Links:
Official Bauhaus site

And then it begins. A low throb that fills the outer lobby and the audience-younger and older-stream for the doors, pushing and jostling to find their places on the floor and a thrill flushes their pale faces. It's simply a call, a summoning to gather us before this dark altar; and, once all the supplicants have arrived, the tone changes to a jangling, ear-splitting howl. The strobes begin and we get our first glimpse-our first reassurance that this is actually happening-Kevin Haskins, invisible but for a bobbing head and the rhythmic pulse of his arms; David J, blonde hair closely cropped and the ever-present square-rimmed dark glasses; and Daniel Ash, the true precursor to Bono's Fly persona from the Achtung Baby tour. This is the way we remember them. These are the three who have remained together, their careers intertwined over the years as Love and Rockets.

The one who is missing, the one who so personified the gothic image and skeletal visage that we all remember as Bauhaus, is nowhere to be seen. Instead, in the center of the stage is a large television. And, as Daniel Ash tears the opening strains of "Double Dare" from his guitar strings, the monitor flickers to life and brings us 'face to face' with Peter Murphy. It's a triumphant opening, because this is how most of us were introduced to him, starkly lit on a television screen. American audiences were introduced to Bauhaus through the use of "Bela Lugosi's Dead" over the opening credits of Tony Scott's film, The Hunger. Peter's narrow cheekbones and demonic eyebrows-so archly lit in black and white-are the quintessential vampiric visage in these last years of the millenium. "I dare you," his voice reverberates throughout the ballroom. "…to be real." It is a taunt, a goad to all those who have hidden away behind spiked hair and leather collars and white makeup-this is not how most of them dress during the daylight hours. His challenge is laced with irony, for he is not real. Not yet.

They play the songs as we remember them, as they are remastered to us on their new retrospective disc, Crackle (released no doubt to refresh our memories and our worn LPs of what we will be hearing). There is no attempt to update the music, no lengthy interludes or jam sessions. There are no surprises during this Resurrection, nor is there really any attempt. This tour is a reminder of what has gone before, a testament to how well these songs stand up to historical (and plastic) memory. And they do. It has always seemed as if Kevin has never gotten appropriate credit for his precise playing and the rock-steady beat that he keeps for the entire duration of "Bela Lugosi's Dead" is an amazing example of the foundation upon which Bauhaus is built. David J's bass playing is equally crisp and pervasive. Daniel's approach to his guitar is to simply tear the sound out of the strings. And Peter's voice is still rich and sonorous. Bauhaus has aged well and the music has only gotten stronger.

And no wonder. As the crowd thrashes and writhes to "Bela Lugosi's Dead" Peter stands at the front of the stage and slowly spreads his arms to encompass the entire audience. I cannot help but think this is an embrace to his children, to those who have grown up on this song. This is the Father, come to lay claim to his inheritance and we, his inspired and dark wild things, eagerly rise up to greet his return.

The true irony of the evening greets us at the door as we exit. Flyers are pressed into our hands, advertisements for Peter's solo album and a new Love and Rockets album. There is no new Bauhaus. We have been witness to a seance, a whirlwind which has thrown open the past to us. But that is what we craved; that is what thrilled us once long ago and what we wanted to witness. There were moist eyes among the exiting fans, real emotions showing on the painted masks. For them, the wait is finally over.

-Mark Teppo
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What really kept my attention was the small coffee shop venue itself. Opened in late summer of '97 by Tim Turner, Coffee Messiah is an overflowing homage to all things kitschy and Catholic. Dozens of ikons fill the walls and are stuffed into every nook 'n' cranny. Two high-backed chairs were upholstered with scenes from the Last Supper. The bathroom is a twisted vision of Dante's Inferno. Its interior is painted black and there is a metal chair in the corner which looks like it could have been one of Geiger's working models. Above the chair is a disco ball, and if you put a quarter into the slot next to the toilet it lights up and twirls 'round, while the overhead speaker endlessly plays the "burn, baby burn" refrain from the '70s disco song "Disco Inferno." Oh yeah, for your twenty-five cents, you also get the maniacal laughter of Satan as accompaniment to the song. All this while using the bathroom. Too weird. Very cool.

Sasquatch are good musicians. It was obvious that they enjoy playing together, and they do it well. It was really fun watching drummer Dan Griffin and bassist Brian Trinen lay down some Parliament-style grooves. P. Westly Stinkfoot pulled and coerced some amazing, tightly controlled sounds out of his guitar, while Brian Footen's guitar/balloon trick was passable. Their song "She Drives Chevys" played to The Beatles' "She's So Heavy" are what cover songs should be about. It will be interesting to see how they grow as a band. More importantly, I look forward to stopping back by Coffee Messiah, if only to use their bathroom again.

-Craig Young
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Modesto, California's own Grandaddy were the second band. Like The Melody Unit, their songs center around building textures from simple lines and rhythms. Often compared to Sebadoh, their quiet, melancholy songs - along with their obvious enjoyment of playing them - kept me entranced. At times sounding like a soft lullaby on the edge of dreaming, they are the perfect remedy for the oncoming gloomy, wet weather that will soon be winter here in Seattle.

Snowpony were the headliners. For all the hype and write-ups I had read previous to the show, and with a pedigree that includes My Bloody Valentine and Stereolab, their live show unfortunately left something to be desired. This was mostly due to the fact that while many of the songs started or centered on guitar lines, the onstage ensemble included only the drums, bass and vocals of Snowpony proper; all the guitar parts and other samples were played via a tape loop. It wasn't all bad - the grooves that were laid down between the bassist and the drummer kept me interested - but the inclusion of a real guitarist for their live shows would've done wonders for keeping the crowd's attention during the set. I overheard someone sum it up best after a song, "That was the best tape loop I ever heard."

-Craig Young
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I now know one thing they haven't done - learn to pick a decent opening act. The first time I saw Soul Coughing, touring for their debut album Ruby Vroom they were the excellent opening act, and I left before the fourth song of headliner Jeff Buckley. Next I saw them headlining, preceded by the terrible drone of Low - a band that couldn't even take the subtle hint of "get the fuck off the stage!" I missed the Irresistable Bliss tour, so I can't comment on that. But now I realize why I had a nagging concern that the ticket said simply "Soul Coughing", with no mention of an opener. For $18.50 and a TicketBastard bendover charge, you'd think there'd be more.

Sadly, there was. Kind of. I arrived at 8pm, the time on the ticket, to a dark stage and some boring drum-n-bass over the p.a. (You may think "boring drum-n-bass" is redundant, but there does exist a very rare non-monotonous breed.) Quarter past eight, and a mumbling voice rolls out of the p.a.: "mumble mrpph get up, Seattle mrrph mumble Soul Coughing." All those sitting on the floor, including myself, stand up and crush a bit closer to the still-dark stage. Ten minutes later, the same monotonous beat is coming out of the p.a. and there have been a few more mumbles through the mic. Omigod, my fears have come true - this is the opening act!

I get the impression (since I can't understand a word they're saying) that the DJs want us to move around. I almost do, due to the creeping dread that they're going to keep playing this crap until everyone in attendance "boogies" and we'll end up stuck here for days because I'm a stubborn ass who refuses to let anyone mistakenly believe I feel anything towards these beats other than hatred. I compromise: I try to see how large a horizontal circle I can describe with my shoulders, keeping my body rigid and my feet stationary. I imagine I look like an ice cream cone, or a person about to vomit and pass out. Either way, it helps me keep some personal space.

Finally, after the longest 35 minutes in recent history, the lights dim and the crap music terminates. The mic mumbling saved them in this instance, because I couldn't clearly make out their names. 360-something, I believe. Soul Coughing takes the stage to loud cheers and the pungent stench of strategically placed joints lighting up in the crowd. As trite as that "gesture" is, I could live with it if it weren't for Captain Observant behind me bellowing the fact to his buddy like it's never happened at any show he's been to (it would also have helped if, when he was croaking the lyrics over my head toward the stage, he had been relatively close to accurate).

Where was I? Oh yeah.. Soul Coughing appear on stage. And crank through the first four songs, two each from their first two albums, to get to their first song from the new album. Sure, it's not entirely their fault I'm still pissed at being subjected to 360-something, but playing like you've got somewhere else to be isn't going to improve my attitude. The new song, "St. Louise is Listening" is probably the one song on El Oso which would fit better on Irresistable Bliss. The rest of the set is a fair balance of songs from all three albums. As with the Low debacle, it takes half the set before I finally forgive them for such a crappy opener. But unlike the Low debacle, they fail to win me back by the end.

The dynamics of spontaneous groove are gone from the band. Gone from the new songs are the story-telling lyrics like "Wichita" or "Screenwriter's Blues". Gone are the cover of Black Sabbath's "War Pigs" and lyrics swiped from Another Bad Creation (and my shocked embarrassment for having recognized them). Gone is Doughty's obsession with the sound of the words themselves, not just their absurdity--not one stuck sibilant to be found. Gone is the feeling of a band getting on stage and getting inside its songs and enjoying it. Gone was the fun. I'll really miss it.

Here are the repetitive, predictable lyrics of "I Miss the Girl" and "Rolling". Here are the calculated dynamics of a drum-n-bass influenced sound. Here are video backdrops of classic cartoons (record distribution by Warner Bros.) and the claim of "sound cartoons". It's just a rock n' roll show now, baby. And the kids ate it up through two encores - immediately followed by the house lights.

-Paul Goracke
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Watt has proved once again why he is the well respected Uncle to the punk and alternative scene, as well as being the poster child for the DIY ethic. He’s out there jammin’ it econo-style. Not only doin’ his spiel and making great music, but he’s also humping his gear, driving his van back and forth across the country on a tour that has 45 shows scheduled in 48 days (typical for Watt), selling his own t-shirts and talkin’ to the kids after shows. Same as he’s always done, same as he always will. If you get a chance to see him spiel and thump the boom stick, don’t pass it up!!

-Craig Young
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