IT'S HARD to enjoy a
Cocteau Twins gig in the normal fashion.
One is suddenly lumbered with all the
burdens of parenthood. The Twins (ah, two
of everything!) somehow made their
audience feel responsible. The clusters
of surrogate mums and dads watch
attentively, hanging on every note and
inflection. Between songs there's this
unusual quietness, a calm that says:
"hush, the little ones are going to
play for us..."
Twin Robin has his guitar and cutesie pie
mop of hair to shield him from the
spotlight's glare. Little Twin Liz picks
at her fingers and in that nursery
chatter the strangest of tongues
seemingly blending Swahili, Hebrew,
Gaelic and garlic.
if they've grown to adult size (Robin has
anyway) but left their minds adrift in
the potent fantasia of childhood. The
Cocteau Twins in their finest moments
stand between this world and another one.
It's that simple. They portray their own
wonderland. Their music throws up
startling temptation. An engulfing
euphoria. A lure to step inside
and in so doing, never return.
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