Remembering Peter Murphy

He's not dead. I just forgot about him for a while, haven't thought of him in a whale's age, what with the election (You know. The one I can't seem to get over, that I'll never get over, the one I'm still fantasizing about. The aftermath of which keeps getting stupider and stupider, where I'm now getting concerned about the prospect of a President Condaleeza Rice in 2008. But I'll say this, I am really looking forward to the Bush-and-Condi-in-love scandal breaking...) and well, the holidays and stuff ...

Peter Murphy. I was a fan of Bauhaus, a posthumous Bauhaus since I was just a tyke when they were together. I liked their creepout songs and the shattery-guitars, the dancebeat drumming and of course, the lyrics and voicings of the singer, who was for me at the time some nameless artist-person. Then right around that same time, right around the same time I had to rent "The Hunger" (not bad, stars David Bowie and Catherine Deneuve as vampires!) because Bauhaus was in it for three minutes, Peter Murphy's solo record came out. I loved "Cuts You Up" from the first time I heard it and naturally gave the whole record a whirl since I was already i-n-t-o it. Back then in middle school it was kind of a requirement that any music I listened to be played by some sick-looking British person. And yet, completely missed out on a lot and so there are large holes in my music-brain the size of Black Sabbath, who I am only just not even remotely interested in just today.

However. Times change and the mind strays. I might even venture to say that there's too much music. Fewer choices. Less decisions.