GAVIN FRIDAY - ECCE HOMO

Gavin Friday - born Fionán Martin Hanvey - holds a very special place in my personal musical universe. Not quite at the top of any chart, but certainly close to where I keep artists like Marc Almond. It's that particular space reserved for those who've been battered by life, who carry their scars like medals. Eccentrics, outcasts, self-conscious hedonists with heavy baggage of past mistakes and complicated relationships with the world around them. And while we might differ in many ways - personality, sexual orientation, upbringing, cultural environment - I have deep respect for them. I admire their extraordinary sensitivity, their keen observational insight, and their ability to turn pain and rage into music. That peculiar kind of emotional exhibitionism that gives them the strength to "bleed" publicly, in a form of catharsis. It stirs in me a unique type of connection, which I can best sum up with a paraphrase of Evelyn Beatrice Hall’s words: "I may not agree with everything you say, but I will defend to the death your right to say it." We are different, and that’s the beauty of it.

 

Unfortunately, we - people - seem more and more unwilling to accept that differences can actually be a source of value. And to paraphrase Norwid, we are increasingly incapable of loving one another, and far more eager to argue. We’ve forgotten how to “disagree beautifully and powerfully”. Instead, we judge each other, label each other with dumb stereotypes, and push each other into increasingly radical corners. Common sense and distance are being clubbed to death - equally - by the blunt instruments of both left and right propaganda. Perhaps no illusion is more dangerous than the belief that “we” are always right, and only “they” lie. The truth? It’s just there - sometimes on this side, sometimes on the other, and sometimes squarely in the middle. And it’s worth seeking, even across the divide. But no one seems to care anymore. After all, truth is always the first casualty of war. A war that is already raging around us, just in different forms, on different fronts. Open, bloody conflict is just a matter of time.

 

In one interview, Gavin Friday lamented:“Arguments, confrontations - they're getting sharper, and there’s no middle ground anymore. Sure, there should always be left and right, but close to the center. Now, the extremes are growing. Just before the pandemic, there was this wave of cancel culture - and that’s when I got scared. […] The world is angry and lost. It’s all piling up. And on top of that, smartphones, social media. Propaganda has become what it was under Goebbels. […] My conclusion is this - people need to talk. To each other, not to Facebook or Instagram.”

 

And that, at least in part, is what this album is about. "Ecce Homo" touches on global political issues, expressing Friday’s frustration with the rise of authoritarian leaders and growing social injustice. The other side of the album is deeply personal - memories of childhood, tributes to friends and lost loved ones. For me, "Ecce Homo" is a work about watching the world crumble under the gangrene of hatred, manipulation, hypocrisy, consumerism, and environmental destruction. As much as I fully agree with this bleak diagnosis, the faint glimmer of hope that Friday offers - that we still have time to fix things, that humanity is still capable of dialogue and acts of kindness and reconciliation - feels, to me, like nothing more than a pious wish. But that’s just my own somber reflection, and in no way does it take away from the artist’s vision - a vision that has produced a deeply personal and politically charged album shaped by over a decade of creative evolution and life experience.

 

The title "Ecce Homo" comes from the Gospel of John (19:5) and refers to the moment when Pontius Pilate presents the beaten Jesus to the crowd before his crucifixion. The gesture is symbolic of both Christ’s innocence and Pilate’s last hope that the sight of a suffering man might stir some mercy in the crowd. It didn’t. As a species, we seem destined to go all the way - committing terrible acts - and still learn nothing. Someone dies, someone washes their hands, someone’s just following orders. Today, the phrase "Ecce Homo" goes beyond its Biblical origin, becoming a universal symbol of human frailty - and it poses a provocative question about the meaning of sacrifice, suffering, endurance, and integrity in an increasingly divided and morally confused world. Gavin Friday uses this imagery to weave a narrative about the complexity of human experience - identity, suffering, and redemption - and he does it with striking clarity in his haunting lyrics.

But now let’s come down to earth and talk about the music itself - most of which is shaped by Dave Ball, the man who once introduced himself to the world as “the one with the moustache” in Soft Cell. The roots of his collaboration with Friday go back to the Virgin Prunes era, Gavin’s original band. Ball produced the group’s second and final studio album, "The Moon Looked Down and Laughed", in 1986. Since then, they’ve supported each other with occasional guest appearances on their respective solo works.

 

The actual beginning of "Ecce Homo" dates back nearly 18 years, when Ball invited Friday to record a cover of Suicide’s cult classic “Ghost Rider” for the fourth EP in the Alan Vega 70th tribute series, released by Blast First Petite. That recording sparked a slow-burning exchange of song ideas over email, interspersed with short and long studio sessions that gradually shaped the album - with vital contributions from Ricardo Mulhall, who deserves recognition here. Over the following years, Friday took care of his mother, who was in the final stages of Alzheimer’s. He worked in U2’s creative team (he’s been friends with Bono since childhood) and kept writing lyrics - equal parts brutal and beautiful. The project went into a two-year hibernation due to Covid, his mother’s death, the loss of close collaborator Hal Willner, the passing of longtime friend Sinéad O’Connor, and even the death of one of his beloved dachshunds, Ralf (the song “The Best Boys in Dublin” is a tribute to Ralf and his brother Stan, whose unconditional love helped Gavin get through the darkest days).

When work resumed, Friday and Ball decided to breathe some air into Ball’s dense, almost suffocating arrangements - the product of both his Soft Cell and The Grid personas 😊. This was done with the major input of Michael Heffernan, who helped them layer orchestral arrangements and operatic vocals into the electronic-industrial grooves, creating a lush, expansive sound that, at times, feels like the soundtrack to a psychological art-house drama.

What emerged is a fascinating and immersive structure: the early tracks throb with almost industrial electronic force, before giving way to more reflective and gentle atmospheres. On the one hand, it gives the listener some space to breathe after the high-intensity openers; on the other, it adds diversity and new hues to the album’s musical palette. Gavin Friday’s vocals - ranging from spoken-word to almost theatrical, ghostly delivery - blend perfectly with all the other elements.

The album opens with “Lovesubzero”, a track that begins with a dark, haunting clarinet phrase that carries a subtle oriental chant, joined by melancholic piano chords over which Friday begins his tale - a dedication to his current partner. Yet this beautifully crafted ballad quickly transforms into a classic dancefloor “four-to-the-floor” beat, with deep spoken-word vocals reminiscent of Dieter Meier from Yello. And that’s not the only association with the Swiss duo - this distinctive, danceable pulse takes over the narrative, accompanied by orchestral and vocal inserts that pull us through the rest of this fantastic opener. A brilliant way to start the record.

 

“Ecce Homo” itself is a kind of dark-death-goth-disco, or something along those lines... Again, Meier-style spoken-word dominates the verses, while in the choruses Gavin gives his all - and more - heightened by dramatic soprano motifs from Miriam Blennerhassett, giving the piece a truly powerful expression. “This song is my personal kick in the head and a kiss on the cheek to a world gone terribly wrong,” Friday says. And indeed, it captures a full emotional spectrum - anger, indignation, tenderness, and hope. It’s a piece about power, corruption, and manipulation, fusing biting social critique with religious symbolism soaked in moral hypocrisy and the use of faith as a tool of control. Greed, hatred, violence - the entire destructive cycle of war is laid bare here, along with the superficiality of spirituality and the commodification of salvation - redemption sold like a product. A visually stunning video was made for this track, generated using artificial intelligence and produced by studio284 and Petros Tryfon. It offers deeply disturbing and apocalyptic imagery - a fitting companion to the song’s lyrical and sonic weight.

 

“The Church of Love”, one of the most intriguing songs on the album, keeps the danceable vibe but shifts to a slower tempo with a touch of funk. The lyrics explore Friday’s deeply complicated relationship with the Catholic Church in Ireland - not with spirituality itself, or the absence of faith (he makes that clear with the line “we pray in our own way”), but with the institution. Like many other Irish people, he struggles with what was once a dark secret in Catholic Ireland - child sexual abuse, cover-ups, collusion with the state, abuse of power, and the increasing wealth of clergy at the expense of a struggling society. Derek Scally captures this crisis well in his book “The Best Catholics in the World: The Irish, the Church and the End of a Special Relationship.”

 

Things slow down even further with “Stations of the Cross”, a song originally intended as a duet with Sinéad O’Connor. Her untimely death made that impossible. The track is a call for reckoning - not an angry, thoughtless attack, but a yearning for moral reparation. It continues the journey through trauma and simultaneously speaks to the inescapable imprint of Irish identity. “All that Catholic imagery is in my DNA,” says Friday. “You’d walk into a room in my house and think I was a priest. When I use religious iconography, it’s never without reverence. But a thirty-year-old in Ireland today wouldn’t understand what happened in the ’60s and ’70s - and God knows what went on in the ’50s. We lived in a dictatorship, let’s not kid ourselves.”

 

Next comes “Lady Esquire” - a glam-rock rhythm lifted straight from Gary Glitter (a despicable man, let’s be honest). Not coincidentally, this is a memory piece from the early 1970s, touching on teenage drug experiences (glue or shoe polish gave you plenty of “adventures” back then), escaping parental control, and the thrill of transgression. Musically, it's a noble blend of Iggy Pop, David Bowie, and the aforementioned Glitter, all placed within a Soft Cell-inspired setting. What a combination...

 

“When The World Was Young” is a melancholic, nostalgic ode to the days when teenage friends Fionán Hanvey (Gavin Friday), Derek Rowen (Guggi), and Paul Hewson (Bono) roamed Cedarwood Road, a suburban Dublin street, forming their make-believe gang known as Lypton Village. It’s a gaze back at youth - from the perspective of an adult who can no longer fully grasp it. The song grows gradually in scale: Friday’s increasingly emotional vocals - at times channeling Bowie’s theatrical flair - are joined by strings and brass. It builds toward a crescendo that seems destined to explode in a cathartic climax, but instead, the track releases itself gently, resolving into a melodramatic hush.

 

“The Best Boys In Dublin” is a short, string-driven piece dedicated to two of Dublin’s finest boys - dachshund brothers Ralf and Stan. One of the shortest and most organic songs on the album, it stands out in the same way Queen’s “Delilah” does on Innuendo - Freddie Mercury’s tribute to his beloved cat. Both songs gently remind us to seek comfort and strength during hard times, wherever we can find it. And the love of our furry companions is nothing short of invaluable. Ralf’s death was a devastating blow for both Gavin and Stan.

 

The album has two endings, depending on the version you’re listening to. And while I grew up on vinyl - with its tight, 40-something-minute formats - and tend to find most CD bonus tracks bloated and unnecessary, I must say that Ecce Homo’s encore content on CD truly adds value. The vinyl ends with “Lamento”. Let’s give the floor to Friday:“This song is a tribute to my mother. […] Grief is complicated. Your heart will break - it may shatter - but it will keep beating. It doesn’t go away. Dave Ball sent me this melody - simple, built on basic chords - but it hit me deeply. Ralf died two days after Sinéad. It was incredibly painful. […] The whole country was devastated by her death. I remember RTÉ started playing her music, and I took the dogs for a walk. You could hear Sinéad from every house...”Indeed, Gavin Friday is remarkably sincere on this track. It’s beautifully orchestrated and deeply moving - a delicate ballad centered on piano and subtle acoustic instruments. An emotional, somber reflection on endless love and unhealed loss.

 

The CD version continues with a two-minute orchestral reprise of “When The World Was Young”, gently pulling us further along, reiterating the hymn to the imperceptible passing of time. Then comes “Cabarotica”, a title blending cabaret and erotica - a track that showcases Friday’s sensual, performative side, embodying his flair for combining the sacred and the profane. Live, Cabarotica sees him return to the expressive heights of his Virgin Prunes era. Is there any better, smoother blend of disco, pop, dance, personal storytelling, and theatrical performance?

 

“Amaranthus (Love Lies Bleeding)” is pure synth-drenched disco, another tribute to his mother. “The title comes from a plant she used to grow,” says Friday. “My mother was probably my first true fan and supporter. She was the Virgin Prunes' seamstress - she made our stage outfits.” The track ends with a recording of her voice wishing: “Happy birthday, Fionán.”

 

The rougher, highly textured “Daze” is a piece where Friday wrestles with the psychological aftermath of modern social conflict. It’s like Soft Cell meets Yello - unashamedly danceable pop, lyrically wandering through plazas of statues, generals, kings, and warriors, asking what the hell all those battles, wars, fights, and bloodshed were really for.

 

And finally, “Behold The Man” - a brief, 40-second track that closes the CD version of the album with quiet power, delivering the titular line and completing the album’s conceptual arc. What more is there to say? Nothing. Just nothing. Gavin Friday is in more than outstanding form. Current events are igniting his fire like never before, and after the quieter, more reflective Catholic, "Ecce Homo" pulsates and sways with the nocturnal glam of club culture - reminiscent of "Non-Stop Erotic Cabaret" by Soft Cell or "Stella" by Yello.

 

The collaboration between Friday, Ball, and Heffernan has resulted in what is, without a doubt, Gavin Friday’s finest and most authentic album to date. A record so rich, so expansive, it demands multiple listens just to begin to penetrate its layers and surrender to its pull, from start to finish.

It’s a demanding album, one for those unafraid to engage with the complex, raw themes it tackles. Not an easy listen, but one worth every bit of the effort. And although, as I said earlier, we may see the world’s affairs differently, I’m still soaking in the sounds of "Ecce Homo", already longing for the next album. Because, to borrow from Norwid once more, “It is a great loss to part with a friend who differs nobly.” And that is precisely how I see this extraordinary Irish artist.

 

My rating? If you don’t yet have this album in your collection, I trust it’s only a temporary condition.

 

P.S.While writing this review, I drew on excerpts from interviews given by Gavin Friday to Peek-A-Boo, Louder Than War, and RTÉ Radio.

 

Robert Marciniak

 

12.10.2025