Halloween night spent with
legendary spirits
Artistic License
By David Giarrizzo
|  Near
the end of October, the winds did blow and tore apart
the Florida Coast. I was scheduled to travel to Miami,
but a lady named Wilma kept me on the Western shores.
As a last minute thought, I made plans to stay in San
Francisco, in case things improved, or just go with
the flow and spend a Hallowed Eve in the City. I had
a room booked at the Phoenix Motel, a haven for alternative
music enthusiasts and Art lovers alike. My previous
encounters there were always with highly creative people
(Animators for Lucas, Cinematographers, Musicians, Writers,
etc) and this was no exception. I met a woman named
Iris who was doing a film documentary with her boyfriend
who is in a local rock band, the name of which escapes
me, but I enjoyed the banter.
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The desk manager, a trim business woman in her early thirties
sporting 1950 Style glasses and a black ensemble greeted me
as I did the check in then inquired “I heard rumor that
Bauhaus was playing in town.” Quicker than you could
say Peter Murphy, she had the Fillmore on the phone. “Hmmm,
forty five dollars for the Fillmore. I don’t know, seems
a little pricey.” I had to agree, but, oh, what the
hell!
 This
Northampton group of disenchanted art students with an obsession
for glam rock began releasing albums in the late Seventies.
They called their band Bauhaus from the German Baun (to build)
and haus (house), a style of architecture formed in 1918 integrating
form and functionality with Art and Architecture. The first
major Bauhaus exhibition which was opened in 1923 reflected
the revised principle of art and technology a new unity spanned
the full spectrum of Bauhaus work. The Nazi Party and other
fascist political groups had opposed the Bauhaus throughout
the 1920s. They considered it a front for communists, especially
because many Russian artists were involved with it. A perfect
name for a non-conformist group as these lads. Together with
the Cure, Joy Division, the Stranglers, the Damned, Sioxi
and the Banshees, Bauhaus -- vocalist Peter Murphy, guitarist
Daniel Ash, bassist David Jay and drummer Kevin Haskins --
replaced punk rage with existential melancholy and cynical
banter.
The era of Reagan and Thatcher began, and so did Goth, because
when life’s that depressing, a kid has to do something
that’s constructive. The music expressed a bored nation
of intelligent young people with a flair for style. Unfortunately,
in every scene there are unbalanced individuals who make bad
decisions and are presented to the media as bad representatives.
Since then, a perplexed media has stereotyped any person that
dresses in black or wears make up as a threat. The term Goth
itself has become a negative word even amongst today’s
youth. Bauhaus broke up in 1983 after four albums. But Goth
has rocked on and thrived, providing fertile ground for this,
the second Bauhaus reunion tour to hit San Francisco in seven
years.
Bauhaus might be Goth nostalgia incarnate, but its aesthetic
still carries a touch of prescience, from its mechanistic,
dance-friendly rhythm section to its use of ambient noise
and oblique instrumentals. Monday, the band and its fans celebrated
the longevity of that music -- and themselves. Undead, undead,
undead indeed.
I arrived in costume as a Wolfman, complete with prosthetics
and make up, claws, and slip-on feet. I was ready to prowl
the auditorium and howl with delight to this awesome underground
band that was Goth before Goth was a trend. The crowd that
gathered on the sidewalk were mostly dressed in Eighties fashion
in Black, naturally. The ages seemed to center around the
late Twenties to the mid-Thirties. With the exception of the
fabulous furry freaks that were patrolling the VIP seats,
looking for ‘something that smells good.’ I was
the oldest cat there. If you hold a reunion, they will come.
‘They,’ in the case if Monday’s Bauhaus
concert, included three generations of Goths: Former Goths,
Goths and a smattering of toddling Goths-to-be. What began
as an extension of (and reaction to) the ‘70s punk aesthetic
has turned out to be one of the most enduring, and certainly
best-dressed, subcultures of the music world, and the regrouping
of one of its founding bands was a fine place to celebrate
that fact. It was a dark and somewhat somber celebration,
but then, black is always the new black.As you walk into the
vintage velvet greeting lobby, one could hear soft violins
in a corner. The drinkers were in hot pursuit of the balcony
where all the portraits of rock stars hang behind a bar stocked
with pricey drinks. I bee-lined it for the seats down by the
stage, where a skinny little white haired guy with a pony
tail and a baseball cap kept all the tired poor folks from
sitting in the VIP seats reserved for the celebrities that
never show up. I had fun misarranging the reserved sign, just
to watch him religiously re-straighten each one, over, and
over again. Fortunately, I made room for a couple of skinny
mummies that had some herbs from the Nile, and I couldn’t
deny them. The lights went down as the smoke machines churned,
and a single spotlight inched outward to reveal a trio donning
Phantom masks, swaying as they played their strings with bows.
Joyce Rooks and her three piece “Raspunita” played
a haunting period piece that morphed into a more modern style
and then completely changing direction until…one by
one the band joined in as the one and only Peter Murphy appeared
in his long black velvet coat and white period shirt singing
our most favorite and captivating song, “Bella Lugosi‘s
Dead.” The deadening thump and plod of “Burning
From the Inside” had all the vigor of a crypt door slamming,
but was followed by the more beguiling title song from 1980’s
“In the Flat Field” and then “A God in an
Alcove,” which let Murphy indulge both his characteristic
vocal warble and melodramatic stage persona.
 Blond,
balding and almost upbeat, Murphy was in fine voice as he
led Bauhaus with the wan panache of an undead lounge singer.
In a wise move, he’s toned down the operatic flailing
of the 1998 reunion and replaced it with a repertoire of fey
wrist flicks more suitable to a gentleman in his middle years.
By contrast, Ash and Jay seem not to have aged at all; perhaps
Murphy serves as the band's collective Dorian Gray, looking
a bit like Vincent Price.
Everyone was kind and considerate to one another despite
the proximity of bodies, not a person was injured. A few peoples
pride were stepped on to maintain a fire lane, unfortunately
right in front of my view. But I literally rose to the occasion
and perched up on the back of my pew-like seat, crouched over
as a were-guy should. The crowd could tell this would be an
outstanding performance, and gave their undead love to the
band, feeding the synapse of pleasure all through the night.
The raw, real and mature David J. on bass just took in the
energy of the crowd and blew us away with thunderous subtonics.
I salute Kevin H. for his rhythm and amazing play on those
drums.
The 90-minute set included a career’s worth of material,
with particular emphasis on the group’s first two albums.
Among the highlights: the prototypical anthem of doom “She’s
in Parties,” featuring Murphy on melodica; a ragged
but glorious “Passion of Lovers;” Jay's funky
bass lines of “Kick in the Eye;” and Murphy inexplicably
waving a big black stick for the length of “Rosegarden
Funeral of Sores,” still one of the band's most rocking
numbers.
Guitarist Ash, who has enjoyed the most post-breakup success
with his bands Tones on Tail and Love and Rockets, took over
vocals for “Slice of Life” and delivered an outrageously
over-the-top saxophone solo during “In Fear of Fear.”
His sinewy guitar sounded impressively contemporary as it
wound its way around the kinetic tempo of “Terror Couple
Kill Colonel” and “Third Uncle” (a Brian
Eno composition). They did a driving version of Iggy Pop’s
“The Passenger” and for the encore they did glam-rock
covers such as T. Rex's "Telegram Sam" and Bowie's
“Andy Warhol,” ending with “Ziggy Stardust.”
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