A steady trickle of what I could only presume to be post punk concert veterans poured in through the security passpoints of the Anthem on the evening of Sunday, October 6th. These concertgoers boasted experience as their badge of honor, clad in staple alternative fashions and tour t-shirts corresponding to years gone by, the cotton conquests of other epic sonic exploits. Peppered among them, budding audiovisual geeks and alternatives abounded, proving their worth to the in-crowd by espousing musical trivia and dressing to the nines.
My arrival to this scene was early enough that only the wisps of this crowd, the most dedicated of the sophisticates, had only begun to cling to the barricade with beers in hand. We quickly joined the buzzing group in anticipation of the Jesus and Mary Chain. As the lights went down, adrenaline soared and bodies were packed closer and closer towards the emerging group, shrouded in the eccentric lime green of the house spotlights. Their set packed an artful punch, skillfully demonstrating solid experimental tendencies and reintroducing the crowd to a familiar romantic bliss.
This served as perfect primer for the Psychedelic Furs, poetic and bold. I studied the equipment being carted out by roadies, my eyes locking on a narrow upright stand too thick to be a microphone but otherwise ambiguous. It seemed apparent that the foray into rock ahead would prove not just enjoyable but exploratory, at which point my suspense duly heightened. Curiosity engaged, I retreated from my eagle eyed appraisal and joined the masses in bearing the low hum of anticipation which would carry us to the moment in which dimming lights might plunge us back into a musical landscape once again.
As the cool, heavy darkness of The Anthem begged my attention, I first set my eyes on Rich Good. Towering, dressed in inky black with a tousle of pitch hair, he took up not guitar, but bow, and sent out an otherworldly sonic shock on the upright electric bass that had earlier piqued my interest. This was not a Sunday night in DC, but a timeless traipse through the neon sound that the Furs specialized in, ushered in by the low moan of the upright. Good switched to Gretsch White Falcon, whose purity would have all but solidified the alien nature of the guitarist but for his palpable sense of collected joy. As the audience swayed and whooped to “Love My Way” and “The Ghost In You,” Good repeatedly approached the edge of the stage and displayed an introspective sense of contentment, private moments of satisfaction made public to those in witness to authentic art.
Frontman Richard Butler is confident and unafraid, no stranger to meeting his audience at the foot of the stage, a fulfillment of the post-punk desire to truly see the audience before and waste no time connecting to them. He is repeatedly found with arm around Good, guitarist Roger Morris, and bassist (his brother!) Tim Butler. Butler himself paces the stage with dignity and determination, laying down the vital grooves of the Furs’ essential tracks alongside drummer Paul Garisto. The Furs interact as their instruments do: with urgent conviction and necessary feeling, with the knowledge that art is the most precious experience of our lives.
As I moved within the expanse of the crowd, I found myself every now and then affected by the simple thought that what danced around my head and teased my ears, that that music was beautiful. I don’t know what more any musician could strive to give.
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