Published on Dec 10, 1997
I owned the T-shirt before I bought the album. It was cool. The
T-shirt, that is. Bright green with neon pink, raised letters that
stated simply, “Psychedelic Furs.” Very avant garde for an
education major! Since I worked at my friend’s record store and got
most of my pay in albums, I figured I’d take a chance and get the
“Pfurs” newest offering,
Talk, Talk, Talk.
At first it seemed exciting. Richard Butler sings with that
sneering, world-weary voice that makes you believe he doesn’t give
a fuck. The guitars were layered over each other. They surged
forward and ran “into you like a train,” as the best song on the
album was titled. The lyrics were like a half-sobbed sigh of
despair. There was even saxophone bleating high in the mix, so
anti-new wave that it was cool.
The “Pfurs” seem to have never quite broken through, at least in
the US. There was always someone a little more radical for the
underground punks, someone a little more accessible for the weekend
safety-pin types. Then, “Pretty In Pink” was used as the theme song
for the teen angst movie of the same name. Suddenly the Furs were
big with the hip, teen crowd.
I don’t know. The excitement just isn’t there for me anymore.
What used to seem like decadent energy now seems like a feeble
attempt at cultivating a demographic. I pull
Talk, Talk, Talk out every once in a while, whenever I want
to fantasize about Molly Ringwald. Richard Butler has gone on to a
new band called Love Spit Love. Same idea, updated for the ’90’s. I
don’t expect to hear much from them after a while. Their
demographic has moved on.