Vintage music press reviews
Siouxsie And The Banshees | Gig Review | Elephant Fayre 1982 | WELL, IT’S a long long way from the infamous Punk Festival of 1977 in the cramped, sweaty confines of London’s 100 Club to this mammoth Elephant Fayre carnival held in a huge —but still cramped and sweaty —marquee tent on the rolling splendour of Lord Elliot’s country estate ten miles west of Plymouth.
Possibly the only connection between the two events is the organisers’ underestimation of the Banshees‘ incredible talent to instil a fervent fanaticism in their admirers. The end result was me fighting to get near the stage in this oversized tent, fighting to stand on my feet as the band came on and all bloody hell broke loose in a wild, abandoned mass of fan-ecstasy, then fighting for my life as I desperately struggled to find air, sanctuary and a good vantage point.
Shaken (not stirred) and relieved to be free of the writhing octopus of committed Banshees fans — inspiring Sioux is the girl who launched a thousand clones — I reflected upon this strange gathering. Given that this may be Siouxsie‘s last gig (for some time/ever?), the pitch of expectation that hung heavy in the night air through pre-gig glam-rock entertainment (the Sweet’s ‘Hell Raiser’ causing most reaction) was entirely understandable. But so many people, seemingly so unlike each other and so far from home?
Siouxsie And The Banshees | Gig Review | Elephant Fayre 1982
For the Banshees, this is the happy reward for never courting any particular audience, nor worrying about any fatuous myth of credibility. Therefore, although Sioux now looks more like Kate Bush with her flowing locks and tambourine, and although Budgie has indecently long hair for a drummer in any (ahem) punk band, and although John McGeoch occasionally switches to acoustic guitar — something that undoubtedly contributed to the downfall of the Angelic Upstarts — the Banshees lose no-one.
Their audience follow the Banshees because they write great (sometimes classic) songs, play brilliantly emotive music and do it all with a unique, individual style which sets them apart even from other bands regarded as their peers. Like the Jam, they retain a hard-core following that has seen their development from punk to commercial giants, while gathering new fans all the time.
On display are the Crown Jewels of modern music — a glittering array of diamond-hard, sparkling gems. The singles; a strangely-muted ‘Fireworks’, an ethereal ‘Happy House’ greeted rapturously after barely three notes of the bewitching guitar intro and, near the end, a double-killer of ‘Arabian Nights’ and ‘Spellbound’ floating off into the Cornish night.
Siouxsie looked confident, if a little subdued. Leaving behind her T Rex fascination which often appeared as a mutated elfin bop, she spent most of the time leaning on her mike stand in a paradoxical elegant/awkward poise. And her voice?
Speculation proved pointless since no-one really knew how much she might have to restrain herself or whether she might be troubled more by the physical or psychological effects of the diagnosis.
Siouxsie And The Banshees | Gig Review | Elephant Fayre 1982
As it turned out, Sioux was as fluent, swooping and intricate as ever. Sure, there were flutters and passing moments of flatness, but to read any more into that than the normal variations of a live show would be foolish.
And, despite isolated grumblings from acquaintances afterwards, the show was a stunning delight, using complementary lighting and an effective sound that underlined the individual group members’ importance with a ringing clarity that sets the Banshees aside from all the other new dullards who try to emulate their dramatic finesse.
This makes it all the more surprising then that the Banshees’ dash and swagger should be blunted by the most obvious show-biz tradition to blight rock music — the curtain-call encores. Quite why should Siouxsie and the band restrict themselves to adhering to the accepted standard of just two encores, oblivious to the (on this occasion) raging, desperate demand for more?
That the Banshees finished with ‘Slow Dance’ then returned for a revamped ‘Monitor’ with Sioux asking the band “Can you remember it?” — only her second comment of the night; earlier she’d joked “I can’t talk —I’ve lost my voice!”, — was-brilliant climax, but a premature one.
On what might be her farewell performance, Sioux could surely have given a little extra to those weary followers who’d travelled so far hoping for so much. It was no more than they deserved.(Sounds, 07/08/82)
Violent voice rips the veil on the mystic
Elephant Fayre, Cornwall
“FOLLOWING the footsteps of a rag doll dance we are entranced. Spellbound.” As legions of bristling spikes and glistening chains, outlandish pyramid cones and scanty leather minis are unloaded onto the stone cold slab that is Plymouth railway station, I begin to wonder why Siouxsie And The Banshees continue to inspire such blind fanaticism from a tribe they’ve long since outgrown.
From Doncaster to Dumfries, they’ve travelled in their thousands, drawn inwards on a pilgrimage to a most unholy cause. But then I realise the futility of attempting to conceptualise that instinctive hold, the natural magnetism that Siouxsie oozes.
Following the mystic veil that cloaks The Banshees’ calamitous wail, we are entranced. Spellbound. So let me tell you what happened at the Elephant Fayre instead.
As we wander through an intricate maze of guidelines and tent pegs, the festival looks like a far more civilised affair than its Somerset counterpart (Glastonbury). The biggest noises come from the barn dances and helter skelters of other such rustic gigs (like drug tents! . .).
The punks and the hippies are getting on great . . . but will it last? At the focal point of the festival, a massive tent on the peak of a gentle hill, John Cooper Clarke digs another nail into the coffin of rock poetry as attention takes a drastic upward bent.
A chapter of Hells Angels have arrived and, from what I can gather, they intend to make their presence known in their own inimitable fashion. The security seems haphazard to say the least, as one ‘controller’ said, “The only thing we’ve done right all day is to let the band in.”
And speaking of which: “From the cradle bars comes a beckoning voice/It sends you spinning/You have no choice.” After considerable pre-show discussion as to whether the band would be introduced as Bonnie Tyler And The Banshees, Siouxsie opens what will probably be their only UK appearance this year, in majestic form.
Siouxsie And The Banshees | Gig Review | Elephant Fayre 1982
Strutting and hopping, raucous and lacerating and flowing like liquid glass, the Banshee queen sneers and scowls at suspicions that she would be restrained. The essence of The Banshees relies on that metallic beauty far too much for it to be harnessed and controlled.
And Sioux knows the charms of her irresistible hiss as she dances recklessly around the stage, clutching the precious microphone so close to her mouth. Dressed all in white she cuts a perverse persona.
In the confines of the Fayre, all that sensationalised ‘medical advice’ is thrown into the Cornish wind as, at one point, she even stoops/stops to cackle hoarsely through a grin: “I’m sorry I can’t speak to you. I’ve lost my voice you know.”
But the voice is simply a part of The Banshee spirit. Severin, McGeogh and Budgie perform their role with an equally ruthless efficiency. Severin cuts a cool, arrogant figurehead in his smart grey suit and perfectly arranged blond hair — give him a Lambretta and he’d look right at home in Quadrophenia. The bass guitarist picks out those enticing Banshee intros with an air of graceful detachment. McGeogh’s pony tail swings in time as he blurts out the frenzied guitar. Budgie, you know all about Budgie. Thump. Thump. Thump.
The Banshees’ set has changed considerably since the last time I saw them —their infatuations with all things occult moving to the fore with ever-increasing steps. The magic of ‘Ju Ju’ blends in with the new songs and some old hits. But I ought to mention the trouble. When you get twice as many people as humanly possible in the front half of the tent, and punks, angels and bikers all pissed together, there’s going to be trouble.
The Banshees start up another subtle intro, the band begin that familiar low, mesmerising dance. The band speed up and the neo-pogo lunatics take control. There’s nothing to do but dive out of the way as the bodies start flying. A bouncer gets attacked and uses his topless attacker as an ashtray. The ‘controllers’ remove a whole section of the audience through a side opening only to end up in a mass scrap outside. You’ve seen it all before but it isn’t easy to accept.
Back inside, ‘Happy House’ takes on a new, more insidious meaning. WE’RE ALL INSANE. What exactly are we doing here? Listening to ‘Voodoo Doll’, ‘Arabian Knights’ and ‘Spellbound’ and more fireworks. Some people fainted, others decided it was time to leave. I was one of them. Who needs encores? (NME, 07/08/82)
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