I've been struggling with a post about the Gramercy Park Hotel recently, which always has me thinking about the Psychedelic Furs (their connection will ideally be explained in the post). But, as such, I've been on a bit of a `Furs kick of late, which prompts this post.
NME recently put out its staggeringly stupid list of the 100 greatest albums of all-time. I didn't peruse the entire thing, but caught a glimpse of the top 25, which was enough to convince me that the rest of the list was in strenuous need of being ignored. Obvious favorites of mine like Killing Joke, The Stranglers, XTC, Motorhead, Devo and SWANS were -- of course -- not included, but countless other crucial artists also failed to gain citation.... their places inexplicably taken by the laughable likes of bands like Oasis and Arctic Monkeys. In terms of lists of "essential listening," it failed on a heroic level.
To my mind, "essential listening" or -- preferably -- "perfect music" is a rarified breed. I have several examples of songs that I think warrant such purple prose, and "Love My Way" by the Psychedelic Furs is handily among them. Fuck does the NME know?
I probably first heard -- or, more accurately, saw the video for -- "Love My Way" upon its initial release in 1982, when I was a sniveling high schooler otherwise besotted with the Circle Jerks and Iron Maiden, two bands rather pointedly unbothered by matters of the heart. Upon that first lulling wash of eerie keyboards and that undeniable marimba hook (and, really, how many killer pop songs can you name that feature a marimba hook?), I was immediately entranced by the song's languidly ethereal vibe. No clenched teeth or pugnacious power-chords here, "Love My Way" swooned in a manner that effortlessly realigned for me a whole new definition of "cool." From the first utterance from vocalist Richard Butler, flanked by John Ashton's tenaciously chugging guitar, it was strikingly obvious that this was something different.
Pedantic rock historians may be quick to point out Butler's studied Bowiesque mannerisms or the fact that Todd Rundgren (yes, him) arguably wielded his infamously iron will in the production department, steering the band away from the sound they'd established on their previous two albums. But at the time, none of that mattered to me. This was the only taste I'd experienced of the Psychedelic Furs -- although that would shortly change -- and its other-worldliness completely captivated me.
But not only was the sound a breath of fresh air for me, but the `Furs' oblique lyrics also played with my young psyche. I imagined windswept scenarios of boldly declaring that "in a room without a door, a kiss is not enough" to various senior girls in my high school and having them succumb to my mysterious charms accordingly, whilst the `Furs droned away in the background. This seemed like heady, deep stuff, and a million miles away from my otherwise steady diet of "Live Fast, Die Young" or "Run to the Hills." I remember dutifully purchasing the 12" single of "Love My Way" (with the comparatively caustic "Goodbye" as the b-side) at the Disc-O-Mat on Lexington Avenue and 58th street and putting it into maddeningly regular rotation on my home stereo.
Three decades (sweet jumpin' Jesus!) later, "Love My Way" still has the power to transport me to another realm. When it filled my headphones yesterday morning as I was strolling down the bottom end of Lexington Avenue and past the Gramercy Park Hotel, I felt as if strangely back in the New York City of the early 1980s, when downtown was still an unchaperoned playground for artists, musicians, bohemians and the like and all the freaks could still afford to live there. And when the song takes flight (at exactly 02:48) and those drums double-track and assert themselves and Richard starts howling right before the wordlessly angelic harmonies of Flo & Eddie (yes, of "Happy Together" fame ... thanks, Rundgren) pierce the heavens, it's practically a religious experience. There is simply nothing better.
Drown in it.
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