Untitled Document

KATE BUSH
Sunday Telegraph - 2005

There’s a joke doing the rounds at the moment on Kate Bush newsgroups.

Q: How many Kate Bush’s does it take to change a light bulb? A: One, but it takes approximately fifteen years and requires absolute silence.

If you’re not a Kate Bush fan then this joke may not be very funny (actually, there’s a good argument to be made for it not being funny even if you are a Kate Bush fan). The point is that all around the world people like me are sitting glued to their computers in the desperate hope that there will be some news, any news, about her new album.

Despite having been due for release in March this year there has still be no word on what must be the most elusive and anticipated recording since Guns ‘n’ Roses announced the phantom that was Chinese Democracy.

What is happening? Can anybody tell me? For months I have been plagued by images of Kate in a crumbling Edwardian manor, her finger stuck in a faulty power socket, her body dead on the floor. Has anyone gone round to check?

In desperation I contacted her record company. ‘We’ll let you know when we hear anything,’ they said. What if I can’t wait that long!

It’s not just me getting anxious. Kate Bush fans the world over are having nervous breakdowns. (I’m beginning to wonder whether the stress associated with waiting for Kate might not constitute a new kind of psychological disorder.) Her last album, the Red Shoes, was released in 1993. It was an uneven effort, but did feature some stunning compensations, such as the heart-stopping Moments of Pleasure. In the interim her legend has undergone a revival of sorts. First, The Futureheads had a hit with Hounds of Love, then, suddenly, bands everywhere began naming her as influence. It seems that a generation who were barely pubescent when she was prancing about in the metal Babooshka bra were suddenly the new face of rock.

Despite these small compensations there has been a total drought of new Bush material. In desperation fans have been forced to write articles about merely waiting for an album that might, or might not, see the light of day.

I have counted dozens of such pieces; they have appeared in everything from music magazines to the poshest English and American newspapers. Indeed, there are now so many of these articles that I think they might constitute a new genre (consider this column my contribution to the field). English writer Jon Mendelssohn even went so far as to write an entire novel about a cast of misfit Bush fans in an apartment building, driven insane by anticipation, all of them desperate for something, anything that might confirm the validity of their obsession.
It all sounds terribly familiar.

The reasons Kate Bush inspires such fanaticism are well noted. Her output is comparatively tiny and completely unpredictable; she is utterly mysterious and rarely seen in public. Without a human face she becomes, therefore, a symbol, a blank screen on to which we might project our problems and fantasies.

For this reason, whether her new album is good or bad is probably a moot point. For millions Kate Bush has become the Wizard of Oz hiding behind the curtain; the reality is perhaps an inevitable disappointment when compared with the fantasy.
In the meantime, all we can do is wait.