Somewhere in Peter Murphy is a good blues band. And it's desperately trying to get out.
Although that might be a little bit misleading. So let's take it from the top:
Last night, Jen and I went to the 9:30 Club and saw a spectacular performance by none other than Peter Murphy. (As an aside: petermurphy.com appears to be registered to some sort of real estate agent. Maybe something worse. I didn't really stick around to see what this person was peddling. Just a warning for those looking for the correct Peter Murphy website.) Now, I will fully admit I'm not a huge fan of Mr. Murphy. More of a casual listener. But if the only shows you went to were for the bands you absolutely loved, you'd never find any new music to listen to. And that, my friends, is a travesty in-and-of itself.
We got to the club at, ironically enough, 9:30. Just enough time to listen to the opening act suck for about twenty minutes. Needless to say, Jen & I were happy that we didn't try to get in when the doors opened at 7:30. I can't quite imagine my mental state if I had had to listen to this guy's dreck for a full two hours. (For those interested, I believe the guy's name is Michael Sheehy. Or James Sheehy. Or Mr. I Make Lots of Noise and Feedback Sheehy. Something like that.) Eventually, this particular opening act struck his last chord and shuffled off the stage. At least the canned intermission music was entertaining.
Finally, Peter Murphy took the stage. Resplendent in a flowing, black, full-length coat and...red pajamas? Huh. All we could figure is that he had been sleeping on the tour bus right up until 10 o'clock, at which point his manager shook him to life, threw him a coat and pushed him on stage. Whatever it was, it certainly didn't detract from Murphy's onstage antics. Well, okay, maybe not so much antics. Antics tend to be reserved for the slightly, um, younger performers out there. Covorting sounds a bit more appropriate.
Some highlights from the show:
- The band. Holy shit, but his backup band was sweet. I seriously think that the drummer and couple of the guitarists could form a nice blues band. All they would need is a different singer. Unless Murphy wanted to start devoting his life to the blues. Okay, that probably wouldn't be much of a stretch, really. Just needs to visit the South for a while.
- The drummer. This man kicked some serious ass. That's all there was to it. By the end of one number he was the only one left on stage, and he produced an amazing drum solo that went on for a good five minutes. Looks like Neil Peart isn't the only drummer in the rock world with some originality.
- The belly-dancer. Okay, she really wasn't a belly-dancer, no matter how much she said she was. Just some random chick from the audience, looking to shake her knockers in front of Peter Murphy. I think this Monty Python quote sums it up best:
...and every Thursday night the hotel has a bloody cabaret in the bar, featuring a tiny emaciated dago with nine-inch hips and some bloated fat tart with her hair brylcreemed down and a big arse presenting Flamenco for Foreigners.
- The glowing ball of life. In other words, a light bulb on some kind of dimmer switch. I mean, it was fun to watch for about thirty seconds. And it didn't take much effort to get the symbolism of holding his heart in his hands. But in a song that goes on for a good seven or eight minutes, the lightbulb needs to go. At one point, I think Murphy was actually mesmerized by the light. Or at least, he had the whole "deer in the headlights" look.
- The light show. I was just absolutely transfixed by the lighting equipment at the club. And for purely geeky reasons: I wanted to go play with the computers controlling the lights!
So overall I give this show an 7 out of 10. In a definite sign that I'm starting to get old, that would have been an 8, but the sound system was a bit too loud, and I could never find a good place to sit during the performance.