175. Sisters Of Mercy
Roundhouse
1 September 2017
Amongst our circle of gig-going misfits, which included a pair of criminal barristers whose work-tales of human depravity that made one of my best pals and I question the entire project of civilisation, another emerged. We affectionately dubbed him “Goth Lord” because his musical compass pointed perpetually toward the murky and the macabre, and he was quite posh. Never a greater contradiction could you witness with the dear chap: gentleman barrister, member of the Worshipful Guild of Badgers (or something like that), and proud devotee of bands with names like: Kiss the Anus of a Black Cat.
It was he, of course, who lit the fuse for this Sisters of Mercy outing. He not only proposed it, but he also decreed it with the sort of solemn authority that suggests his ancestors once issued death warrants. He also demanded we “go goth,” and he naturally turned up looking like the undead, likely after spending the previous week auditioning outfits, that evening sporting one emblazoned with “Fields of Nephilim”, or “Back Garden of Annoyance”, or something like that. One of the barristers went all in with a pentagram T-shirt, The other just arrived dressed in her normal choice of black garb and my pal and I cosplayed as Milk Tray men for the evening.
Look, I didn’t hold a lot of hope for this gig, in fact I may have commented at the pre-drinks: “This is going to be shit, isn’t it?”
The Roundhouse was already half-submerged in dry ice before the band even walked on. A vast, gloomy mist crept from the stage, swallowing everything in sight. The crowd was a sea of middle-aged goths clutching warm cider. There were more shades of black in that room than in a Farrow and Ball catalogue. I spotted one bloke wearing a full-length leather trench coat despite it being approximately 400 degrees inside.
Then it began. The drum machine, operated by that eternal band member, Ravey Davey, known as Doktor Avalanche, kicked in with its metronomic menace, the synths began their icy hum, and Eldritch stalked the stage like Nosferatu. The opening bars of “Lucretia My Reflection” rang out, and the faithful were instantly transported back to the heyday of the goth-industrial complex.
Eldritch’s voice, that familiar baritone growl, still sounds like someone chain-smoking whilst reading Edgar Allen Poe poetry aloud. The man hasn’t so much aged as weathered, all cheekbones and silhouette. For the first few songs, the atmosphere was immense, literally, since you couldn’t see further than five feet through the dry ice. The Sisters’ trademark aesthetic: relentless fog and minimal movement was still at play.
But, as ever with the Sisters, the mystique teeters between genius and self-parody. There’s something faintly hilarious about watching a band that’s been cultivating this same aura of aloof menace since 1983 still pulling it off with such poker-faced sincerity. The set was heavy on the old favourites: “Dominion/Mother Russia,” “Temple of Love,” and, inevitably, “This Corrosion.” When that chorus hit, it created a unifying moment of communal goth ecstasy.
Of course, the irony of it all is that the Sisters have somehow become the world’s most consistent inconsistent band. They haven’t released a new album since the invention of email, yet they still sell out the Roundhouse. By the end, Eldritch stood alone in the haze, a faint silhouette of perpetual cool, murmuring “thank you”, and in true Sisters style, nobody left immediately, mostly because it took ten minutes to find the exit through all the dry ice.