Erasurehead: How AIDS Killed My Gay Synthpop Superfandom
I refuse to apologize for my decade+ Erasure obsession
A French houseguest changed my life in the summer of 1986.
“What are you listening to?” I asked, indicating his large Walkman (even the “slim” models were chunky bricks back then). But I couldn’t parse the response through his accent.
“Air Ranger”? “Ear Azure”? He gave a self-conscious snort at my incomprehension, deliberately spelled out “E-R-A-S-U-R-E,” slipped the headphones over my dire ’80s hair and hit play.
A golden tenor eased into a rising three-note melody line—“Oh l’amour,” he crooned, a sustained a cappella lament as a waterfall of harmony cascaded down behind him. Nearly a half-minute in, the song still had no beat, no instruments, just an angelic chorus that ended with the surprisingly mournful question, “What’s a boy in love supposed to do?” Then the drum machine kicked in and I was a goner.
Approximately 160 seconds later, I removed the headphones, grabbed my keys and wallet and walked four blocks to a record store called Vinylmania, where I bought a 12" import single of Erasure’s “Oh L’Amour” and didn’t look back. (Until I did, but that came later.)
They were the soundtrack to a chunk of my life…
