Cascade (Beggars Banquet/Atlantic)
by Chris Adams
Aaahhh… Peter Murphy. Dour explorer of the gauzy netherworlds in the midnights of our minds. He of the impossible cheekbones. He of the heroic, yearning Bowie croon. (And, locals should note, he of the uncanny resemblance to “Providence” sous chef Paul Hathaway.) Although Cascade is being marketed as a sort of comeback, have no fear Gothkids, little has changed with the vampiric Mr. Murphy beyond an alarmingly threatened hairline.
Cascade finds pouty Pete gargling on his customary elixir of abject despair, albeit with more sensual atmospheres and textures than his previous, somewhat bland-sounding studio albums. Even a little wry humor bubbles to the surface of Cascade‘s black cauldron when Pete cribs a few lines from Petula Clark’s “Don’t Sleep in the Subway.” OK, so it’s not as fucked-up (or pretentious) as Bauhaus was, but it’s solid testament that even obscure eyeliner-addicts can grow old gracefully.