SpaceShipp: A Cosmic Journey That Sticks With You
Let’s get one thing straight—SpaceShipp isn’t your typical album. It’s not here to slap you with catchy hooks or drown you in overproduced beats. No, this is something else entirely. Released back in 2008 by J Spaceman (you might know him from Spiritualized) and jazz maestro Matthew Shipp, it feels like they took a spaceship made of sound and just... let it drift. The genres? Electronic and rock, sure, but don’t box it there. This is drone and ambient at its most raw, like staring into space while feeling every little vibration of existence.
The UK-based label Treader put this out, and honestly, it fits their vibe perfectly—underground, experimental, unapologetic. And when you dig into the credits, you see why this record has such depth. Matthew Shipp doesn’t just compose; he brings in celesta and harmonium vibes that make everything shimmer weirdly. Meanwhile, J Spaceman layers his guitar work so delicately it’s almost like he’s painting with shadows. Oh, and props to Rupert Clervaux for mastering and mixing because dude, this thing sounds alive. Frauke Stegmann’s graphic design? Minimalist but haunting, much like the music itself.
Now, onto the tracks. There are only two—"Inner" and "Outer"—but man, do they pack a punch. Let me tell ya about “Inner” first. From the second it starts, it’s like being wrapped up in fog. Matthew Shipp’s keys creep in slow, almost hesitant, like they’re testing the waters. Then J Spaceman’s guitar comes in, all hazy and distant, like echoes from another dimension. You can’t help but sink into it—it’s meditative, yeah, but also kinda unsettling. Like, what’s waiting on the other side of that silence? I remember listening to it late at night once, headphones on, and suddenly realizing I’d stopped breathing for a moment. That’s how immersive it gets.
Then there’s “Outer,” which flips the script completely. If “Inner” is introspective, “Outer” is expansive. The harmonium hums louder here, almost like it’s trying to break free. J Spaceman’s production gives it this gritty edge, like static clinging to the edges of a dream. About halfway through, things start to unravel—a drone builds, then fades, leaving behind this strange emptiness. It’s not sad, exactly, but it leaves you yearning for something you can’t quite name. Every time I hear it, I think about those sci-fi movies where astronauts float off into the void, untethered. It’s beautiful and terrifying all at once.
What sticks with me about SpaceShipp is how unpolished yet intentional it feels. These guys weren’t aiming for perfection—they were chasing emotion. They wanted to capture the weightlessness of space, the quiet chaos of drifting between worlds. And damn if they didn’t nail it.
Here’s the kicker though: after listening to this album, I started noticing drones everywhere—in traffic, in my fridge, even in the way people talk sometimes. Maybe that’s the point. Maybe we’re all floating through our own versions of inner and outer space, whether we realize it or not. Or maybe I’m just losing it. Either way, SpaceShipp will mess with your head—in the best possible way.
