FURS
A couple of months ago I'm driving around, minding my own business, and sucking off the mobile society for a living, when a call comes into my cab. There's some personal name-calling involved, but the upshot is that I meet my wife at the Paradise P.D.Q or run into some sticky legal problems. She pulls out all stops when she's trying to get me to see her current favorites, and instead of getting her all worked up this time I figured I'd go along with the gag. I mean, I could use the rest anyway, so what the hey? I turn onto Comm. Ave, and before too long I'm sitting in front of the club. The marquee reads, "The Psychedelic Furs" Sounds great, just like a paisley mitten or something. I decide I've already seen enough weirdo bands and turn to leave, but right at moment the wife pops out the front door. I'm still ready to beg off a story about an emergency down at the garage but she mentions the club's wide assortment of liquid refreshment, and it's hard to argue with logic like that.
Right as I go in, the crowd's tells me I'm in for a certifiable EVENT. If there was a punk show on of Newport's Mrs. Astor, this would be her 400 Club, every trendy in town was turned out for this one. Then the music hits me and I'm surprised. I thought the 400 only liked bands that could like radar blips, and this ain't that at all. Not easy to say just what it is either. The basic sound is a creepy-crawly dirge that would sound more at home at a funeral, but it's got a real backbeat. and sounds every bit as "commercial" as the good old rock 'n roll I used to hear in high school. Well, not so old but real damn good. I grab a couple of creme de menthes and settle down so I can take it all in better.
My first observation is that the sax player seems to be holding things together, and giving it that extra something I noticed. His on-stage moves remind me of the Young Dudes' Bowie, but his sound's more like Andy Mackay's playing on Siren The sax, with the two guitars, is forming a sweet textural bath, and I let it wash over me wave after frothy wave of sound. And it comes all the more sweetly because of its simplicity. There don't seem to be any complex aesthetic patterns in sight. It's just nice simple workingman stuff-a riff is set down, then it's built upon in layers until they form a solid, cresting peak
The peak came for me when the singer opened his mouth. Out crawled a grating, abrasive voice, as if some sick habit of chewing beer bottles had hung a distorting wad of blood and phlegm near his epiglotis Yet, somehow the sound sank right into the churning textural morass without disturbing its musical flow. Or did it I don't really know. I was transfixed by the figure at the mike a delicate pale form, clad in black bathrobe, grasping the mike urgently with fists, leaning out over the crowd. and cutting them apart with the maniacal Rotten-esque gleam in his eyes. The gleam slashes across the room, pursuing lyrics that are more collage than narrative- a bit of a putdown, a hint of an oldie lyric, an ancient cliche, a darting word play- all scraping against what the singer's describing as "stupid" and "useless."
The effect performed: enchantment. And not just on me, the trendies were pulled in too. I looked at my wife, but she just flashed me a creamy, drippy smile. I'm hooked.
It's now late October, and not only have I spent the last few weeks reading up on the Furs, but I've also been asked to do this article. I'm standing in the crumbling Bradford Hotel ballroom, and Richard Butler is sitting across the room from me sipping a beer. He's waiting to do the
sound check for the Furs' 24th performance in a little over four weeks and he's dog tired. "We just want to go home and rest," he says pleadingly. He looks to saxophonist Duncan Kilburn for reassurance, but the reedman's eyes are filled with a young co-ed's bulging 999 t-shirt, so attention focuses on Richard's brother Tim, who nods accordingly as he picks at the sling encasing his right arm. I sense an opening.
"Is it sprained?" I ask. "No," Says Tim. "Broken? Broken in a fall...ha, ha, ha."
"This American tour," I continue. "the pursuit of happiness is taking its toll, huh?"
"Yes," Richard interjects. "We've all been ill at least once."
I suppose that was to be expected. A "brief promotional visit to America" had degenerated into a self-perpetuating exercise in time- release self-destruction. Three weeks melted into five, and the East Coast jaunt mutated into some sort of Eastern Airlines "Great Tour of the USA." gone bad a trek without rhyme or reason, meandering through Boston, LA, Austin, Minneapolis. and whatever the hell else got in the way. As you might expect, this is one group of beat puppies, but at least for tonight the band is awake and
affable.
TI: What are you trying to do with
your music?
Richard: We're trying to say open your head up a bit...I don't think rock music can change anything politically. Bands have been trying to do that for years. We're just trying to open up heads and have them think about things. It's just the natural thing to do.
Duncan: We're just band trying to make music. Don't take it too seriously
R: (jokingly) We’re pioneering the English Psychedelic New Wave
D: We're the first. No, we're the Furs
TE: How did you get your name
R: We were meant to be called the Screaming Farts. People just misunderstood our name. It's Screaming Farts, not Psychedelic Furs. You know, not acid ingestion, acid indegestion. I'd like to do a Rolaids commercial.
TI: Who are your influences?
R: Doors, Seeds, early Hawkwind.
Smalltalk about bands eventually leads to a discussion of recording techniques. Cuts on the band's American release were shaped under the hands of three producers: Steve Lillywhite (XTC, Peter Gabriel); CBS A&R man Howard Thompson; and Martin Hannett (Magazine). They weren't happy with Lillywhite's job: Thompson fared better, producing a #1 British hit, "We Love You," and the American disco sleeper. "Pulse" (The American release spent three weeks climbing up Billboard's Disco charts before it made the "cross-over to the Pop charts.) The band especially enjoyed Hannett's work, which comes off sounding like Phil Spector on (dare I say it) acid. Yet, they're shopping around for a new producer, mentioning among others Chris Blackwell (B-52's) and David Bowie, before entering the studio in December.
TI: What's the direction for your new LP
R: We won't be doing songs as fast as the first album. More melody, and a lot weirder. Also more overdubbing It will be different. It has to be. It would be boring to do the same stuff. I'd like it to be radically different
TE: Who writes the music?
R. We all do. It's a collective thing
TI: What about the lyrics? What are they getting at? …..Silence, hedging. dismissal...and complete surprise on my part. Three weeks before, the band was more than happy to pursue an American tour.
Richard had spoken about the sarcasm of "We Love You" and the isolation of "India." Although it had been a press conference in a packed room, the band, who project a mysterious and elusive image on stage and record, had happily bared its soul. Now, just weeks later, that attitude seems to have changed. The band didn't want to talk about it.
Later that night, I'm standing around pondering (among other things) the band's reticence, when the churning guitar of John Ashton drives all other thoughts out of my head. Ashton, looking like Beaver Cleaver turned auto mechanic, forms, along with drummer Vince Ely, the musical heart of this band. It's no coincidence that they are the Furs' two non-founding members. The original band came together with little musical experience and when that experience was needed, Ely and Ashton, the musical vets, stepped in. They are the strength of this unit: Ely, steadily, yet urgently propelling the chaos; Ashton, experimenting with his sound so that it redirects, compliments, or clashes against the melody. These two show the benefit of the band's recent rigorous touring, and keep a sense of experimentation existing even within a situation of continual refinement. Now, don't get me wrong. This isn't the tightest band around, just tonight the boys lost it completely during "Susan's Strange." But that's part of the risk they take by valuing texture over melody.
Any juicehead on Mass. Ave. probably looks better than Richard Butler does sitting on the Orpheum's stage tonight. It's mid-November, and this guy, who should've been home long ago, is back for more. And he doesn't look too pleased about it. With good reason. Last night's Orpheum performance before the Talking Heads was dismal. Why? It's very difficult to perform while asleep. The Furs tried and failed.
It wasn't their fault that they were long past the ready-to-go-home stage when the Heads invited them to join their punk-goes-funk, gold mine tour. Perhaps they shouldn't have allowed CBS to influence their decision with that week vacation and the visits by their home-town girlfriends. After all, folks can love when they play, but play when they love? No way, Jose! That causes something like Friday night's performance, otherwise known as "Filene's Display Mannequins Go Acidhead." It didn't help that the mix counsumed lyrics and Duncan's sax, and that stage shadows left John groping in the dark, but those disturbances can be corrected. That's why Richard, except for cigarette drags, hasn't budged from his perch. He and the band, despite the threat of delaying the show, are not gonna leave until "Susan's Strange" sounds RIGHT.
In the end it was worth it. Saturday's performance ranked second only to the Paradise gig. And it wasn't just that, machines allowed the crowd to hear Richard, see John, and ride with Duncan. It was because 40 shows in 47 nights had pounded this litter of shaggy pups into a tighter wolf pack than had three years of rinky dink 12 night waltzes through the Good ol' UK, where a warm wiggling bed and grandma's jellied eels are never more than a night away. You wanna example: "We Love You." On vinyl the band used nothing: no one beat or four count intro. Just wham, and suddenly the band is rolling and Richard's in mid-scream. You call that a studio trick? Well the same thing happened tonight. Richard grabbed his beer, spun around, paused, then wham, the band's rolling and Richard's in mid-scream.
Some would argue that boot camp transforms scattered individuals into crack performing units. Others would say that such training causes terminal jellyhead, or to be less crude, schizophrenia. I won't join this argument, but I will admit that the poor souls interviewing the Furs during their Orpheum stint would've gotten more serious answers from Goofy Grape and Rottin' Tootin' Rasberry. For example:
Q: What influences your Sound?
R: Everytime I open my ears in the morning, I wash my ears. Anything I listen to from then on.
Q: What does the future hold?
T: We're producing a barber shop quartet album with David Bowie and David Byrne.
I can't criticize them. I know if I were in their shoes, I'd be more concerned with questions like, "Will I ever enjoy more than 4 hours of non-stop sleep again?" and, "Is anybody at home bothering to feed and walk 'Poochie' for me?" than the 67th question concerning the influence of Country Joe and the Fish
on my music. But I'd also hope to God that no one shoved a tape dated early October under my nose (featuring me tolerating and responding in earnest to the questions of one of my Boston peers), 'cause that much of a personality change would be a tough nut to swallow.
The humble writer is getting blotto watching the weekend exploits of various polyester-skinned low-lifes at HoJo's "Up & Up Lounge" in Kenmore Square. Also bending the elbow are Oedipus' crackerjack production assistant, Kerry Waldren, and Richard Butler. Kerry is needed because the wife is out coping with career crises by dialing 999, and Richard is needed because the humble writer has decided to give it one more shot. After all, this is the premiere issue.
But alas, all the humble writer gets is another cream ale. Kerry won't shake her attention from Richard, and Richard won't budge from his Jack Kerouac "Read my books and don't interview me" philosophy. "If you tell someone what they are supposed to think about," he explains, "then that will close their mind to their own interpretations that might be different. People should think for themselves."
The humble writer gives it one last try, knowing full-well that Butler can get nasty and ask the writer to explain the intent of this magazine "Come on, Richard," he asks, "for the readers." There's a pause. Then Richard begins. "Listen to yourself, you might have something to say. Listen to yourself, you might be saying something."
