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An open letter to the man who raped my wife A jolting tale of incest, rape, and the strength to heal
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Get real: Is 3D a cure-all for an ailing film economy? DreamWorks says 3D helps "emotionally immerse" the audience
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Great Lakes surfers pay no mind to frigid temps CP goes to Duluth to see what kind of brave souls partake of winter boarding
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Hell's Kitchen's new digs rouse damn-near demonic desires for brunch But be prepared to wait for it on the stairway to Hell
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Dining prix fixe leads to the best deal, great meal Leaving decisions to the chef takes away the pressure
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National Features >
Broward-Palm Beach New Times
The Agent from Iran
How a mother of two ended up in a plot to smuggle high-tech gear to the enemy.
By Deirdra Funcheon
Westword
Murder By Design
In life and death, tattoo artist Kauri Tiyme made her mark.
By Alan Prendergast
Village Voice
My Brother the Slumlord
Amy Neustein never could resist going public with her family dramas.
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Houston Press
The Ghosts of Galveston
A visit with the hurricane victims that a country forgot.
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Peter Murphy
By Erin Roof
Published on June 12, 2008 at 3:21am
If Iggy Pop, the godfather of punk; James Brown, the godfather of soul; and Peter Murphy, the godfather of goth, went at it in some semi-supernatural brawl, Murphy would be the undeniable winner. He'd probably morph into a vampire bat and suck them (un)dead, leaving two fashionable pearls of blood on their necks. This is why Murphy in his Bauhaus heyday was cool: because he was fucking scary. But strip away the tight, black clothes and the ghostly pallor, and there was a pop fan hiding in the darkest crevices of his gullet. Murphy's solo music could turn the toughest Hot Topic mall rat into a pop-conscious pussycat. But no matter how ungoth the synths backing him through most of his solo career, his baritone still sends chills. 18+.
Mon., June 16, 7 p.m., 2008
Mon., June 16, 7 p.m., 2008
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