London Dominion

"It's like a pub in 'ere, innit?" asks one astonished usher to her colleague after a tiring bout of Cornetto-peddling among the leather-jacketed hordes.

Hordes? Yes, hordes. The Psychdelic Furs are convincingly popular despite what the tirades of the music weeklies would have you think. The Fur-seeking masses far outnumber the Dominion (male) staff all of whom are dressed in the most surreal garb. Would you belived green suits?

The usher at the start of the review is still bemused. "They're filing a b-movie here, I gently reassure her, it's called The Beat Group Invasion of the Picture Palace."

I hadn't seen the Furs before. Going by the records, of which I've the complete collection and love the lot, I expected a hard-nosed wall of raunch with a general air of agression. Instead, I was surprised by the softness of the whole approach.

The opening pair of 'Into You Like A Train' and 'Mr Jones' lacked their recorded punch but gained in depth and substance. So often I've been aurally bombarded by misused volume from bands whose records are great but whose songs become an indistinct blur live. The Furs, in contrast, exercise a complete control.

Throughout a lengthy (by today's standards) set, virtually all their recorded works get a blast, both the blam-blam blood-letting noises of the first lp and the more structure arrangements of 'Talk Talk Talk', plus a selection of previously unheard, fresh material.

Everything is performed with the same single-minded one dimensional approach for which the Furs get slagged but which, in fact, is where their strength lies. A clever enegry driven into a narrow channel rather like a flood tide gushing up the Thames.

Viewing from the ideal vantage point, the rear, I'm kept thinking of the Stones. Not the middle-aged monolithes of the eighties but the amoral impulses of the sixties model.

Butler Rep enforces this metaphor with his mincing Jaggerisms and by dragging the mic stand across the stage. His eloquent semi-speed rap lyrics latch this image firmnly to the present day. In 'Imitation of Christ' he adopts a crucifix stance. In 'Pretty In Pink' two beams of white light form a halo above his head.

The lighting people are clearly as well-rehearsed as the band, generally keeping the stage in partial darkness with occasional strategic bursts of white light from floor-sited spots.

The screen at the stage back carries projected images. Torn pieces of lyrics to 'Sister Europe' (a dislocation singalong?), a cluttering of shapes and colours behind 'All Of This And Nothing' recalling the mind-dazzling Warholian video of 'Dumb Waiters' that was shown on the Old Grey Whistle Test (of all places).

The last rendition is 'Pulse'. Many vacate their seats to jive at the stage front. Bass boy Tim is down there with them, still playing. The Furs leave but return to encoure with 'Fall' and a second number in which Rep grabs a spotlight, the heat from its casing presumably of flesh-burning proportions, flashing it like a pocket torch at the audience.

That song was 'We Love You'. I did. So should you.