Lighten up, cutiepie. With all this talk of picadilly whores and the undead, you’d think you were writing Bauhaus lyrics from a syphillitic tomb. And I suppose that’s exactly the point. But it’s not true. Everyone knows the lighting in those tombs is too weak to accomodate photo shoots for your liner notes and NME profiles.
Actually, I love the dramatic affectations of gothic artists. Everything is so intense, so ugly and bruised. It’s like a constant loop of that arthouse film Willy Wonka shows on his factory boat ride. But I wonder how artists like Peter Murphy and Andrew Eldritch manage in the modern world? They’re so downbeat, what’s it like when they find a penny? Or find out it’s Ben & Jerry’s 15th anniversary so their Catacombs Crunch (with fake teardrop saline core) ice cream cone is FREE? How do they react? Are you allowed simple pleasures when you spend most of your evenings in white pancake makeup, black leatherstockings and poet shirts? The pain of gothic rock and roll is so wet and pulpy, trying to imagine the lives of gothic artists intersecting with banality is nearly impossible. Peter Murphy – have you ever hit “redial” on your telephone? Have you ever spilled Thousand Island dressing on your torn, snug-fitting muslin top? Have you ever purchased flip-flops or Twizzlers?
Last night’s Interpol concert was sprinkled with many adorable nu-goths, straight from grotto heaven. Every kind of my favorite kind of person was there, to ogle. I wanted to adopt one as an act of charity, like a kitten with a biting problem. Actually, these music fans seemed much more likely to crack a smile, as did the band. The first indication that Interpol are a slightly diluted post-punk gloom experience is that they were all perfectly visible onstage, choosing not to camouflage themselves behind a curtain of spooky dry ice. I’ll bet Interpol buys a shitload of Twizzlers.
