An
impromptu and last-minute double-header for arty 80’s post-punk Bowie
referencers turned latter-day US FM Radio favourites and “Bratpack” movie
soundtrackers The Psychedelic Furs, this; as soon as a UK tour showcasing their
extensive singles output was announced, I’d immediately booked tix for the
Bristol show. Happily I also persuaded (this time!) fellow Furs devotees “Mad”
Doug and The Big Man to join me for the Bristol show (and later, Beef, who
sorted his own ticket), for an evening of prime 80’s “colossal” live rock, thereby
also re-enacting a journey to see this same band with those same 2 gentlemen,
at The Colston Hall, just round the corner from the O2, over 30 years ago! And I’d
have been happy with just that, but a text from Stuart the day before the
Birmingham gig, inviting me to take advantage of one of the 2 free tickets that
had fallen into his lap thanks to a disorganised colleague (!), suddenly turned
this into a 2-night double-header. Free tix? That’s my favourite ticket price,
and free tix for The Furs? You bet!
So,
Birmingham first, and Stuart picked me up early at 6 for a swift drive into
B’rum city centre, but then an utterly farcical parking situation; we tried to
park in 2 open-air car parks and not having sufficient coinage between us,
tried in vain to use credit card (which didn’t process properly in one, and was
unavailable in the other), then the automated phone paying system (said system
refusing both car parks’ location numbers!). Exasperated, we eventually dumped
Stu’s motor in a poorly-lit, dodgy-looking and rubbish-strewn trading estate
road not far from the venue, an ornate old theatre hall which reminded me of a
smaller Shepherd’s Bush Empire! The parking delay meant we missed half of
support Lene Lovich’s set, which turned out to be no bad thing as she was
utterly dire. Black/ red clad and much wider than in her 70’s pomp, she
caterwauled like one of Macbeth’s witches over some horribly clichéd doomy
pantomime pseudo goth; clearly trying to channel her inner Siouxsie, she
instead ended up giving the impression of Meg from “Meg And Mog”, and it all
felt quite embarrassing for all concerned. Give it up, dear!
Still,
from the ridiculous to the sublime, and in no uncertain terms! We squeezed into
a spot near the front, stage right, then the lights plunged at 9.15 and the
bleak, eerie synth refrain from Bowie’s “Warszawa” washed over the expectant
audience. The band took the stage one by one, the velvet great-coated bass monolith
Tim Butler cupping his hand to his ear to elicit a cheer; then, as the angular
rhythm and backwards backbeat of “Dumb Waiters” kicked off, vocalist Richard
Butler took the stage last – blessed touch of theatre! – bowing low with a
flourish, before the sleazy nasal tones of his halting, London-Bowie-esque
voice heralded the start of his evening’s work.
A
chugging “We Love You” next up saw Butler prowl the stage, haughty and
imperious of demeanour, fulsome and expansive of gesture. A tremendous, hard
rocking thrill-ride “Mr. Jones” led into the quintessential Furs number (hell,
probably the quintessential 80’s rock song!) “Pretty In Pink”, the vocalist by
now having divested himself of his own coat to reveal a black spotted pyjama
top (!). Great stuff, although there were some bumps in the road; the mix was a
little poor, seemingly not accounting for diminutive Kevin Millar-lookalike
Mars Williams’ decadent late-night glam-sleaze virtuoso saxophone being the
lead instrument for much of the Furs material, and with Rich Goode’s more
textural guitar work higher in the mix than necessary, it occasionally sounded
cluttered and busy, particularly during a messy “Danger” or the later “Until
She Comes”. Nonetheless, the familiarity and quality of their material shone
like a beacon through the mix fog; “Run And Run” was great, the brilliant line
of “I’ve been waiting all night for someone like you… but you’ll have to do”
being delivered by Butler with playful dismissiveness, and “Heartbeat” finally
saw Williams’ sax really to the fore,
for this pulsating, funky classic.
All
too soon, a brilliant soaring “Heaven”, the best sounding song of the night
with the mix finally spot-on for its’ soaring chorus and descending hook,
closed out a thoroughly entertaining set. Sure, I’d have taken out a couple of
the later singles in favour of a “President Gas”, “Forever Now” or “Into You Like
A Train”, but this was a Singles tour, right? I knew that when I bought the
ticket, so was totally prepared for it…
And
for the encore, where drummer Phil Calvert took the stage first, pounding out
the unmistakeable drumbeat to the sprawling classic “Sister Europe”, Tim Butler’s
bass then adding the brooding menace, before the song stretched moodily and
languidly into life. Excellent, but topped with a lengthy, all-action “India”,
the energetic yet taciturn Butler blowing kisses to the crowd as he departed
after a mix-affected yet stellar performance.
Home
for 12.30 after an easy egress from B’rum with Stu, all in the knowledge that I
was to do it all again the following evening! So, for Bristol, Beef wandered
over and we then collected The Big Man and Doug from their opposite sides of
Swindon for an entertaining drive down and an easy park on a quiet Trenchard
Level 8 for 8pm. The O2 however was already busy, much more so than the
Institute, and this time Lene Lovich had only just started her set, I noted
with due dread and concern. The initial part of her set was however an
eye-opener in comparison to the previous night; still not great, but some more
palatable poppier, herky-jerky new wavey rhythm and toy organ-fuelled stuff
being a definite improvement. However, after a messy “Say When” and a bouncy
version of The Hit, “Lucky Number” (both of which we missed last night), it was
back to the dirge-like panto goth nonsense to end a ropey – and at 45 minutes,
overlong – support set.
We
wandered down onto a busy dancefloor, Doug (as is his wont) striking up
conversations with all and sundry as we went, and found a small space near our
usual stage left slot. A late running Lisa, who with admirable dedication had
driven from London for this one (!), turned up too, deciding on a watching
brief outside of the squeeze. Again “Warszawa” struck up, heralding The Furs’
entrance at 9.15. Same set as before, in the same order; however familiarity certainly
didn’t breed contempt for me! “Mr. Jones” was again a potent, powerful early
highlight, “Love My Way” a delicious exercise in blissful melancholy, and
“Angels Don’t Cry”, never a favourite of mine, was tender and touching,
sounding clear as a bell, the mix considerably better in Bristol than
Birmingham.
Vocalist
Richard Butler was again The Star; same spotted pyjama top, same extravagant
gestures, same occasionally slightly laboured but entirely appropriate sleazy
nasal hazy vocals. And initially, same taciturn manner, each song once again going
unannounced, with the occasional, “thank you!” being the only non-lyrical
communication from the vocalist. However, unlike last night, Butler took it
upon himself to introduce the band midway through, introducing brother Tim last
as, “the guy who got this whole fucking thing started!” before remarking, “and
then there’s you lot! Thank you!”
“Heartbeat”
was again a thing of tantalising pulsating menace; “House” was widescreen and expansive,
a real mid-80’s anthemic flag-waver, but once again “Heaven” stole the show,
soaring and resplendent, Tim Butler striding the stage like a colossus while
his brother spun, arms outstretched, behind him. Great stuff, and another
moody, menacing and magnificent “India” saw the evening to a close.
No
set-lists either night, however, despite my exhortations (and Doug bringing his
best powers of persuasion to bear on my behalf in Bristol!); the official line
was that they were keeping and re-using them! I call double-bullshit, me…! Nonetheless,
we caught our breath then walked Lisa back to the car park before bidding our
farewells and hitting the road for an equally chatty and swift ride home.
Reflections
on this double header? Well, I was bloody knackered Thursday at work, so I
wouldn’t want to do it too often (!) but glad I did it for the Furs. Like The
Skids earlier this year, here’s a band of similar vintage still showing the
young ‘uns the way, and growing older disgracefully in the process. And long
may that continue!
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