Bela Lugosi may be long dead and buried, that old bat, but his spirit was alive and kicking in Richmond last Thursday when the iconic Peter Murphy descended from his bell tower with his Mr Moonlight tour. Promising an evening filled with nothing but Bauhaus songs, there was much to look forward to.
But the anticipation, I have to admit, was tinged with a faint odour of trepidation. After all, Murphy was performing these legendary tracks without the help of his old bandmates – Daniel Ash, David J, and Kevin Haskins. The question on the tip of my tongue – and, I’m sure, on many of the faithful’s that evening – was simply: would Murphy’s band be up to the challenge?
It didn’t take long to answer that question when Murphy and his trio of companions took to the Corner’s stage and launched into the sea-shanty-esque King Volcano, off the 1983 LP Burning From The Inside. As those cymbals and dirge-like drums took shape and Murphy – who looked ridiculously fit and jovial, it has to be said – chanted, I felt the entire room relax as collectively everybody realised they were in good hands.
Did I say the band was up to snuff? Boy, were they ever. But special praise must be singled out for the guitarist, who somehow managed to faithfully bring to life some of the wickedest and most spaced-out guitar riffs in gothic rock history.
As Murphy and company took us on an exhilarating ride through his garden of dark delights – In The Flat Fields, God In An Alcove, Dark Entries and Silent Hedges, amongst many other nuggets – a sort of magic filled the space, impossible to define. It was heart-warming to see so many older goths – myself included – grinning like idiots.
Halfway through the two hour set, Murphy played the only solo song of his for the evening, the bewitching A Strange Kind Of Love. There was a minor sound glitch that needed to be fixed, so Murphy took the time to banter with the crowd about his show in Sydney, and some of the differences between that burg and our fine city down here. He was funny, poised, and rather impish.
We were putty in his hands as he deftly strummed his 12-string guitar and sang those positively glowing lyrics: “This is no terror ground/Or place for the rage/No broken hearts, whitewash lies,” he sang forcefully as not a punter made a peep. Goosebumps broke out on many others’ arms, I’m reckoning.
After a virtuoso performance of Bela Lugosi’s Dead – once again, the band nailed it – there was a short break before we were treated with an encore of T. Rex’s Telegram Sam and David Bowie’s Ziggy Stardust that peeled the paint off the walls with their power.
“This is our last song,” he said toward the end. “It’s from an Australian band, Dead Can Dance. But tonight, it’s my fucking song!” And bang – they delivered to us DCD’s Severance. It was an amazing night.
BY THOMAS BAILEY
Loved: Just the beauty and love placed in the reproduction of such a classic body of work.
Hated: That they didn’t play Kick In The Eye. But that’s a small thing.
Drank: Cider.
