The Psychedelic Furs have changed. Once the darlings of the dance-and-doom rock set in the early ‘80s, the Furs personified the boredom and depression that followed the explosive energy of the punk rock movement. Their message was that sex and drugs and rock n’ roll don’t make it — nothing makes it. Everything is stupid (the most often-used word on their interesting self-titled 1980 debut album). Their resigned jadedness was, oddly, a breath of fresh air after enduring scores of angry-young-man clones patterned after the Clash and the Sex Pistols.
But despite the Furs’ early promise, both they and the opening band, the Blow Monkeys, are from the B-list of British imports these days. The A-list requires some genuine, unique quality; the painful honesty of the Smiths, the noise/reverb-laden experimentation of the Jesus & Mary Chain, or the plain old energy and star quality of the Cult. The B-list is comprised of often entirely competent performers who try for an image and more-or-less do it, but it’s not quite real: like a made-for-TV docudrama vs. actual news footage. But in today’s large and frantically consumer-oriented pop marketplace, even second stringers can prosper.
On August 15th, the seventeenth anniversary of Woodstock, the Pier show provided a glimpse into the state-of-the-art of rock n’ roll, 1986 style — cool and calculated, and professional in ways not even imagined by the kids at Yasgur’s Farm.
Some things never change: the bleachers are still rickety, the Port-O-San bathrooms are still disgusting, and people still came to party. But unlike Woodstock, this Friday night outdoor party had no purpose: just something to do that’s less boring than the other available options. (The Psychedelic Furs appropriately enough, are mentioned as background music in Bret Easton Ellis’ MTV generation novel, Less Than Zero.) Like a joy ride, neatly packaged in carefully timed sets with professional sound and lights, with neither a passion for the music, or the Furs’ old, quirky, sardonic presence to make it special.
The opening band, the Blow Monkeys are currently riding high on the success of their single “Digging Your Scene,” and their debut RCA album, Animal Magic. They’re not as good as they seem to think they are.
Musically, the Blow Moneys (the name is British slang for saxophone, the band’s obviously favorite instrument) are recent graduates of the English School of Blue-Eyed Soul, alma mater to WHAM! and Culture Club. Whether their preference for R&B comes from a genuine passion for the music, or a passion for the bucks they could make as a crossover act remains to be seen. The smart money is on the latter.
The Blow Monkeys recently stated in an interview that they want to make disposable pop hits, and they do. Their music brings on a constant feeling of deja vu: the Blow Moneys owe a lot to Sly & the Family Stone. Ditto Labelle (“Wicked Ways”), Frankie Valle (“Digging Your Scene”) and Curtis Mayfield, whose funky classic “Superfly” was a particularly silly cover choice for this band. The Blow Moneys are full of teen idol pretentiousness, with guitarist/lead singer Dr. Robert decked out like a mod Rudy Valle in 1920s white suit and straw hat, displaying not a hint of the gritty, heavy, street smarts that a white band attempting the song requires.
But then, the makers of teeny bopper hits are often great successes, and the Blow Moneys will probably laugh all the way to the proverbial bank.
The Furs opened in full frontal attack with “Heartbeat” from 1984’s Mirror Moves. The smoke machine smoked enthusiastically, and the lights flashed, the combined effect practically screaming THIS IS A ROCK CONCERT! The hyper-active star formulation lighting, in contrast to the Furs’ former Jefferson AIrplane-style psychedelic show, seemed to be rented from Motley Crue’s set designer; the band’s flashy leather rock star clothes from Rod Stewart; frontman Richard Butler’s moves from Billy Idol. The Furs also seem to have picked up a trick from Depeche Mode: produce moody, sensitive albums and give glitzy, make-the-girls-scream performances.
The band worked hard to give a high energy show, usually a good thing, but the Furs’ most interesting quality used to be their lethargy. They came on with the world weariness of jaded veterans, already beat, sounding like men who already shot their wad long ago in cheap thrills; alienated from self, god, country, and mournfully hip. These days they’re trying to live up to a more Top 40 image that that doesn’t fit them; the result of watching too many concert videos, perhaps, or the unfortunate consequences of a piece of blind luck. — “Pretty in Pink.”
The unprecedented success of the John (The Breakfast Club) Hughes film of the same name, and the new, updated version of the song was, after two album-less years, was like the average Joe hitting the Lotto jackpot, and may have convinced the Furs to shoot for Commercial Hit country. It’s an ironic development considering “Pink” comes from their early, bored, sarcastic period of five years ago — a time when they seemed too cool to ever be influenced by such an American Dream shot in the arm.
The Psychedelic Furs’ set consisted of a cross-section of their career, placing emphasis on their more recent MOR hits like “Heaven” from Mirror Moves and “Love My Way” from 1982’s Forever Now, as well as some updated versions of their old droning Siouxie and the Banshees-esque classics like “Sister Europe” and “India.” Butler does have a riveting stage presence, androgynous and theatrical. He gracefully mimed tightrope walking during “High Wire Days,” and goose-stepped across the stage on “President Gas,” one of the show’s more effective numbers.
On a few ballads like “Sleep Comes Down” and “Alice’s House” Butler dropped the slick cynicism of of most of his performance and even managed to be touching.But the Furs don’t really have much to say anymore. They are voyeurs to other loneliness and self destruction, watching the crazies as we all do en route from subway station to home. The Furs have become a cover band of they own material, the life in it long gone.
Their encore included their Sweet Jane-ish classic, “Pretty in Pink.” The fans loved it. A splendid time was had by all.
Both the Psychedelic Furs and the Blow Monkeys prove that music that’s all surface gloss will always be with us. Like “lite” beer and classic novels on 10-minute cassettes, we are growing more shallow and gimmicky. But real rock n’ roll will always be about rebellion and passion — unsafe at any speed.
