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Bunnymen, in nostalgic mode
They reprised their back numbers, looking murky but sounding good.
By Jonathan Valania
Ever since Jake Gyllenhaal pedaled his bicycle through the doomed, pre-apocalyptic wastes of suburbia to the portentous strains of "The Killing Moon" in 2001's Donnie Darko, Echo & the Bunnymen have been on the slow train back to relevance.
Judging by the one-third empty house that greeted the band's performance at the Keswick Theatre Sunday night, the train has yet to arrive at the station, but you could hear it coming around the bend. Running down numbers from their largely excellent back catalog with moody elan and precision, Echo & the Bunnymen - these days reduced to singer Ian McCulloch and guitarist Will Sergeant, backed by hired guns - tickled the early '80s post-punk nostalgia bone of the mostly fortysomething faithful on hand. Ostensibly promoting their latest album, The Fountain, released late last year, the band largely ignored it, opting to spend the bulk of Sunday night's two-hour set riffling through their back pages, handsomely rendering deep-cut curios like "Villiers Terrace" and "Going Up" with the same verve and aplomb they afforded classics like "The Cutter" and "Do It Clean."
Befitting a band that has always gladly forsaken clarity for atmosphere, the Bunnymen performed their set cloaked in murky near-darkness, with the chain-smoking McCulloch wearing sunglasses for good measure.
As good as they sound in concert these days, the Bunnymen would be better served if their de facto Echo opened his mouth only during the songs. Sunday night, McCulloch's between-song patter - to the extent you could understand what he was saying through his thick, Liverpudlian burr - ran the gamut of ungracious (threatening to gag an overeager front-row fan with gaffer tape) to obnoxious ("How about that Paul McCartney? He spends 20 years married to a photographer and then winds up married to a tripod!").
Even crueler, he is no longer willing or able to summon up the wailing operatics of the band's signature song, the still-bewitching "The Killing Moon." While the band managed to re-create the song's eerie, foreboding sonics - the spectral pluck of the intro, the lowing moan of the whammy bar, the demonic clangs of piano, the shimmering web of strum - McCulloch didn't even attempt to re-create the towering tenor vocal central to the song's sweep and grandeur, a fact rendered all too conspicuous by its absence at the Keswick.