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SISTERS OF MERCY

The Venue

ENIGMATIC, PERVERSE, deadpan, the Sisters of Mercy are so black, they’re a total eclipse of the art.

Andrew ‘Spiggy’ Eldritch, ‘mother superior’ of the Sisters, is a perfect reptilian Rasputin. He coils and recoils his splndiy frame round the mike-stand, uttering lyrics in a voice that moves from a deep shakey retort to an ear-shattering scream. He unleashes a torrent of prowling malevolence and brooding sexuality like other Lizard Kings we have known and loved (to death). He’s posey as hell.

Against this, you have the subdued mania of Mark, the first guitarist and young Ben, the second who has a look which says, “if I concentrate hard enough, maybe this horrible nightmare will go away and I can retake my Physics ‘A’ level in peace". Craig, bass, just concentrates and chews gum.

You get the same merciful release listening to oldies like ‘Body Electric’ and ‘Alice’ and newer songs like the slow and mesmeric ‘Burn’, ‘Valentine’ and ‘Anaconda’ as you might listening to (or feeling) Motorhead. They share the same larger than life heavy metal quality and surreal bad-trip lyrics. They even do ‘Gimme Shelter’ for chrissakes. How can songs about doom, death, destruction and drugs leave you feeling energised, vibrant, exorcised, even…happy.

Probably because it’s all a huge joke.

They’re definitely forging their own groove, which, while complimentary to other bands (Sex Gang, Death Cult, March Violets)is somehow on a plane of it’s own: a superior plane. Could this be because they don’t take themselves too seriously?

You decide. Let’s just say that they listen to The Monkees on the way to gigs.

Elissa Van Poznak