NIGHT OF THE NEFFS
THE GUARDIAN (LONDON) AUGUST 3, 1990
by Caroline Newman
FIELDS Of The Nephilim had a habit regrettably now abandoned
of affecting a just-off-the-prairie feel by sprinkling themselves
with flour to approximate the look of trail dust. The link between the
cowpoke image and their deeply Gothic music was never very
clear, but the synthesis of the two elements incited a hail of derision
from non-converts that continues to this day.
However, their massive following sees them as enigmatic philosophers and
their records murky-sounding epics riddled with occult symbolism
as atmospheric Goth statements. Give the fans their due: the Neffs are
much better live than on LP. At a gig like this you could begin to
understand the attraction.
The stage at the Astoria was shrouded in dry
ice, evoking a nightmarish quality that was heightened by the woozy,
bass-laden music. The singer, Carl McCoy, was a half-discernible
shadow figure, immobile over a microphone. The lyrics
were indecipherable, intoned
in a mantric mumble, but their content was amply conveyed. The songs
were all long. It was, no doubt about it, mesmerising after a while.
McCoy eschewed the customary practice of announcing song
titles that, presumably, would have been unenigmatic but in any case
it was not necessary. The audience Bonanzas, in Nephilim parlance, were
transported by heat and the hypnotic rumble of the music. A sea of
outstretched hands flexed slowly in peculiar Neff dance.
'I suppose we look ludicrous, but I'd rather do this than anything
else,' said a sopping wet Bonanza. Take heed. Fields Of The Nephilim are
starting to have hit singles now. World domination seems a
distinct possibility.
|