Review by Craig Barr for MPM
There are bands you go to see because you want to relive your youth.
And then there are bands you go to see because, frankly, you want to get dirty again.
Faster Pussycat have never been particularly interested in behaving themselves.
Forty years into their career, they remain the musical equivalent of finding lipstick around your crotch the morning after a very bad decision. They’re sleazy, decadent, gloriously inappropriate and entirely unapologetic about it.
But there was a question hanging over this particular Sunday afternoon in Belfast.
Could they still give us a good seeing to?
Because when a band has been around for four decades, it’s tempting to write them off as a nostalgia act — a travelling museum exhibit where the wigs get thinner, the leather gets tighter and the audience spends 90 minutes remembering what their knees used to be capable of.
Personally, I’ve waited 35 years to see Faster Pussycat.
And after finally getting myself front and centre at the Empire, surrounded by roughly 300 other eager Pussycat devotees, I can report that the wait was worth every filthy, frustrating, cock-teasing second.
Faster Pussycat still have it. And they know exactly where to put it.
First, the foreplay
The afternoon began with Femme Fatale, fronted by the formidable Lorraine Lewis, who arrived with a set that sensibly mixed the band’s established material with newer songs.
“Baby Gun,” “Fallin’,” “Bad Love,” “Home,” “Don’t Call Me Your Angel,” “Living Like No Tomorrow” and “Big One” established that Lewis and Femme Fatale aren’t simply some preserved relic from the Sunset Strip’s glory days.
There was enough familiarity to get the room interested and enough attitude to make it clear that Lewis isn’t here merely to warm up the audience before somebody else gets to have all the fun.
If Femme Fatale were the opening act’s equivalent of slipping into something provocative, Blacklist Union were where the evening started unbuttoning its shirt.
Led by Tony West, the Los Angeles rockers delivered “Durango,” “Mississippi Moonhound,” “Heavy Is the Crown,” “Evil Eye,” “Dirty Halo,” “Madame Butterfly” and “Jackson.”
The latter two were particularly appropriate given the incestuous, deliciously sleazy connections running through this particular package. “Madame Butterfly” was written by West for Lewis, and she even joined her new beau on stage for the performance, while “Jackson” is Blacklist Union’s swaggering reworking of the Johnny Cash/June Carter classic featuring Lewis.
By now, the Empire was suitably lubed up.
The foreplay was over.
It was time for the Pussycat.
Then Taime came down the chimney
I’ve wondered for 35 years what it would actually be like to see Taime Downe standing in front of Faster Pussycat.
The answer?
Exactly as filthy as you’d hope.
Downe may have lost the makeup and high heels that once helped make him one of the most recognisable creatures to crawl out of the ’80s Hollywood sleaze scene, but he certainly hasn’t lost the swagger.
Some frontmen walk onto a stage.
Taime Downe invades it.
There is still something wonderfully dangerous about him. He doesn’t look like a man trying to convince you he’s 25. He looks like a man who knows exactly what he’s done, remembers most of it, and has absolutely no intention of apologising.
Behind him, Ace Von Johnson and Chris Borell supplied the guitars, Danny Nordahl prowled around on bass and Chad Stewart sat behind the kit. And together they produced the essential Faster Pussycat sound: dirty, grinding, swaggering, punk-inflected hard rock with just enough perfume sprayed over the top to make the whole thing smell delicious, but suspicious.
They kicked off with “Motorbike.”
Naturally.
Then came “Don’t Change That Song” and “Cathouse.”
At that point there really wasn’t much ambiguity about what kind of afternoon this was going to be.
The band weren’t here to gently remind us of the ’80s.
They were here to bend us over it.
Technical difficulties? Pussycat doesn’t care.
There were problems.
Both guitarists suffered technical issues during the set, and at one point another loss of guitar sound involving the younger guitarist visibly frustrated Downe, suggesting the young chap needed to, “Buy us all breakfast”.
From my position at the front, I shouted:
“Go easy on the kid, Taime — he’s a real talent!”
To my surprise, Downe came over and shook my hand.
And just like that, the tension evaporated.
The next blast of music seemed to come back harder.
It was the musical equivalent of losing your rhythm halfway through copulation, taking a second to compose yourself and then coming back determined to finish what you started.
That’s what made the technical problems almost endearing.
This wasn’t some polished, sterilised arena production where every thrust has been rehearsed to within an inch of its life.
This was rock ‘n’ roll.
Things went wrong.
Things got messy.
And Faster Pussycat simply come on stronger, making the crowd “Aah” with faces of ecstasy
House of Pain hurts in all the right places
The set moved through “Slip of the Tongue,” “You’re So Vain,” “Like a Ghost” and “The Power and the Glory Hole.”
And yes, Faster Pussycat are still capable of being gloriously juvenile.
But then came “House of Pain.”
And suddenly the joke stopped.
For this reviewer, this was the emotional centre of the whole performance.
I’ve always loved that song, and hearing Downe sing it in the Empire was unexpectedly moving. There was an authenticity to it that cut straight through all the sleaze, all the posturing and all the sexual innuendo.
The Belfast audience responded with equal warmth and soul.
Downe put his hand to his chest and acknowledged the crowd.
For one brief moment, the king of sleaze looked genuinely touched.
Then, because this is Faster Pussycat, we were soon back in the gutter.
Bathroom walls and dirty little secrets
“Pirate Love.”
“Nonstop to Nowhere.”
“Where There’s a Whip There’s a Way.”
At this point, the setlist was practically an invitation to make your own inappropriate joke.
And then came “Bathroom Wall.”
If there is a song in the Faster Pussycat catalogue that sums up the band’s entire philosophy, this is probably it.
Four decades later, the title alone still sounds like a bad idea.
The performance sounded even better.
The band tore through it with the sort of filthy enthusiasm that makes you wonder whether the Empire’s cleaning staff had been warned beforehand.
Then came “Shut Up and Fuck”, followed by “Babylon.”
And just like that, Faster Pussycat had spent the afternoon doing what they’ve always done best:
giving the audience exactly what it came for, then giving it a little bit more.
Still Fast. Still filthy. Still hungry.
There is an irony to the band’s longevity.
Glam metal was supposedly all about image. Big hair. Makeup. Lycra. Leather. Sex. Excess.
But the funny thing about Faster Pussycat is that once the hair disappeared and the makeup faded, the songs remained.
The band have spent 40 years proving that the sleaze was never merely cosmetic.
It’s in the riffs.
It’s in Downe’s voice.
It’s in the titles.
It’s in the attitude.
It’s in that deliciously irresponsible feeling that at any moment somebody might make a terrible decision and everyone else is going to enjoy watching it happen.
And when Downe briefly wondered whether he should address the audience as being in “Belfast” or “Ireland,” (possibly referencing the gig listing on their touring t-shirt) nobody seemed particularly bothered.
The audience hadn’t come to debate constitutional arrangements.
They’d come to get fixed.
And the band delivered.
For 40 years, Faster Pussycat have been a decadent, hard-rocking, beautiful, drama-filled mess.
Last night in Belfast was all that, and more.
A magnificent one.
This wasn’t some sad attempt to squeeze one last drop out of a bottle that had long since been emptied.
Faster Pussycat, and Taime Downe in particular, proved they’ve still plenty left in the tank.
Plenty of bite.
Plenty of swagger.
Plenty of juice.
And plenty of Pussycat.
After waiting 35 years to finally get the Pussycat experience, I can say this:
Faster Pussycat didn’t disappoint.
They teased.
They strutted.
They misbehaved.
They got their hands dirty.
And when the evening was over, they left a room full of people grinning like they’d just got away with something they probably shouldn’t have.
This wasn’t nostalgia.
This was foreplay with 40 years of experience.
This was deep reverence.
This was pure joy.
And above all, this was rock ‘n’ roll doing what Faster Pussycat have always believed it should do:
get down, get dirty, make a hell of a noise — and leave everybody wanting another ride.
Did you get my number off the bathroom wall, Taime?
Photography by Darren McVeigh for MPM
