In terms of the UK post-punk bands which weren’t mired in the fluff of New Wave, THE CURE are by far the most lasting and the most popular. Flirting and flitting across genres including pop, goth, rock and even some light/white funk, this facile ease of smoothly navigating a diverse course likely helped to broaden their appeal, but at the core of any musician it’s the songwriting that counts, and one thing which ROBERT SMITH has demonstrated proficiency for quite some time. Even if you don’t have a direct interest in the songs he’s written, you can’t deny that he’s got a knack for catchy and sometimes wildly unpredictable material.
Last year the band had announced a tour, only to quickly retract, as the new record they were readying wasn’t quite ready so they woodshedded a bit more. Fast forward a few months and the record was still not ready for commercial release, but the dates were rescheduled, and the tops of hairspray cans and black lipstick were removed in preparation for the event. Having seen them twice before (but not since the Disintegration tour), I knew they were quite capable of churning out a memorable performance, but when the set lists for the Philadelphia and DC shows circulated on the internet, the massive scope of the event was laid bare. Perhaps this is cheating a bit, akin to peeking down at the set list that the roadie is affixing to the floor with gaffer tape, but so be it; we live in the information age, and the temptation to peek was too strong. As the arena filled with young and aging fans, mostly dressed in black, the smoke machines started pumping and the four men strode out to the stage. PORL THOMPSON had the most striking figure, with his tattooed and shorn head providing equal gleam as his black vinyl, high-waisted pants and sparkly-red high-heeled shoes. The fishnet shirt was also a nice touch. Robert came out looking like an unmade bed, all tangled hair, dark eyeliner, smeared lipstick, pale skin and loose clothing. A friend asked the rhetorical question of how long should a grown man continue to look like Jo Anne Worley after a three day bender. I couldn’t really answer, just that it wouldn’t be the same if Robert didn’t. Another longtime member SIMON GALLUP manned the right wing of the stage on bass, and JASON COOPER played the drums, periodically visible around his Peart-esque collection of heads, toms and cymbals.
“Plainsong” (with more than a knowing glance and debt owed on “Kids Will Be Skeletons” from noted admirers and one-time tour partners MOGWAI) would be a somewhat odd choice to open this show, seeing as though there wasn’t any keyboardist on stage. The lush guitar wash was in full bloom, though, and it did appear (as on later songs) that some sampled bits were added for texture. Thirty-five songs and three hours later, the show would end. I’m usually of the mind that most bands can get their point across in anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes, but there was really no wasted moments in this massive set, and all periods of their work would be touched upon, including four new songs. Of these, the new single “The Only One” was a bouncy, jaunty number that shares more than a few chromosomes with their upbeat numbers like “Why Can’t I Be You” and “Friday I’m In Love,” but it was the wah-wah soaked “Sleep When I’m Dead” that made the deepest cut, with Porl flashing that big white guitar and stomping the life from his Crybaby pedal. Porl would handle pretty much all of the big guitar duties and he was certainly up to the task, in a variety of styles and sounds; playing electric on “The Blood” was pretty damned cool, and Robert’s voice was still up for the high parts in “paralyzed by the blood of Christ.” Manning the other guitar, Robert’s brittle tone lent a steel spring mattress feel throughout, but it got a lot meatier and nastier as “Lullaby” progressed, propelled by Simon’s patented post-punk bass line picking its way through the tangled web, guitar all low-slung like PAUL SIMONON.
Picking out individual high points is a bit daft when so many were tossed our way, as how can you choose between the BUDGIE-esque toms from “The Walk,” the mope-banishing exuberance of “Push,” the pure, clean guitar lines of “From The Edge Of The Deep Green Sea,” and the fatal romanticism of set closer “Disintegration.” Even the dance rock numbers (“Hot Hot Hot!!!” and “Never Enough”) were fun and got the crowd moving. The encores just kept upping the ante; the first was more playful, with the inclusion of the campy “The Lovecats” and “Close To Me,” while the second was a mini-suite from Seventeen Seconds, with “Play For Today” and “A Forest” comprising the flanger portion of the program. The final encore was a statement. Drawing back to the earliest material, the textures and ambience of later Cure was not found in these vital rock songs. “Jumping Someone Else’s Train” and “10:15 Saturday Night” were killers, frenetic post-punk about ennui and shameless trendspotting, all served up with a massive helping of guitar courtesy of Porl. The night concluded with “Killing An Arab,” the stage awash in colored spots of red and orange. Intense.
65daysofstatic had the pleasure of playing to a fairly empty arena, but they made it look like this was their Wembley gig, judging by the energy they put into the show, and the good-natured stage banter between songs. While I’ve heard plenty of comparisons between their sound and Mogwai’s, I don’t really see a strong connection besides the fact that they both eschew vocals for the most part. They don’t have the sweeping soundscapes that Braithwaite et al carve out so expertly, and use a fair bit of samples to create more of a sound collage amidst the din of the traditional two guitar/bass/drums lineup.
as always, more photos can be seen at my site under ‘recent shows’
