Psychedelic Furs, Bristol

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Memo to self: remember to pack earplugs in future.

Not because it’s too loud but because bands actually sound better now when I put my fingers in my ears. I pick up the full sound, with more treble, all songs sound cohesive and no instrument goes missing. Is this normal?

Anyway, good to see the Fab Furs back in carrot-crunch land, nearly two years after they played a great gig in Frome.

That night sax player Mars Williams stole the show with a supreme performance. Blew his pipe so hard he looked fit to pop, and the penny dropped – it pinpointed why the first two Furs albums stood out at the time – the sax gave them a different sonic texture. Hadn’t spotted that before!

Mars attacks

Here, even though I was two yards from him at the front of the audience you couldn’t hear him well until you retreated towards the back. He wasn’t the centrepiece of the show this time due to the Fleece acoustics.
Still, it was a pleasure to see him, plenty of life in Mars – wikipedia states a strong influence is John Coiltrane so what’s not to like.

Richard Butler’s cracked croak still has a peculiar charm. He was wearing Frank Carson specs with bifocal lenses that made his eyes, close up, resemble those of an alligator, half-closed and watchful. But, fair dos, he still has the teeth and hair of a twentysomething. Brother Tim on bass looked like a beefy John Cale as leant over the front row.

Richard bobbed up and down like a toddler in a baby bouncer and delivered a cracked croon for the highpoint Imitation of Christ – 30-plus years old. Into You like a Train, So Run Down and Mr Jones provided early pep that somewhat lost its way once later stuff – which I’m not so keen on – was aired.

It all ended quite well with India, my favourite track, before I had to hotfoot it to the train station, missing the encores.

Please come to Wales next time.

Christ. it’s Butler
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