YOU MAYBE A
NIHILIST BUT YOU AIN'T NO F*@!KIN' Seven
years have passed since that first bleak inter of punk; in seven years
Sioux's harsh monochrome has melted into myriad golds, the dark horror of
love in a void is now a light kiss in the dreamhouse. The years
turn, the punk worm turns into a butterfly. We might marvel at the
change, but the butterflies in our stomach have long since flown. Seven
years! Dare Siouxsie And The Banshees last so long? Here is a
group who once embodied others' obsolescence, a black star sucking off
others' energy, using it to convert fake comfort and hollow warmth into
grotesque caricatures of suburban existence. Through immense
strength of character, tempered by those first years left out in the cold,
they melded arrogance and naivety, sombre wit and an extraordinary
sensitivity into superbly wrought metal waltzes. Music channeled
through narrow, airless corridors lit in hard black and white. The
post-split explosion into kaleidoscopic colour, since diverted through the
psychedelic leanings of Steve Severin and present guitar player Robert
Smith and underlined by the switch from Kenny Morris's tom tom/tympani
tunnel visions to Budgie's more gymnastic approach, might have introduced
more variety, but it also marks a diffusion, a slight yet unsightly loss
of focus. This loss is
compensated for by a few constants: the initial shock of Sioux cannot
easily be forgotten. It still informs what they do, just as it
serves to them a salutary reminder of the fat they despised. And
their immaculate conceit is still intact. Why else the Royal Albert
Hall (apparently designated as their local gig for some 'stars and their
environment' special coming soon Channel 4)? The
hall certainly wasn't chosen to favour support Fad Gadget - a flea to
Siouxsie's butterfly. Tonight, his normally sharp bite was
blunted by the building's acoustic time traps and sound delays, which
bounced his slow, evenly tempered rhythms and melodies into barely recognisable
shapes. His brave move to a predominantly non-electric line up was
thus ruined, leaving Frank Tovey scrambling to draw an uninterested
audience's attention with a series of self-flagellations, gambols and
leaps. Unfortunately nobody looked his way, let alone wonder why he
did what he did. The turbulent
sandstorms of present day Siouxsie And The Banshees more readily competed
with the hall's faults, though they too were blighted for an early
stretch. With nothing to listen to but a numb blast of neutered
yellow noise you were forced to concentrate on looking, ponder the
questions raised earlier, or puzzle over Siouxsie's present taste for
Carnaby bazaar black skirt and ankle bells, her odd pony canter of a dance
step and the group's predilection for Turkish Delight projections and
lighting effects. And just when
you were getting to thinking maybe seven years was too long for such a
group to survive with their terrorist's sensibility intact, that any sense
of threat was bound to mellow into mock hallowe'en kitsch 'n' treats,
Robert Smith restored a genuine chill to the night by meshing the simple
guitar motif of 'Night Shift' with a great hectoring Siouxsie vocal.
Thus wrestled back into present time, you were held there until they chose
to hurtle you into the past with an encore of The Beatle's 'Dear
Prudence'. An inevitable 'Helter Skelter' reminded that Siouxsie And
The Banshees always had a macabre understanding of Manson's evil and its
attraction. If anybody were to
ask during these dying moments: "How many nihilists does it
take to fill the Albert Hall?" you could quite honorably
answer: "Two. Siouxsie and Severin." I
think this is compliment enough. Chris
Bohn
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