In Praise of.... ...if I Die, I Die by the Virgin Prunes

I know there's been a lot of chatter here about this band -- much by me -- of late, but that's because of the recent spat of re-issues. Inspired by same, I dug out this amazing record from 1982 (hoping to convince myself that I did not, in fact, need to purchase the newly sonically "baked" re-issue) and fell in love with it all over again.

I didn't find out abou the Virgin Prunes from my usual channels. It was the summer of 1986. I was working thanklessly as a dish-washer at a crappy "gourmet eatery" out in Westhampton (on Long Island), scraping burnt croissant crusts off of baking sheets and basically being a surly bastard. Most of the kitchen was a bright, airy place...apart from the dish-washing area, where myself and a couple of other lackeys wallowed in damp, airless squallor, listening to `round-the-clock airrings of Black Flag and Iron Maiden (after we'd disconnected the restaurant speaker which force-fed the rear of the kitchen tireless lashings of Sade, Swing Out Sister and the soundtrack to "Annie"). It didn't pay especially well, but it was a job.

Every summer, squadrons of Irish kids would seemingly flock from Dublin to Long Island to snatch up waitressing and au pair jobs, and this particular establishment quickly became a hotebed of plucky, brogue-chirping lasses. One such young lady was a baking server named Fiona, who lived in a suburb of Dublin called Lucan. In relatively short order, Fiona and I became somewhat pals-ish (and I, in turn, soon developed a bit of a crush on her...to no great avail). In any case, she kept going on and on all the time about this gent back home named Guggi who she completely fancied (even though she allegedly already had a boyfriend who played in an excellently named band called Those Handsome Devils). Guggi was this chap who evidently sang in a band called the Virgin Prunes. Unimpressed, I sniffed that I'd never heard of'em (and being that she was otherwise obsessed with Lloyd Cole & the Commotions, I didn't imagine they were, as they say, "much cop".

So, I'm trolling around my usual network of downtown record stores during one of my weekly trips into the city (where my other job as an apprentice to a schizophrenic grahic desinger kept me running all around town delivering mock-ups to ungrateful cosmetic companies) and I happened to spy an album cover emblazoned with the name Virgin Prunes. But....what's this? THEY LOOK LIKE SCARY, PUNKY, FUCKED-UP, CROSS-DRESSING PYROMANIACS!!! HOW COULD THIS BE ANYTHING BUT COMPLETELY BRILLIANT!!!! Clearly, no drab, mawkish Lloyd Cole-isms were going to be found here. Fiona's stock instantly rose a few more degrees, and I snatched up a copy of ...If I Die, I Die (great title, too!) on the spot!.

Despite not being able to get my head around what Fiona could possibly have seen in Guggi (himself of presumbly indeterminate sexual preference), I was instantly intrigued by this mysterious band with the funny names, obscure language and pointed disdain for convention. Certainly a bit Bauhausy, but Bauhaus never sounded this disheveled and possessed (except for maybe "Stigmata Martyr"). As with many of the other albums I've cited in my In Praise Of..'s, this record literally has a sound that is completely all its own (or if there's another record out there like it, I sure as fuck haven't heard it).

Meandering between creepy atmospherics and pounding caterwaul, ...If I Die, I Die is a primal, tribal, nightemarish YAWP of a record, and decidedly not right for every occaission (the album was met by a dependable chorus of "what the fuck is this shit?" by every college housemate I ever had). It's a lot to swallow in one sitting if you're not in the mood, but the single-y tracks (the positively jaunty "Baby Turns Blue" and the jagged "Pagan Love Song") alone are worth wading through the disquieting stuff. There's just some great stuff here, from the ghoulish shanty of "Theme for Thought" (boasting the fiendish chorus of Die-d-Die-Die-Die-Die-d-d-d-Die as crooned by a drunken ensemble of evil leperchauns) to the serpentine stomp of "Caucasian Walk" (pre-figuring an eerily similar "Frenzy" on Fire Dances by my beloved Killing Joke by a year or two).

Nothing ever ended up happening between me and Fiona. She left at the end of the summer to go back to Lucan (and never wrote), but I still felt I got something great out of it. Subsequent `Prunes records didn't quite pack the punch of ...if I Die, I Die (though I later found a whole new appreciation for Gavin Friday's solo work). As I've pointed out labouriously on other threads, this is the third re-release on compact disc for this album, and it's evidently the "one to get". So, if you've not heard it, might I strenuously recommend it.

Play it at your sister.