FURNITURE — FOOD, SEX & PARANOIA

FURNITURE
FOOD, SEX & PARANOIA
(Arista)

SO the patients are sitting up, are they? Smiling weakly, waving shyly, they say, "We are Furniture". It's their only explanation. The doctor in charge of the critical list immediately increases the medication, shaking his head. They think they are Furniture...

Well, it isn't easy. To be in Furniture is understandable enough, and obviously endurable. To be into Furniture grants you the social standing of someone who wets themselves. You can't do anything about it, even when these dogs of philosophical war have clearly changed again. Hamilton's moustache has become an independent state, Maya is an enigmatic wonder, Tim's the most furtive man alive, and if that's Sally Sexpot singing "Song For A Doberman" I'm shocked. Furniture have become OUTRAGEOUS!

Jim Irvin's the craziest. No longer content to be a discreetly buttoned big girl's blouse, he casts off his crown of scorn and bursts into "One Step Behind You" (now there's a threat), like an asthmatic Tony Hadley, seen later clutching his Aznavour diploma for "A Taste Of You". Even his family aren't talking to him. It's all change, as the expected "Dear John" letter waiting to arrive becomes an affront to the Maudlin Tendency. What a difference a lay makes...

Forced by recent penury to sell off vast quantities of The Record Collection, my Furniture discs duly presented themselves, clung on, then leapt happily back to their places. We've been celebrating ever since. Their security was never in doubt (I'd miss them. I would) because nobody else does what Furniture do. Oh, granted, Deacon Blue do an idiot's version, but they never get close, which is what Furniture achieve best. It would be so obvious if they were ever crap, because a coldness would descend, but the songs here come complete with condensation. It's pyjama-drama, exemplified by "Hard To Say" and "On A Slow Fuse", where they employ a slow advance and imposition, of friendly, buffeting embraces, rich angles and strange shapes; sounds springing in and cutting out of the atmosphere and rhythms running like syrup.

Never forward in coming slowly, they harness opulence without becoming ostentatious (they'd die of embarrassment!), banishing austerity with the big-boned, bloodshot "Love Me", the rapaciously oiled "A Plot To Kill What Was", and a saucily oozing "Slow Motion Kisses", the story of Walter Matthau and his interest in guinea-pigs. They even launch a major surprise in "Friend Of A Friend", a rampant twirl in revolving toilet doors, a clattering commercial cocktail.

What a life eh, what a record — never knowing from one minute to the next whether you'll be knocked out, or seduced! Long may they remain demented.

MICK MERCER