The scene is straight from "Carrie", Brian De Palma's film of telekinesis and revenge. Bullies' target Sissy Spacek stands before the college ball doused in pig's blood. Devastated and humiliated, she turns upon her tormentors and unleashes psychic warfare. Doors bolt shut, sprinkler systems activate, the compere is electrocuted and Spacek's oppressors meet all manners of horrific deaths.
Not the sort of thing you'd expect at yer average Lush gig, huh?
Tonight, though, is a night of surprises. The first is that Sheffield, Sex(less, more like) City is the one place in the country where the indie scene circa 1988 manages to thrive. Adorable's retro new single packs the dancefloor while punters gaze at posters for paraplegic talents like Everything But The Girl, whimpering "We ought to see them" in the way most of us refer to infirm relatives. Blessed Awful prove that an unlistenable mauling of Daisy Chainsaw and bad Bow Wow Wow is what these kids like. Their song, "Dog", is hence appropriate.
Where do Lush fit in amid all this, if at all? Resoloutely indie, for sure, but I've long since had a theory that these eternal pissheads are the scene's Zsa Zsa Gabor, famous(ish) for doing something nobody can quite remember and destined to serve time in gossip columns like the appaling Gabor does on chat shows. For a time, they do little to dispel this. Although, in fairness, they do sound remarkably sprightly (considering it's a year since they last played), opening songs like "Starlust" combine the pop tendencies of Stockhausen with the emotional resonance of Chris Evans. 4AD's charmingly professional PR glances worriedly at me in a manner that conveys "You are enjoying this, aren't you?" while I stare resoloutely ahead, my body language confirming that I most certainly am not.
But then something remarkable happens.
Somebody throws a pint of bitter over Miki. Hours seem to pass as the sticky, golden fluid trickles down her face. Finally, she erupts: "You wanker! Who are you, you facking cant, hiding out there?"
Suddenly, Miki is Spacek in "Carrie", her face contorted in evil and her mind shooting psychic chaos into the music.
It's as if the band are possessed by some mystical spirit (touched by the hand of Bod, perhaps?), but from hereon in, Lush are unstoppable. Bassist Phil stares out like Sid Vicious at Winterland as "Sweetness And Light" takes on a nasty, ironic, sarcastic sneer. My mouth is open. The music plays upon the emotions as the crowd are torn between sympathy at the plight of this poor drenched girl before them, and sheer delight at the unquenchable malice that The Incident has brought to the music. "Downer" is purely Satanic, and "Desire Lines" draws things to an epic close with a long, drawn-out evocation of Joy Division's "The Eternal" and a funereal Berlin.
It is a great night and one I shall remember for many years to come. Where I once saw Lush as an unremarkable, slightly soulless, wimpoid proposition, they are now Zeus, Odin and Goliath in my mind. They have joined the great nihilists of history: The Stooges, The Fall, Einsturzende Neubaten and Norman Hunter.
Now, kids, you have a choice. Do you want a nice, airy, innocuous, dull-as-ditchwater Lush of the last five years? Or do you want the animal, magnetic, raw, sexy, evil, vindictive, blinding Luftwaffe death machine I witnessed tonight?
C'mon, you know what to do. Send 'em up, bartender.
Dave Simpson.
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