Salı 1 Haz 2010, 19:43

Sat 29 May – 25 years of Current 93
Only the promise of two events – a Current 93 birthday ballistic and the release of Baalstorm, Sing Omega into the wild – have maintained my fragile flame a flickering in recent months. Pauper that I am, and two nights being beyond me, I selected the lengthier fiesta of Saturday evening, foregoing the new record for an unnecessary twenty-four hours.

All very nice, but what was the event like?

Unlike any concert I’ve ever attended.

Formal and foreboding, London’s HMV’s Forum was transformed into an opera house – all pleasantly seated – taming the pageant of purple/pink/puce bonneted punks, happy hippies and sullen psychos in seconds. Against this subdued backdrop, Rameses III ambled on. Very nice too. That no one could discern the boundary between sound check and performance mattered not, as these three’s ambient lullabies lulled us further towards a restful repose.

Then Comus, the so-called ancient folkies, blasted us awake with…acoustic instruments. Gosh they can play: the likes of “Diana”, utterly unpredictable with Satanic vitality, sounded amazing. Then, the ominous promise of the first new Comus song in 39 wilderness years, proved even greater. A beautiful bevy of flute, viola and saucy breathing lifted the fluctuating guitars and voice of Roger Wooton. Incredible. Some more lilting, gentle fledging songs dragged somewhat, but here was a genuinely unique, muscular sound – replete with nicely disturbed lyrics.

However, Comus’ minor legion of supporters were clearly bemused when the darkest of folk was substituted by the darkest of dance, These-New-Puritans style. How jarring can one get? As usual, they were good, even if few here appreciated them, and our seated selves struggled to shift beyond the odd pathetic paw pounding. Not a band to peruse seated, perhaps, but this simply served to complete the terrifically twisted contrasting nature of the line-up. Their lights bloody blinded me, though.

Sure, this had all proved rather nice, but golly was I glad to see the Current 93 family – Andrew WK or no Andrew WK – take their places almost 4 hours after the kick-off.

On they poured, twelve of the buggers, covering lute, four guitars, bass, violas, cello, piano, percussion and backing vocals (I know that doesn’t add-up). Then came a top-hatted Sebastian to introduce David, as a soothsayer of modern music.

Finally, he hopped on – brown suited, bare footed and a zebra-striped-woolly-hat bonneted. David Tibet.

Many moaned at the new numbers in place of classics, but these hatchlings matched the more mature vintages of one of the most prolific artists of recent times. “Passenger Aleph in name” sat so perfectly alongside “A Sadness Song” that few ignorant of Current chronology could classify them. Tibet would rampage at the most tender melodies and stand statue still at the most raucous roars. His performance was frighteningly unhinged, and then controlled. The nightmares will never abate.

“Not because the Fox barks”, almost unrecognisable at times, was the highlight for Mr Moochoo – perhaps alongside the rousing finale of “Lucifer over London”.

I’m deeply in love with Baby Dee’s piano pyrotechnics at present. No one else plays quite like that. Once, I believed The Bad Seeds whipped-up the finest musical backdrop for the poetic musings. How wrong I was. This bunch is penis-poppingly breathtaking.

Bill Fay’s guest appearance – his potently simple verse – jarred beautifully with Tibet’s umpteenth – but welcome – Gnostic rambling.

The crowd, seemingly asleep during the early stages, awoke as the set progressed, but only between numbers – otherwise stone-like as their bottoms reshaped the seats. After “A sadness Song”, one previously shiftless gentleman unsheathed his torso and brandished his shirt aloft as a lasso, whirling it wildly in the dusky hall. For me, I desired to be on my feet, and to lunge in time with the beat. Many seemed to think it was a conference, but I still managed to dance (seated though I remained).

All exceptional things must meet their end, and Tibet was the first to abscond - gathering up his voluminous lyric book and discarded jacket, with a final wave. One by one, the musicians downed tools till only the backing singer remained. Beautiful.

Now bereft, the new record rumbles on – despite my scrobbling function ceasing (I promise I’ve spun it ten times already). Like most of its predecessors, it’s remarkable.

Apologies for my ramble: I just allowed the words to pour out as they occurred to me, and, err, there were rather a lot of them. No amount of Moochoo verbiage, however, can obscure a simple fact: this was the most momentous musical meet in history. Thank you, Mr Tibet, thank you.