dave Morgan guy? What else might he have done?  Oh, not much, he was in a little band nobody’s ever heard of called ELO. (Eleven studio albums 1971-1986, revival in 2001.)

The funny thing is for a huge 70s rock band the only ELO album I actually care for is something of an anomaly: the 1981 synth-heavy science fiction concept album Time (1981). Something about the idea of a citizen from the 1980s trapped in an alienating 21st century future works for me.

Dave Morgan did second vocals on Time, with Richard Tandy on keyboards. (Useful name that, with it being the early 80s and Tandy being one of the first microcomputers… tough crowd? I’ll come in again.)

I love so many tracks from this album, but Here Is The News is the one I remember best; it was a single, so it played on radio around 1980 and man, it was confusing hearing this coming up right before the news.

Here is the news, someone has broken out of Satellite Two
Look very carefully, it might be you you you you you

After Time, things get interesting. Dave Morgan and Richard Tandy worked on a side project under the creative name of Tandy Morgan Band: their main product was a fascinating little science fiction concept album called Earthrise. Released in 1984, this is one of those strange little gems which I know I’ve heard before but I can’t place precisely when.

Dave Morgan’s career goes quietly interesting places later; he became a born-again Christian in 1988,  went into church worship music, hyphenated his name to David Scott-Morgan when he got married in the 1990s, and pastored a church in Birmingham for ten years to 2009. In 2011 he and Tandy rereleased Earthrise , and in the last few years he’s written an autobiography and released another album. The first single, Benediction, is low-fi but charming in its way.

But let’s get back to Earthrise. It’s a loose concept album about a lonely astronaut (a concept which appears in a lot of 1980s synthpop) trying to return to his lost love. The tone is midway between 1969 David Bowie and mid-1970s Klaatu. Almost all the tracks (with the exception of the bland elevator-ballad Ria, which appears to have been dropped from the rerelease) are strange and wonderful , from the haunting opening Earthrise to the manic Zero Zero (though Escape from the Citadel feels like it belongs more on Jefferson Starship’s Blows Against The Empire).

(A rare find: the full official lyrics, on a page which may not last forever. )

The second track Under The Blue / Asteroid has the best videogame lyric in any 80s song ever:

When I was a young boy with a bullet for a brain
I used to ride the space patrol across the Martian plain
Zapping all the aliens before they could zap me
You know you can be anything you want to be
When everything under the blue
is waiting for you

The distressed computer calling to aliens in The Third Planet is its own special brand of awesome: (please excuse Ria popping up at the end)

I come from the third planet
my sky is blue
All around is great confusion
I don’t know what to do

My master knows no way of stopping
all that is wrong
I work his maths, I do his shopping
I build his bombs

But the heart and soul of the album is the epic Princeton, placed as the climax when (I think) the protagonist’s rocket finally breaks the barriers of space and time to return home. There’s something about this song – a longing, a gentle grace, an inner serenity that’s more than either epic bombast or nostalgia –  that sent shivers down my spine when I first heard it, and continues to resonate years later.

And I’m glad that the man who wrote it, and made my life that much richer, has found peace and purpose in his own.

If I ever go to Princeton
I’ll bow to nature’s wisdom
if ever I’m allowed to see
the wheels within the wheels
I will turn the clock on easy
and ask the ground to leave me
If I ever get to Princeton
I’ll remember how it feels.

We were linked along a sidewalk
lost in a time-warp
We stood and counted UFO’s
tumbling headlong ‘cross the sun
And we terrorised the freeway
with a humanising heat-ray
and If I ever get to Princeton
I’ll remember what we’ve done.

And in the space between the fooling
while the galaxy was cooling
I glimpsed the greater sorrow
of tomorrow never come
But we cast aside the reck’ning
for stars they were a-beck’ning
and If I ever get to Princeton
I’ll remember every one.

Then a traveller from Venus
set a force field between us
I had the strangest feeling
I had seen it all before
In a tale by Dennis Wheatley
he saved the world so neatly
and If I ever get to Princeton
I’ll remember what it’s called.

If I ever go to Princeton
I’ll bow to natures wisdom
and wonder how on earth
I had the nerve to let it fly
For in Princeton I ran into
a planet I’d not been to
and in Princeton I was happy
for a moment of my life