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Blizzards
across the northern wastelands; last minute transport traumas; Stirling University's
early schedules; missing dispatches...
Anyway, we arrived late. Missed Scars, a
favourite group, and walked into a Banshee-regulated environment ten
minutes old. But nobody was dancing. A few people were
swaying slightly, others nodded in time. Down the sides of the
hall people were lying on the floor amongst piles of discarded beercans.
All in all a normal University crowd of the mildly
curious, the mildly indifferent, the exhibitionist drunks, the unconscious
and the people who like to go along to see groups, drink beer, jump
around, have a great time and spend the entire evening shouting for one
song they heard a few times and quite liked. Maybe a few fans were
there too, but it would be interesting to know how many in the crowd
would have bothered going to see the Banshees in an outside hall if they
didn't just happen to be the entertainment at the place they were going
anyway.
"For all those who want 'Helter Skelter'....
(muffled cheering)"... here's a Banshee ballad."
'Desert Kisses' is the third new
song out of six. Members of the audience decide to transfer their
weight to the other foot. 'Desert
Kisses' is sad and
slow. Sioux's vocals lost and innocent, instead of the usual proud
and strident soaring through impenetrable, guitar vastness like a robot
pterodactyl fitted with neutron blasters.
Siouxsie & The Banshees deserve our esteem for
their invaluable work in jarring modern music from its rut to two chord
oblivion. Considering their humble origins, what the Banshees have
achieved has been remarkable.
That aside - and whatever transcendentally uplifting
experiences they may have conjured at past gigs - onstage Siouxsie &
The Banshees are almost completely dismal and one-dimensional.
They cant compete with the range of strange emotions and new atmospheres
effortlessly created by such as Pere Ubu and Simple Minds (and stay
tuned for Edinburgh's Josef K), or even the less supple but infinitely
subtle wonderments of Scars and Joy Division.
Whatever macabre humour or cunning ingenuities the
band see in their own work is lost in the relentless instrumentation,
and in particular Sioux's imperious vocals.
Basically the Banshees remain guilty of
humourlessness, detachment and similar accusations, more so than any of
their contemporaries - live at least, where it matters most.
After 'Desert Kisses'
a few fans cheer when they recognise the opening notes of 'Switch'.
Half a dozen start to pogo. Steven Severin looks, briefly, as if he's
about to glance at the audience, but doesn't. John McGeoch, on
short-term lease from Magazine, bends in concentration over his guitar,
leans back a little and disappears behind his fringe. Budgie puts
the hammer down as momentum builds.
And suddenly, as if the floor hurled them there, the
audience, as one are in the air and pogoing like a person who pogos a
lot. For 'Happy House'
they reach new levels of wild excess. A skinhead pours lager over
his head. That's how happy they are.
'Hybrid', another new song, soon
puts a stop to that. Another Wagnerian opus; more teutonic
veneer. The new songs seem a bit longer, more complex (there are
slow bits and fast bits).
This isn't really the most favourable time to review
the Banshees. This is a low-key tour, really just a few of the
places cancelled from last time which weren't rescheduled. And
this was the first gig (they want to forget about Liverpool the previous
night) at a particularly unstable stage of their career before an
indifferent audience.
There was no encore because "They didn't dance to
'Celebration'." (Dance
to a marching beat?)
Lets not be too dismissive just now and hope that the
Banshees take the opportunity for some reassessment.
Glenn Gibson
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