The Mission are back; can the goth revival be far behind? The crowd at a packed Astoria had de-mothballed the velveteen-and-bootstraps couture, grafted mournful expressions onto their pallid, painted faces and slipped into shockhead wigs. I like to think they all felt a little silly when their hero, erstwhile goth superstar Wayne Hussey, arrived on stage with a Bono crop and sun-specs, well-nourished and radiating contentment.
Even in their late-80s heyday, there was nothing especially sepulchral about the Mission. A splinter group of goth godfathers the Sisters of Mercy, Hussey's band worked the territory between growling graveyard dirge and full-throated rock. Their greatest successes owed little to goth fatalism: witness the soppy lyrics of signature tune Tower of Strength ("You rescue me/ You are my faith, my hope, my liberty/And when there is darkness all around/You shine bright for me"). Hussey and co seem accordingly unashamed to have shed their lank hair and broad-brimmed hats. Perhaps they feel that, having returned from the dead, career-wise, to stage this gig, their goth credentials are unimpeachable.
The Mission have been away, you see. Last anyone heard, the original drummer was driving a truck for Oasis. Now there's a greatest hits compilation out - titled, with characteristic grandiosity, Remembrance - which the band are briefly touring to promote. Hussey emphasises that he's returned from a new life Stateside to do so; the place seems to have revitalised him.
Notwithstanding the band's traditional entrance, to the Dambusters theme, this was an evening characterised by States-bred brio. "One hit after another, eh?" Hussey boasted after a frenetic opening - including favourites Beyond the Pale and Into the Blue - that wouldn't have shamed a US rock act. He even moved American: sure, the portentous I'm-in-pain arm flourishes are intact, but frisky pelvic sashays? The Mission's new image has liberated their sassy alter-ego.
The band can't sustain the momentum, and retreat into their early, less anthemic, material: rumbling mausoleum laments with lyrics in which "Revelation is laid, and reflects/On the windswept liquid mirror/Of this breathless world, this happy death". Cue dry ice. But Hussey is pulling in a different direction from the doomy stylings that made the Mission's name. Few who knew the band in their prime would ever have expected it, but Hussey encored, alone and acoustically, with an affectionate cover of Elvis's I Can't Help Falling in Love With You. Did I see someone in the crowd resculpting his electric hairdo into a granny-friendly quiff?
