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THE JUDGEMENT, THE CONDEMNATION, THE SENTENCE
A word or two on early Goth
Dave Thomson 21st September 2026
LTW boss John Robb’s best selling book’ ‘The Art Of Darkness – the History of Goth’ covered the form in detail but this brilliant article goes in even deeper !
Punk’s explosion burned fast and bright, almost over before it’d even begun, yet its impact unquestionable, not content with altering the map of contemporary music but rolling it up,ramming it into a repurposed milk bottle and molotoving the entire landscape, torching all previous expectations of what music really was – what pop really was – yet despite punk’scultural framing, it’s hard to get any more pop than ‘Ever Fallen in Love’, ‘Teenage Kicks’ or‘Pretty Vacant’ – to name but a few – though the latter did afford Rotten the opportunity torepeatedly sneer the word (va)cunt into a Top of the Pops camera, but mischievous hijinksaside, it was punk’s aftermath when things got really interesting, expectations legitimately challenged, a new and wayward counter-culture had emerged, sniffy of predictable song structures, averse to expensive production, exploring new auditory landscapes, sounds beyond instruments and the burden of possibility weighed heavy, giving rise to arguably one of the most sonically adventurous periods of modern musical history, unconfined by fashion,unbound by genre or mainstream aspirations because between 1979 and 1982, artists, bands, producers in the UK, Ireland and beyond, having inherited punk’s ‘have-a-go’ attitude,completely rejected all the usual rules of engagement, financial constraints no longer a restraint, experimentation inspired by limitation, lack of musical proficiency not laughed at,but lauded – this was pre-internet, pre-backing track, pre-homogenisation and anything, everything felt possible, bands like The Fall, Au Pairs, Wire, Bauhaus, Gang of Four, Slits or Joy Division would not have been given oxygen were it not for punk’s dismissal of all musical norms, indelibly proving how art and technical nous are not co-dependent, how skill and proficiency are no match for passion and authenticity, and what followed was an unstoppable musical outpouring all across this land, all placed under the banner of‘Independent Music’ which later became ‘Indie’, but not as a genre – for there was no such genre – but a business model built on the foundations of punk’s DIY ethos, and even though, quite predictably, the majors began polluting the waters, waving cash, selling dreams, exerting control, they struggled to keep up, it was moving too fast, in too many cities, and with oh so many sounds, and even when they did succeed in snaring an act making headway on the circuit, it was invariably the death knell for the band in question, credibility lost beforethe ink had even dried, for these things truly mattered then, and Independent Music was splintering in all kinds of surprising directions, every city cultivating its own scene, its own style, its own sound, Manchester imbued with gloomy nihilism; Liverpool continued its ongoing dalliance with psychedelia, this time with a post-punk twist; Glasgow’s ‘Sound of Young Scotland’, gave us jangly lo-fi guitar pop; Sheffield, the once main producer of UK cutlery leaned into synth based industrial electronica, so I guess it was inevitable that one of these cities would provide yet another iteration of post-punk. finding inspiration amongst humanity’s darker exploits, adopting occult symbolism and pagan mythology, a new form of beauty made entirely of dark matter, and the de-facto capital of this was Leeds, who much like every other northern city was suffering at the hands of Thatcher’s obsessive allegiance to Hayek’s tenets, removing the city’s industrial guts for no other reason than to weaken the power of the worker in the steadfast belief it distorts the supply/demand purity of the system, but Leeds had far more to contend with than factory closures, urban degradation and off the scale unemployment, it also had the Yorkshire Ripper, who at this time was still at large, still active, still killing, and a cloak of fear oppressed the entire city, it was a bleak existence,paranoia permeating every crevasse, concealed in every shadow, and it was from this sinistersocietal backdrop a darkly flamboyant DIY culture emerged, one obsessed with death and horror movie aesthetics, challenging all that came before, the epicentre of which was the basement of the Merrion Centre, a shopping arcade in the middle of Leeds, because nocturnally pulsating within the dark underbelly 
of this cathedral of consumption was a nightclub called Le Phonographique, a disco dungeon from which a new movement coalesced; a new sound, a new attitude, a new look – not consumptive fashion, but hand–me–downs, charity shop bargains, restitched, reshaped, repurposed, any colour you like so long as it’s black, an altogether collaborative affair; make-up, hair–dying, dramatic backcombing,hardcore hair spray, heroic efforts to look extraordinary, intimidating, unapproachable, though in stark contrast to their fiendish appearance they weren’t anything like the snotnosed punks of yesteryear, or their hardcore protégés, because they embraced the feminine, for this scene was silently fluid – gay, straight, trans, none of it mattered, all were invited, and so long as you were uniquely weird you could be part of whatever this was, because musically it wasn’t about specific bands, they came later, in fact it had more in common with the ethos of Northern Soul in that it wasn’t the artist who gained inclusion just some of their output – but only if it fitted, in the case of Northern Soul it was a certain beat, in this new dark–wave happening it was a certain character, though the spectrum from which it drew was broad and in this tiny Leeds nightclub you’d hear the proto-goth of Joy Division, The Cramps, The Birthday Party, Fad Gadget, The Cure, Gina X, early Cocteau Twins, The Gun Club, Cabaret Voltaire, DAF, Xmal Deutschland, alongside Iggy Pop, Bowie, or the Velvets, and it was nights like these where musical knowledge was imparted to help us furrow the racks of post-punk’s darker side, though it wasn’t what was happening in Leeds that drew me into its vortex, but an unknown Northampton art-punk band called Bauhaus who, in 1979, released a stupidly long twelve–inch experimental debut on Small Wonder records called ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’, a fantastical reimagining of the dead horror movie actor’s funeral, all set to sparse atmospheric dub, both mesmerising and melodramatic, though at the time it failed to dent the charts, same with their follow up ‘Dark Entries’, a thundering blast of dark nihilistic punk, for this band were outliers hailing from the flat fields of Northamptonshire trying to find their place within post-punk’s ever–changing smorgasbord of sound, no local grassroots venues or arthouse hangouts, no burgeoning scene set to explode and propel them forward, becauseculturally they were located in nowheresville, a hatred of which they channelled into their outstanding debut album ‘In The Flat Field’, yet despite these troubled beginnings, 47 years after its original release, their magnificently indulgent made-on-a-shoestring nine-minute debut single remains goth’s unofficial national anthem, a torchbearer for the entire movement, one of post-punk’s holiest of relics, and the city of Leeds provided the culture into which this song found a home, establishing itself as the entire Goth movement’s de-facto Lord’s Prayer, all of which is hard to appreciate from today’s vantage point, let alone understand quite how hard it was to find out about non-mainstream music, no YouTube channel to track artists down, no algorithms to guide your choices, in this pre-internet world it was word-of-mouth, live gigs, DJs between bands, the music press and John Peel’s show, which was where I first heard ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’, though it must be said, despite the nostalgic romance attributed to his late–night show, it took a fuck load of patience becausemuch of what he played was wilfully edgy, uncompromisingly alternative and very often unlistenable shite, indeed Peel was quite possibly this country’s very first edgelord (just putting it out there), and in the light of what we now know of the man, most specifically his underage predilections, the fact Teenage Kicks was his favourite song, the opening line etched into his gravestone no less, feels a little bit creepy, nevertheless, state supported paedophilia aside, the culture shifted in 1979 and a tattoo was no longer required to earn rock n roll points, just some skinny black jeans, large lace up army boots, an over washed Eraserhead T shirt, lashings of eyeliner and black lipstick, all topped off with an unreasonably heavy oversized charity shop coat, but most imperative of all was a permanentexpression of deep introspection as you grappled with the problems of existence itself – in short, it was cool to be deep, or at least we thought it so and this was my look for a while, along with some mates, all under the spell of Joy Division, whilst pretending to like Section 25, Crispy Ambulance and The Durutti Column, also Factory bands so must be good, even if we were too uncultured to comprehend precisely why, and Factory thrived on this attitude, bristling with artistic pretension, the artwork of each release a cause célèbre in its own rightregardless of the vinyl contained within, and it was with this mindset, whilst exploring the racks of Sanctuary Records in Lincoln City (quite possibly the best record shop to have ever existed), I happened upon an album unknown to me at the time, its cover art a blurry monochrome image of a naked figure blowing a horn (which I later discovered was the work of surrealist photographer Duane Michals), and it felt ancient yet it was a new release which only added to its allure, all inspired by (and homage to) the art movement from which theband took their inspiration and their name, indeed the only detail setting this record apart from any Factory Records release was it told you who the fucking band was, because, if you hadn’t guessed already, I was clutching Bauhaus’s debut album ‘In the Flat Field’, so I askedthe guy at the counter for a listen, put on the headphones in their listening booth and as the gentle thud of the needle dropped into the entry groove, a single guitar chord hovered menacingly in the air followed by a tap–dripping pulse soon accompanied by a demonic sounding riff from a wrongly tuned guitar, and when the thundering drums kicked in all the hairs on my neck prickled to attention, a snarling demonic baritone vocal followed,challenging the listener – challenging me, “I dare you, to be real,” and not to “cower in night fright,” he wailed derisively and I’m transfixed, this is not what I was expecting, and none of it should work or even has the right to, I should be scoffing at its melodrama, its theatrical obviousness, but I’m pinned to the spot, it feels otherworldly, almost evil, sound sculpturesfrom the gutters of hell and as the final discordant feedback leaves my ears, the wailing guitar of the next song appears from the void, screeching riffs accompanied by high-speeddrumming and urgent booming vocals, “a gut pull drag on me, into the chasm gaping we, mirrors multi-reflecting this, between spunk-stained sheet and odorous whim,” I had no idea what he was on about but in my teenage brain it sounded filthy and fucking magnificent, like a punkier Bowie delivered with such theatrical force he got away with all the pretence, and the context is important because things were different then, we had little in the way of money, drugs were scarce and/or way too expensive, life was harsh, at times brutal, we needed escape and pretentiousness was not only accepted, it was celebrated, it was all we fuckinghad, so upon removing the shop headphones it was decided, I was buying this record, and that evening, alone in my bedroom I studied the bizarre band shots on the back cover, ceremoniously separating the inner sleeve, carefully sliding it out the main cover unveiling more monochrome band shots and lyrics printed out in all their ludicrous glory, then I carefully placed the record onto my cheap 70s turntable, gently dropping the needle, thencranked up the volume and turned off the lights – because this was pre-dimmer, it was all or nothing – then felt my way back to my bed, spreading out on my back, spellbound if not slightly scared as each of these strange, surreal, often savage songs unfolded into the darkness of my room, and somehow, quite by accident, I had stumbled into a new movementand whilst the term was yet to exist, this was the moment I became a goth, seduced by its darkly glamorous opulence, for it flew in the face of the austerity plaguing our existence, and the city of Leeds Le Phonographique’s overly glitzy title tapped into this sentiment, with a capacity of just 180 it spawned a plethora of bands who luxuriated in nihilism, celebrated misery and obsessed over death, including Sisters of Mercy, Southern Death Cult, The March Violets, The Mission, The Salvation, Skeletal Family and Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry, all releasing records to an already receptive audience hungry for tunes, and of course it wasn’t long before London wanted in on the act, so in 1982 the now legendary Batcave opened its doors to a ready-made clientele, though back then the capital was invariably behind the curve, unable to appreciate the joy of glamour in defiance of poverty, for that was really the point, the rejection of mundanity and conformity, of a beige existence, an extravagant rebellion, but London was too obsessed with money, partly on account of them having some, of being able to afford readymade clobber from World’s End, but for the bulk of northernersthe only financial goal was eking it out until the next giro, so we had more time to indulgeand our world lived outside the mainstream making it more affordable, though because of this it was not easy obtaining intel on this new wave of bands, well nothing beyond their strange lyrics or whatever was written on their album covers, as they received little press as the too cool for school journo’s saw it as anything but cool, the NME giving them scant regard, as did Sounds and Melody Maker, and when they did, it was mostly mocking or derisory, although as a form of low-cost promotion, whilst Sisters of Mercy were touring the UK, their singer Andrew Eldritch arranged for postcards from him to be sent from various parts of the world to the NME office, claiming the guy fronting the band was an imposter, and whilst they suspected it was a massive wind up, they were never entirely sure, but for the most part Gothremained in the shadows, so you’d often go see one of these bands purely on hearsay, withlittle to no prior knowledge or furnished expectation (apart from the odd bad review), plusyou had no phone, so no way to bottle the experience for later, sure the odd geek would bring in equipment, it wasn’t the fucking dark ages, just rare as hen’s teeth and normally the domain of a TV company or the Beeb, but in the main it was way more ethereal, blink and you missed it, a collective experience etched into the emotions of all who bore witness and only the folklore that followed remained, like my first Bauhaus gig at Rock City in Nottingham which has never left me, I can still vividly recall a crazed Pete Murphy fitting on stage spitting out the words to “Double Dare” whilst swinging a massive strobe light around his head, I thought I might die, that the cable might snap, but I had never felt so alive, an almost religious experience, the dark lord had taken me fuelling an addiction to live musicthat still remains today (though it’s hard to beat some of those early goth gigs), and before long I was travelling anywhere and everywhere to see these bands, me and a fellow disciple even hitchhiked up the A1 to London for a double bill at Camden’s Electric Ballroom featuring Sisters of Mercy and avant-garde Dublin outfit Virgin Prunes, one of the most incredible gigs I’ve ever experienced; Sisters I’d seen many times already but this was during their post-punk prime, before the split which launched The Mission and before Jim Steinman Americanised their sound, so the entire set was their Merciful Release classics plus an outrageously goth version of Hot Chocolate’s ‘Emma’, but the evening’s pièce de resistance was a rare and (now) vintage Virgin Prunes performance, the stage turned into a horror movieset – dusty furniture, spider webs, candles lighting the stage and when Gavin Friday and Guggi appear, demonic, crazed, wailing like banshees, it was like I’d been transported to some diabolic dimension, an experience I’ve carried with me ever since, but alas, not long after this things began to change and this dark-wave splinter of post–punk began getting the attention it craved, and it was finally christened Goth, appearances from these bands on Top of the Pops increasingly regular, Bauhaus frontman Pete Murphy became the face of a Maxell cassette advertising campaign, the Goth aesthetic was embraced by Siouxsie Sioux, The Damned’s Dave Vanian and The Cures’ Robert Smith (despite the latter’s new penchant for happy songs), though arguably Goth culture’s crowning glory was Bauhaus performing ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’ in the famous opening scene of art-house horror The Hunger featuring their hero David Bowie, and whilst Goth has never managed to capture the raw magic of this first wave, for several decades it has continued bubbling away on the back burner, and, it must be said (backlash expected), adopted by geeks for a while, but now it’s making an unexpected grassroots resurgence, made up of artists who do not necessarily accept such definitions, including The Murder Capital, Black Bordello, House Arrest, Heartworms, Blitz Playhouse,Orphia, Fat Concubine to name but a few, and whether they like it or not, it’s embedded intheir music’s DNA, suffused into every performance, because much like the undead, Goth might mutate but it can never die.
of this cathedral of consumption was a nightclub called Le Phonographique, a disco dungeon from which a new movement coalesced; a new sound, a new attitude, a new look – not consumptive fashion, but hand–me–downs, charity shop bargains, restitched, reshaped, repurposed, any colour you like so long as it’s black, an altogether collaborative affair; make-up, hair–dying, dramatic backcombing,hardcore hair spray, heroic efforts to look extraordinary, intimidating, unapproachable, though in stark contrast to their fiendish appearance they weren’t anything like the snotnosed punks of yesteryear, or their hardcore protégés, because they embraced the feminine, for this scene was silently fluid – gay, straight, trans, none of it mattered, all were invited, and so long as you were uniquely weird you could be part of whatever this was, because musically it wasn’t about specific bands, they came later, in fact it had more in common with the ethos of Northern Soul in that it wasn’t the artist who gained inclusion just some of their output – but only if it fitted, in the case of Northern Soul it was a certain beat, in this new dark–wave happening it was a certain character, though the spectrum from which it drew was broad and in this tiny Leeds nightclub you’d hear the proto-goth of Joy Division, The Cramps, The Birthday Party, Fad Gadget, The Cure, Gina X, early Cocteau Twins, The Gun Club, Cabaret Voltaire, DAF, Xmal Deutschland, alongside Iggy Pop, Bowie, or the Velvets, and it was nights like these where musical knowledge was imparted to help us furrow the racks of post-punk’s darker side, though it wasn’t what was happening in Leeds that drew me into its vortex, but an unknown Northampton art-punk band called Bauhaus who, in 1979, released a stupidly long twelve–inch experimental debut on Small Wonder records called ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’, a fantastical reimagining of the dead horror movie actor’s funeral, all set to sparse atmospheric dub, both mesmerising and melodramatic, though at the time it failed to dent the charts, same with their follow up ‘Dark Entries’, a thundering blast of dark nihilistic punk, for this band were outliers hailing from the flat fields of Northamptonshire trying to find their place within post-punk’s ever–changing smorgasbord of sound, no local grassroots venues or arthouse hangouts, no burgeoning scene set to explode and propel them forward, becauseculturally they were located in nowheresville, a hatred of which they channelled into their outstanding debut album ‘In The Flat Field’, yet despite these troubled beginnings, 47 years after its original release, their magnificently indulgent made-on-a-shoestring nine-minute debut single remains goth’s unofficial national anthem, a torchbearer for the entire movement, one of post-punk’s holiest of relics, and the city of Leeds provided the culture into which this song found a home, establishing itself as the entire Goth movement’s de-facto Lord’s Prayer, all of which is hard to appreciate from today’s vantage point, let alone understand quite how hard it was to find out about non-mainstream music, no YouTube channel to track artists down, no algorithms to guide your choices, in this pre-internet world it was word-of-mouth, live gigs, DJs between bands, the music press and John Peel’s show, which was where I first heard ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’, though it must be said, despite the nostalgic romance attributed to his late–night show, it took a fuck load of patience becausemuch of what he played was wilfully edgy, uncompromisingly alternative and very often unlistenable shite, indeed Peel was quite possibly this country’s very first edgelord (just putting it out there), and in the light of what we now know of the man, most specifically his underage predilections, the fact Teenage Kicks was his favourite song, the opening line etched into his gravestone no less, feels a little bit creepy, nevertheless, state supported paedophilia aside, the culture shifted in 1979 and a tattoo was no longer required to earn rock n roll points, just some skinny black jeans, large lace up army boots, an over washed Eraserhead T shirt, lashings of eyeliner and black lipstick, all topped off with an unreasonably heavy oversized charity shop coat, but most imperative of all was a permanentexpression of deep introspection as you grappled with the problems of existence itself – in short, it was cool to be deep, or at least we thought it so and this was my look for a while, along with some mates, all under the spell of Joy Division, whilst pretending to like Section 25, Crispy Ambulance and The Durutti Column, also Factory bands so must be good, even if we were too uncultured to comprehend precisely why, and Factory thrived on this attitude, bristling with artistic pretension, the artwork of each release a cause célèbre in its own rightregardless of the vinyl contained within, and it was with this mindset, whilst exploring the racks of Sanctuary Records in Lincoln City (quite possibly the best record shop to have ever existed), I happened upon an album unknown to me at the time, its cover art a blurry monochrome image of a naked figure blowing a horn (which I later discovered was the work of surrealist photographer Duane Michals), and it felt ancient yet it was a new release which only added to its allure, all inspired by (and homage to) the art movement from which theband took their inspiration and their name, indeed the only detail setting this record apart from any Factory Records release was it told you who the fucking band was, because, if you hadn’t guessed already, I was clutching Bauhaus’s debut album ‘In the Flat Field’, so I askedthe guy at the counter for a listen, put on the headphones in their listening booth and as the gentle thud of the needle dropped into the entry groove, a single guitar chord hovered menacingly in the air followed by a tap–dripping pulse soon accompanied by a demonic sounding riff from a wrongly tuned guitar, and when the thundering drums kicked in all the hairs on my neck prickled to attention, a snarling demonic baritone vocal followed,challenging the listener – challenging me, “I dare you, to be real,” and not to “cower in night fright,” he wailed derisively and I’m transfixed, this is not what I was expecting, and none of it should work or even has the right to, I should be scoffing at its melodrama, its theatrical obviousness, but I’m pinned to the spot, it feels otherworldly, almost evil, sound sculpturesfrom the gutters of hell and as the final discordant feedback leaves my ears, the wailing guitar of the next song appears from the void, screeching riffs accompanied by high-speeddrumming and urgent booming vocals, “a gut pull drag on me, into the chasm gaping we, mirrors multi-reflecting this, between spunk-stained sheet and odorous whim,” I had no idea what he was on about but in my teenage brain it sounded filthy and fucking magnificent, like a punkier Bowie delivered with such theatrical force he got away with all the pretence, and the context is important because things were different then, we had little in the way of money, drugs were scarce and/or way too expensive, life was harsh, at times brutal, we needed escape and pretentiousness was not only accepted, it was celebrated, it was all we fuckinghad, so upon removing the shop headphones it was decided, I was buying this record, and that evening, alone in my bedroom I studied the bizarre band shots on the back cover, ceremoniously separating the inner sleeve, carefully sliding it out the main cover unveiling more monochrome band shots and lyrics printed out in all their ludicrous glory, then I carefully placed the record onto my cheap 70s turntable, gently dropping the needle, thencranked up the volume and turned off the lights – because this was pre-dimmer, it was all or nothing – then felt my way back to my bed, spreading out on my back, spellbound if not slightly scared as each of these strange, surreal, often savage songs unfolded into the darkness of my room, and somehow, quite by accident, I had stumbled into a new movementand whilst the term was yet to exist, this was the moment I became a goth, seduced by its darkly glamorous opulence, for it flew in the face of the austerity plaguing our existence, and the city of Leeds Le Phonographique’s overly glitzy title tapped into this sentiment, with a capacity of just 180 it spawned a plethora of bands who luxuriated in nihilism, celebrated misery and obsessed over death, including Sisters of Mercy, Southern Death Cult, The March Violets, The Mission, The Salvation, Skeletal Family and Red Lorry, Yellow Lorry, all releasing records to an already receptive audience hungry for tunes, and of course it wasn’t long before London wanted in on the act, so in 1982 the now legendary Batcave opened its doors to a ready-made clientele, though back then the capital was invariably behind the curve, unable to appreciate the joy of glamour in defiance of poverty, for that was really the point, the rejection of mundanity and conformity, of a beige existence, an extravagant rebellion, but London was too obsessed with money, partly on account of them having some, of being able to afford readymade clobber from World’s End, but for the bulk of northernersthe only financial goal was eking it out until the next giro, so we had more time to indulgeand our world lived outside the mainstream making it more affordable, though because of this it was not easy obtaining intel on this new wave of bands, well nothing beyond their strange lyrics or whatever was written on their album covers, as they received little press as the too cool for school journo’s saw it as anything but cool, the NME giving them scant regard, as did Sounds and Melody Maker, and when they did, it was mostly mocking or derisory, although as a form of low-cost promotion, whilst Sisters of Mercy were touring the UK, their singer Andrew Eldritch arranged for postcards from him to be sent from various parts of the world to the NME office, claiming the guy fronting the band was an imposter, and whilst they suspected it was a massive wind up, they were never entirely sure, but for the most part Gothremained in the shadows, so you’d often go see one of these bands purely on hearsay, withlittle to no prior knowledge or furnished expectation (apart from the odd bad review), plusyou had no phone, so no way to bottle the experience for later, sure the odd geek would bring in equipment, it wasn’t the fucking dark ages, just rare as hen’s teeth and normally the domain of a TV company or the Beeb, but in the main it was way more ethereal, blink and you missed it, a collective experience etched into the emotions of all who bore witness and only the folklore that followed remained, like my first Bauhaus gig at Rock City in Nottingham which has never left me, I can still vividly recall a crazed Pete Murphy fitting on stage spitting out the words to “Double Dare” whilst swinging a massive strobe light around his head, I thought I might die, that the cable might snap, but I had never felt so alive, an almost religious experience, the dark lord had taken me fuelling an addiction to live musicthat still remains today (though it’s hard to beat some of those early goth gigs), and before long I was travelling anywhere and everywhere to see these bands, me and a fellow disciple even hitchhiked up the A1 to London for a double bill at Camden’s Electric Ballroom featuring Sisters of Mercy and avant-garde Dublin outfit Virgin Prunes, one of the most incredible gigs I’ve ever experienced; Sisters I’d seen many times already but this was during their post-punk prime, before the split which launched The Mission and before Jim Steinman Americanised their sound, so the entire set was their Merciful Release classics plus an outrageously goth version of Hot Chocolate’s ‘Emma’, but the evening’s pièce de resistance was a rare and (now) vintage Virgin Prunes performance, the stage turned into a horror movieset – dusty furniture, spider webs, candles lighting the stage and when Gavin Friday and Guggi appear, demonic, crazed, wailing like banshees, it was like I’d been transported to some diabolic dimension, an experience I’ve carried with me ever since, but alas, not long after this things began to change and this dark-wave splinter of post–punk began getting the attention it craved, and it was finally christened Goth, appearances from these bands on Top of the Pops increasingly regular, Bauhaus frontman Pete Murphy became the face of a Maxell cassette advertising campaign, the Goth aesthetic was embraced by Siouxsie Sioux, The Damned’s Dave Vanian and The Cures’ Robert Smith (despite the latter’s new penchant for happy songs), though arguably Goth culture’s crowning glory was Bauhaus performing ‘Bela Lugosi’s Dead’ in the famous opening scene of art-house horror The Hunger featuring their hero David Bowie, and whilst Goth has never managed to capture the raw magic of this first wave, for several decades it has continued bubbling away on the back burner, and, it must be said (backlash expected), adopted by geeks for a while, but now it’s making an unexpected grassroots resurgence, made up of artists who do not necessarily accept such definitions, including The Murder Capital, Black Bordello, House Arrest, Heartworms, Blitz Playhouse,Orphia, Fat Concubine to name but a few, and whether they like it or not, it’s embedded intheir music’s DNA, suffused into every performance, because much like the undead, Goth might mutate but it can never die.
THE UNEND
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