Pink is the new black when goth grandaddies the Sisters of Mercy visit Denver. Photo by .
Hold on. I’m confused.
My gut feeling was to proclaim show on Thursday as a hex-breaker, a reversal of the Sad-Aging-Goth-at-curse that’s been wrapped around me like a too-tight cloak. I had a good time the other night; I’m dead sure of it. Then again, I might need to reexamine my experience. I may have been too eager to embrace a band that has no choice but to play “the old stuff.” The word on the street is that I may have been ripped off.
When I got to the Ogden, I had quite a bit of baggage dragging along behind me. In the weeks leading up to the concert, I had been lurking around the Internet, reading countless disappointed accounts by fans who had attended dud shows. The complaints were similar: too much fog, too little sound, and, worst of all, the possibility of lip-synching. I prayed that I wouldn’t have the same woes, and, defiant, I pressed myself to the front and waited for the Sisters to begin. Sure enough, when the lights came down, the fog came up, obliterating the stage and blurring any sharp edges. The band… emerged…? from the white froth and electronic hum and began to play.
Now, I didn’t have much of a problem with the fog. It reminded me of when I was on airplanes as a child, straining to see either angels or Care Bears in the clouds. Often, belief was enough to sustain me, and at the Ogden, it pretty much had to be the same story. Combined with the lighting, the effect was that of an electrical storm — the kind that prompts the stewardesses to pull back the beverage carts and strap in.
Nevertheless, my ears were not fooled. Indeed, Andrew Eldritch was mumbling away, drowned even beneath his backup vocals. Someone behind me was having none of it (“TURN UP YOUR F***ING MIC!” he screamed again and again). I began to fret and shift my weight.
The songs trotted out quickly and cleanly. Too cleanly? I couldn’t quite tell. The fans, who seemed mildly agitated at first, had begun to relax a little. Perhaps they had become comfortable with their fate, like Camus’ absurd Sisyphus; perhaps the cocktails had kicked in. For me, it was the former. I couldn’t hear the lyrics, but I could at least tell when the crowd-pleasers rolled out: “Marian,” “This Corrosion,” “Flood I,” Leonard Cohen’s “Teachers”, etc. Some people began to get downright nutty. I assume it was from joy, because the post-song screams kept getting louder.
To my surprise, an encore was requested. Yes, it’s exciting to see an iconic band, still reheating the era of lace, jewels and lipstick on men. All three elements were present in the crowd, at least; it was a tight-knit group, and all evening I witnessed hugs between reunited friends. However, this sort of teary-eyed nostalgia may have been lost on the band, and although I had been enjoying the music, I still couldn’t tell if everything was okay. Did the audience want an encore because, well, a fan is a fan is a fan? Or had something clicked and reconciled all previous ills? “Thank you, Denver, for being so nice,” said Eldritch. Was this all a test? Did we pass?
I regret to admit that I have never been at a show that played two encores. It felt like a reward, although I’m not sure what we did to deserve it. As if someone had wound up their action keys, the Sisters suddenly began dashing about and writhing ecstatically onstage, with the fog considerably thinned. With delight, I witnessed a young woman tossing up her (black) bra, which caught fortuitously on the mic stand of young guitarist Ben Christo. He grinned widely, and loud cheers thickened the air.
After the energetic closing number (“Temple of Love”), the stage crew had to disassemble in a dark blue mist. I’m sure David Copperfield’s crew is asked to do the same. As I streamed out with the rest of the monochromed throng, I think I was happy. The hows and whys of that are still a mystery to me. I lack the ferocious conviction needed to charge SoM with lip-synching (which is punishable by hanging), but I am not willing to argue against it either. I’ll admit: if a performance sounds like the recordings, I’m inclined to like it. Good show, old chap — wordplay intended.
Alex Edgeworth is a Denver writer and regular contributor to Reverb.
Matt Schild is a Denver photographer, editor of and regular contributor to Reverb.
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