Peter Murphy

Between the blue iris and the black of pupil is a perfect ring of white. Peter Murphy is of all three colours, but at heart and burning harder than the rest is that radiant pure non-colour.



It finds its reflection and resonance in the stark intensity of German expressionist chiaroscuro lighting, adopted and put to great effect by that entity of which we both form a part, known as Bauhaus.



It radiates outwards from the stellar heat of the performance space which holds an audience in thrall. It reverberates in union with the walls of Mecca and the sanctified cloth of Muslim garb.



It is the colour that obliterates all other colour. Its scintillant flood drowns out the dark. It is the first and the last. The very molten core.



Peter Murphy is a self contained pantheon of gods. He exhibits qualities that are, in turn, Dionysian, Apollonian, and Mercurial. At times he walks in step with angels, though on occasion a darker path is traversed. Demons rise to draw his blood, a black panther licks at it's trail.



This creature is his dream stalker, archetypal symbol of the nightside of ego, a sensual monster who's nose blooms with the fragrance of pungent floral aromas, the beguiling lure to ensnare its besotted prey.



When Murphy treads the boards, it is an act of possession. I have stood next to him on stages of the world and felt the ferocity of psychic demarcation. - Again, a big cat comes to mind and the emission of a potent territorial spray marking out the center of the stage (his stage!) which, by definition, is wherever he happens to be at the time! That space becomes a vortex of primal force, a black hole of impacted energy into which one is either sucked, under violent protest; or tenderly allowed to enter, in order to receive the blessed kiss of the Byronic mutant king.



Living up to the popular mythic connotation of his family name, Mr. Murphy has something of the Irish roaring boy about him. Those eyes again, full of Celtic spark up for the craik, and as close to lunacy as any O'Toole or Wilde, though softened into sublimation now, in quest of Sufi gold.



Flowers and razors are conjured from the sleeves of his elegant dandy's coat, and it is always down to the luck of the draw or lunar phase, as to which of these you will get, often a mixture of both, but for every cut there is the balm of song, delivered in that extraordinarily sonorous voice. A voice which can purr, adrip with emollient honeyed sighs; then, in an instant, turn to curdle the life's blood of that endangered species known as the front row - the back row, come to that! It is the type of voice that is seldom heard in these electric days, a throwback to the gaslit era and the glory days of the traditional actor/manager of Shakespearean line. The unamplified oration that boomed from beneath the velvet slouch brimmed hat of Sir Edmund Kean and his exalted ilk. It is a voice that demands attention and always, always gets it. It is a Voice.



The first time I ever saw Peter, I was immediately struck by his unselfconscious natural grace and charismatic charm.



"What do you think?" asked a young Daniel Ash, referring to this nascent star.



"He's solid gold!" I replied, "solid gold!"



Standing next to Peter over the four years that followed that initial meeting, I was able to catch some of that gold dust and on occasion, throw a little of it back, an inspiring transaction that has been rekindled now in these halcyon days of resurrection, and so to the future and the glittering promise of splendid things to come, like the diamond fire glint in that harlequin's eye of blue and black and white.



DAVID J

New York, 1998