Peter Murphy brought his melodramatic, gaunt self to House of Blues on Sunday night for a mesmerizing show, where he proved to be way more Willy Wonka than Edgar Allen Poe.
This English godfather of goth, who cut up the scene in the ‘80s with his band Bauhaus, sang “Happy Birthday” to a roadie named Joey while holding a candle-clad chocolate cake, invited a family of four up on stage, and even started an impromptu Q and A session.
This was certainly a degree of difference from his early Bauhaus shows, where coffin escaping was one of the main features. To my dismay, I didn’t spot a single hearse in the Downtown Disney lot where House of Blues is located.
Ali Eskandarian opened, dancing around the stage strumming heavily. He seemed to be channeling an Elvis with Tourettes. Waving his purple scarf about, with mind-numbing synth sounds in the background, he appeared like a crazed performance artist with the soul of a political poet. “Johnny Goes to War” came equipped with shoe shuffling and hard hitting lyrics—“Johnny’s only nineteen-years-old/With twenty-three kills already…”
Murphy strolled on stage, and with his arrival a sharp scream came from the crowd. He sang and sensually caressed Eskandarian’s fro as if it was a fuzzy kitten. Then left like a whisper. Soon after his exit, the friendly phantom returned to entice us with his songs and dance moves. His motions were an odd, yet exciting, blend of matador, horse and Mick Jagger. Throughout the night he busted out leg stretches and his very own incendiary version of the moonwalk. Even if you had never felt the urge to paint your nails black, you still couldn’t deny that Murphy had a bold baritone.
A cover of Trent Reznor's “Hurt” brought on cheers from fans. At the song’s closing Murphy stood facing the drum kit, guitar slung upright on his back, like a gypsy who had just reached his destination after an exhausting pilgrimage.
The otherworldly “A Strange Kind of Love,” was in the vein of Bowie’s “Space Oddity.” Its trippy lyrics transported listeners deep into the folds of Murphy’s cerebellum. He abruptly jumped into a condensed version of a beloved oldie, “Bela Lugosi’s Dead,” and continued into some ‘90s hits including “Marlene Dietrich’s Favourite Poem” and “The Sweetest Drop.” All performed with undying intensity.
While the title of “I’ll Fall With Your Knife” suggested something darkly violent, it was actually the antithesis of what I would consider goth rock. Its message about wholeheartedly loving someone and catchy beat seemed like a song you would hear on any generic radio station. Murphy’s voice exuded that certain combination of strength and vulnerability.
He is the sort of enigma you may feel anxious around, but still want to make licorice tea for and wrap in burgundy bed sheets.
After a blink-of-the-eye break, he came back armed with a tiny wind piano. The gothy, New Wave classic, “She’s in Parties,” prompted the crowd to break out some subtly dramatic moves of their own.
Murphy brought us back to a time before Marilyn Manson and Coal Chamber, when being a goth band was less about screaming over death metal power chords and more about being slightly sullen, experimental and introspective.
He schooled a new generation about an identity that involves so much more than just hanging out at the local Hot Topic and finding the perfect pair of ripped fishnet stockings. Murphy rekindled the ashes of gothdom, turning the HOB show into his very own Sabbath ceremony.
He’s not just for those who feel a magnetic pull toward the macabre or for those who want to maintain their melancholy cred. The sleeping children next to me reinforced that Godfather Murphy was hypnotic, capable of stirring emotions and evoking peaceful slumber.
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