Psychedelic Furs: The Ritz, New York NY
Richard Butler stalks to his microphone, a vision in beige. While the other six Psychedelic Furs take their places decked out in the standard postpunk mufti, ranging from guitarist John Ashton's new romantic gypsy getup to cellist Anne Sheldon's Nico-black dress and stockings, Butler comes out in an imitation Burberry trench, coat, matching double-breasted suit, red ballet slippers, nearly opaque sunglasses, elaborately unkempt hair and an expression that's equal parts lordly disdain and punkish arrogance. Slinging his arm rakishly over the mike stand, Butler smiles wickedly at the expectant horde, who, only seconds into the furious roar of 'Into You Like A Train', are already screaming their approval.
It's a star's entrance, and Butler makes the most of it. With just three albums under their belts, the Psychedelic Furs have already risen to a level of cultish popularity reminiscent of the Sirens-era Roxy Music, and show every indication of continuing their upward trajectory. The fans assembled for this show at New York's Ritz are perhaps a little more rabid than most, but not by much. The PsyFurs' blend of punkish guitar drones and a four-on-the-floor dance pulse was tailor-made for America's under-factionalized new wave audience, bringing in listeners from both the hard-core and dance-rock camps.
Tonight at the Ritz, however, Richard Butler seems to be the band's most outstanding hook. Although his voice, a dark rasping tenor that sounds like Jeremy Irons after ten years of chain-smoking Camels, has been compared to both David Bowie and John Lydon's, it's his physical presence that most deserves such comparison. Like Bowie, there is an elegant hauteur to his stage movement, as well as a purposeful sexual ambiguity; like Lydon, however, Butler is not above flaunting these qualities or his audience's expectations of them. To put it bluntly, he is an incorrigible tease.
Not that the assembled multitude wasn't eager to be teased. Once the droning pulse of 'Into You Like A Train' had drawn the crowd's energies into its wake, the PsyFurs did a remarkable job of pacing the fans. The set was arranged in a slow acceleration, with slightly plodding versions of 'President Gas' and 'Pretty In Pink' feeding into more exuberant versions of 'Dumb Waiters' and 'Danger', until the band barreled headlong through 'Mr. Jones' and 'Forever Now'. Yet the snowballing momentum wasn't simply the result of a well-planned set; it followed an organic, almost irrational pattern of growth. Part of this was no doubt due to the curious version of stage sound the PsyFurs practice, an almost amorphous roar that manages to single out a few pertinent instrumental details at a time while keeping the rest of the mix neck-deep in noise.
As the music pulled and prodded, Richard Butler continued to flirt, falling into the audience, kissing hands, even miming masturbation with his handheld mike at the close of 'Only You & I'.
Unfortunately, Butler has yet to develop the knack of guessing just how far he can incite an audience before being unable to pull back, and the two-song encore almost ended in disaster because of it. After a breathlessly savage 'Imitation Of Christ', the PsyFurs charged into 'India', again with the assistance of John Cale. Midway through, Butler descended onto the dance floor to soak up the adulation, and instead nearly got raped by the voracious fans. One woman kissed him with such intensity that it looked as if she wanted to remove his esophagus with her tongue, while another gentleman seized the microphone and briefly serenaded the rest of us. No sooner did Butler pull himself out (with the aid of a couple of security guards) than brother Tim did a repeat on the other side of the stage. Obviously less than pleased by his reception, Richard Butler kicked some klieg lights into his monitors and stormed offstage.
Too bad. The Psychedelic Furs could well develop into one of the most exciting live acts in rock; they could also come to a fairly unpleasant end as a live act, if they continue as they did at the Ritz. Perhaps what they need most is for someone to explain to Butler just what his enormous charisma can do. Until then, the PsyFurs will be as likely to frustrate their fans as elate them.