FURS
(incomplete)
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.
(article cuts off)
