from the EP Burning the Fields, Tower Release Records, 1985
One (the only?) constant within the gothic subculture through the decades has been a heavy focus on one’s outer appearance, wholly conceding the importance of image as symbolism and rejoicing in the power that’s inherent to a deviant likeness, even though kids can now buy their outfits pre-made for them ala Hot Topic (looking scary used to require a great deal more effort). British rockers Fields of the Nephilim (that is one hell of a name) distinguished themselves from many other goth acts by embracing a more apocalyptic wardrobe, less bat cave and more WWIII morning-after; frankly, with those goggles and dirty leather dusters they looked a bit like extras from the set of Mad Max, but they’ve committed themselves to it ever since their inauguration unto the frowning masses, so way to keep that up! “Singer” Carl McCoy never has been able to carry a tune all that well, so it’s a good thing that he was singing about deeply twisted shit, and even better that drummer ‘Nod’ Wright happens to be a polyrhythmic prodigy on the skins. Put on your pout!!
from the 7” single, Bridge House Records, 1981
Oh yeah, this is the stuff man… Equal parts Joy Division, Bauhaus, & Gary Numan, this scorching track from the relatively unknown Wasted Youth (no relation to the Cali hardcore crew of the same name) gets everything right: driving rhythm section, minor chord harmonies, weird synth effects hovering about, and a dreamy (not to mention catchy) chorus with forcefully processed vocals; not surprisingly, a Martin Hannett production. Gothic new wave post-punk bliss. The precious few people who remember this band are typically fans of the guitarist Rocco Barker, who later went on to find moderate fame with the band Flesh For Lulu (a John Hughes favorite), but most of the mood on these early singles owes far more to drummer Andy Scott and bassist Darren Murphy, who provided the relentless metronomic pulse that makes their sound so appealing, to me anyways.
from the 12” single, Red Rhino Records, 1984
It’s incredible to me just how much sunglasses can actually hide, both literally & figuratively, but I’d be a liar if I said I wasn’t a major fan of them (what does that say about me…); shit, as a guy it’s one of the few accessories we’re allowed, so you better fucking believe I have an army of them. There’s a lovely disconnect from reality which appears near automatically once the shades have been donned, and with the ‘80s retro craze still at full capacity, sunglasses continue to make our post-modern heads seem evermore hollow, like craters on the moon. Walking a genuinely deft line between goth & angular post-punk, Leeds-based crew Red Lorry Yellow Lorry (‘lorry’ being British nomenclature for trucks used in shipping) continues to sit high amidst my pile of band’s that deserve more love; no, there’s no new ground being broken or anything, but the way they managed to combine their influences produced a subtle vibe all their own: spooky, jangly, unfastened. This uptempo number falls somewhere between the Cult & early Sisters of Mercy, almost like it’s the catchiest tune neither band ever recorded.
from the LP Love, Beggars Banquet Records, 1985
Although I’m sure the dissolution of Southern Death Cult was a travesty to some diehard goths out there (…and I mean “out there”…), for the rest of us it was most assuredly a stroke of good luck, leaving Ian Astbury free to roam and collide with Billy Duffy, subsequently giving us both an easier, shortened name (The Cult) & better music, in my humble opinion anyways. Having swapped drummers with UK goth freaks the Sex Gang Children, every last little thing had fallen into place by the time of this recording---and it sure as hell shows! The comparisons to Jim Morrison that Astbury was pelted with were unavoidable (he infamously toured with the remaining Doors members a few years back), but the music effortlessly straddles so many genres at once: ‘80s goth, new wave, indie, metal, psych…it boggles the mind! This remains not only this band’s definitive song, but a true symbol of the ‘80s decade altogether.
from the LP Disintegration Fiction Records, 1989
The term ‘epic’, when used as an adjective, means “impressive by virtue of greatness in size, scope, or heroism”; without any doubt at all, that word simply pales in comparison to the harrowing monolith of power & gloom which is Disintegration. It almost seems cliché, but while attempting to eschew the rising stardom that had surprised the band following Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, they actually wound up composing what many Cure fans consider to be their magnum opus, hurtling them even farther into the rock star galaxy, never again able to go backwards in either popularity or scope; where Pornography felt akin to the bubonic plague (I really mean that in the best possible way, because I love that album too), this was an ethereal fog that played amidst the mossy bracken in the moors, deceptively attractive yet sinister & detached. Bob gave an interview with Mojo magazine a few years back and affirmed the long-held rumor about their rampant LSD use around the time of this album’s recording, essentially locking themselves in the mansion that served as the recording studio and proceeding to gobble down ‘60s-era amounts of the substance---frankly, knowing that, it’s mind-blowing they got everything to sound this good! “Untitled” was the last track on the LP, a wistful bookend about what could have been, a theme that’s never far from anyone’s heart, “…pushing my face in the memory of you again, but I never know if it's real, never know how I wanted to feel; never quite said what I wanted to say to you, never quite managed the words to explain to you, never quite knew how to make them believable, and now the time has gone, another time undone…” That accordion just slays me every damn time!
from the 12” single, Merciful Release, 1982
I’ve spoken before of musical litmus tests, those particular bands which come to define an actual doorway into another level of subcultural membership, bands whose very mention can instantaneously separate a group of individuals into partisan camps; back in the day, the Sisters of Mercy were most assuredly one of those groups. You either knew about them and had all of these old singles of theirs on crappy booter cassettes, or you looked upon this band (hell, the name alone) with derision and, ultimately, fear of what sinister acts might be going on there. The funny thing is, looking at them now, the scariest thing about this Leeds-based crew was their name…well, that and Andrew Eldritch’s bass-heavy gurgle, enough to make Richard Butler (Psychedelic Furs) sound downright perky. This track is a hot jangly mess, matching dark & light tones with masterful ease, and introducing us to Mr. Eldritch’s cynical, near misanthropic worldview, “…Alice pressed against the wall so she can see the door, in case the laughing strangers crawl and crush the petals on the floor…she needs you like she needs her tranqs, to tell her that the world is clean, to promise her a definition…pass the crystal, spread the Tarot, in illusion comfort lies; the safest way, the straight and narrow, no confusion no surprise…” Wise choice in naming the protagonist Alice, a name which conjures all sorts of druggy imagery, from Wonderland to the bogus diary of an acid casualty that never was (remember reading Go Ask Alice?!?). The shadowy vibe, and fast beats, got them lumped in with the goth movement, but the Sisters always had a good deal more going on than merely a pout and some black eyeliner.
from the LP Mask, Beggars Banquet Records, 1981
Dancing probably isn’t the first activity people associate with the modern gothic subculture, because let’s be honest, with all the chains and random metal accessories these kids wear it would present some real safety issues to anyone that was standing near them, so it’s most likely better that they just continue to mope about, hands plunged firmly inside their pockets; however, back in the early ‘80s, goth rock could be heard spinning on the turntables of many DJs, the frenetic pace often making it better for nightclub dancefloors than new wave. Bauhaus was one of the best, fashioning some of the most idiosyncratic and alluring soundtracks within that scene, and looking every bit the part, with singer Peter Murphy & guitarist Daniel Ash appearing like the near-dead offspring of some hairdresser vampires and the cast of Rocky Horror Picture Show, all the while, “…dancing to the dark side of this tune…”
from the LP Resin, Caroline Records, 1988
This track is fucking spiked with Quaaludes man, for real: every member of the band just barely manages to keep time and remember to play/sing; I’m not dissing them when I say that, because it actually suits the song like a dream---a dark, candlelit, sedative-laced dream. Surprising as it may be, they hail from SoCal and were spawned from the same scene as 45 Grave & Kommunity FK; fittingly, their first single was released by none other than Factory Records (I say “fittingly” only because this track almost sounds like what Joy Division might have turned into), but by this release they had jumped over to gothic mainstay Caroline Records. Everything but the kitchen sink is processed to all hell here, particularly the guitars and drums, creating an exceedingly postapocalyptic vibe.
from the LP Kaleidoscope, Geffen Records, 1980
The undisputed high priestess of all things goth, Siouxsie Sioux found a way to navigate the trends of her time more successfully than most, managing to straddle the borders of the mainstream and the underground with surgical precision, allowing herself plenty of creative freedom, but never sticking with one sound or vibe long enough for it to get stale. Quick to move away from the basic punk template from which she & the Banshees had risen, this track finds them addressing what sounds like schizophrenia, playing with some very trippy imagery, “…singing sweet savages lost in our world, this big eyed-girl sees her faces unfurl---now's she’s in purple, now she’s the turtle, disintegrating…” Siouxsie has never been the best singer in the world, but her delivery is always wet with moody, pouting rain; the rhythm section of Budgie (drums) & Severin (bass) keep things from falling to pieces.
from the 12” single, Flicknife Records, 1984
The modern history of music is littered with groups who fall into the category of “should have been huge”, and these guys make a very good case for that idea; representing a solid, strength-through-pain theme (as opposed to the relish-in-pain ethos more commonly found amidst gothic rockers from that era), this song never fails to get stuck in my head. This segues into life with a fantastically grand intro, melancholic and whispy guitar riff looped, remarkably tribal drumming, stretched out to maximize the building tension until it revs up and takes off, feeling very much like hitting the highway from an on-ramp. These guys only played around London for a couple of years, never scoring a major label deal, but garnering a healthy cult-following which carries on to this day. Andy Nkanza’s vocal stylings remind me of a tame Brian Ferry or David Bowie, but he delivers the message well, “…out on the edge there, oh, we can fly…”
from the 12” EP, Iron Curtain Records, 1984
We just went through a minor spring blizzard, the kind that is so friggin’ wet it creates those mutated, monster snowflakes which are the size of potato chips; heavy as fuck, just the kind of stuff you need to make a snowman or punishing (bruising) snowballs. I can’t help but be affected by the grey and damp tones outside, rather positively, seeing as how this sort of weather is the exception around these parts, it’s very agreeable. I’ve been very blessed to get my hands on some excellent tunes lately which personify the current climate in a fantastically suitable manner, and this track happens to be the one I just can’t get out of my head. A driving, tribal drumbeat pulsates with such mechanical accuracy it almost doesn’t feel human, providing the song with a backbone as thick as an elephant’s neck; the guitars are so heavily processed it almost sounds like a refinery, smashing steel, screeching wheels on aluminum tile. A polysynth plays what sounds like a duet of melancholy violas or cellos, pushed to the back of the mix as atmosphere more than anything. It completely blew my mind when I learned that these guys were based out of Santa Barbara, California---not exactly the sound that immediately comes to mind when I think of the coast, but the more I listen to it, I can feel the vibrations of the 101, gazing out across the Pacific through the car window, waves crashing against the shore. Original copies of this 12” EP sell for over $1000, which seems awfully ridiculous right about now, but all hype aside, this one track makes the whole EP for me; the other tracks are good too, cold and danceable darkwave all around, but this number feels like gloomy salve for my soul. Looking out over mounds of intimidating and abhorrent sludge, the long intro is just fine, taking my mind adrift, far away, detached and distant. The lyrics are too murky for me to make out clearly, and my searches on the infernet came to no avail, so we’re left with just a few clear lines, “…hey filthy spider…screaming in his veins…you’ll be sorry when he’s through…and now you’d better run…I heard a tarantula scream, I heard a tarantula scream…” The monotone vocal delivery adds properly to the darkness, and matched with the simplistic & repetitive music, it generates a near-disinterested vibe that suits this kind of composition impeccably!
from the LP Japanese Whispers, Fiction Records, 1983WOW, if you only knew how hard I sweated over this choice here; seeing as how I nearly own the Cure’s entire discography, choosing which single track would be the first out of the gate had me literally wringing my hands a bit. This is the case for a number of bands I will be posting on here, so once again: these reviews aren’t necessarily my favorite songs ever, just whatever is jumping out at me when I’m sitting here in the present moment. Robert Smith and co. took the idea of an elegiac, doom-n-gloom death dirge just about as far as one could possibly go on the album preceding this one (Pornography), so they were bound for either a new direction, or an early grave. Thankfully, in my humble opinion anyways, they chose the former option, and this track is one of a handful of 12” releases which were thrown together as Japanese Whispers. I enjoy all of the Cure’s many stylistic detours and triumphs through the years, but I particularly respond to this transitional sound: very upbeat, certainly as compared to the crawl of Pornography, jazzy drumming, and loads of new keyboards and synth noises abounding everywhere. This song really prevails, both in changing the creative direction of their music and in sheer enjoyment for the listener; it was produced by Steve Nye, who also produced music for another unique band, Japan. Mr. Smith delivers some quirky, dream-like images through the lyrics: “…I passed the howling woman and stood outside your door…we walked around a lake and woke up in the rain…troubled in their dreams again…” As he continues, however, the kinky ‘BD/SM’ undercurrent to the theme reveals itself in full: “I kissed you in the water, made your dry lips sing…I saw you look like a Japanese baby…take me for a walk…take me for a walk…” I’m sure many an assertive fan have fantasized about cute, then-little Robert Smith collared at the end of their leather leash, performing…well, performing. I recently saw these guys in concert, and still, after all these years, their music translates incredibly well; I felt like a little kid, to be honest. They endure, not just because of a rabid fanbase, but because their musical prowess and flexibility eclipses their peers’; his canine-like baying in the bridge, right before the coda, had thousands of people moaning and fawning their approval---present company included!
from the EP Burning the Fields, Tower Release Records, 1985
