The Cult in NYC

So, I saw the Cult last night at Irving Plaza. Under normal circumstances, being that they were one of my fave bands from days of old, I'd post a slavishly detailed blow-by-blow account of the show, but the fact that it happened on a Monday night when I was already exhausted from a full day's work (to say nothing of the fact that the band didn't come onstage until quite late), I'm simply too wiped out with a big ol' headache to muster a proper review.

Suffice it to day, after making us sit through one shitty opening band (the Bangkok Five -- an ensemble so derivative as to make Buckcherry seem like Philip Glass in comparison) and a roundly unsolicited "art film" (please don't ask), the Cult arrived and played an admirably diverse selection of their catalog, going mercifully light on the newer stuff. My only real grievance -- apart from having to witness some unfortunte lady in the crowd do an impromptu interpretive dance during "Fire Woman" -- was with the band's sound. The band were HUGELY louder than anyone needed them to be, and this isn't just because I'm a big wimpy whiner with ear trouble. It was way loud, enough to drive me back to bar (having neglected to bring ear plugs, like a dolt). Still, the band played what I wanted to hear -- "Spiritwalker," "Wild Flower," "The Witch," "Nirvana," "Phoenix," "Love Removal Machine," "Star" and -- wait for it -- "She Sells Sanctuary." Billy Duffy remains the coolest guy in the room -- any room -- and still plays beautifully. Ian was a boisterous chatty cathy, but had me laughing for most of the evening (apart from exhorting that he was "bringing sexy back" during "The Witch"). All in all, a fine time was had by all. Reunion tours are usually a dubious prospect -- let alone second reunion tours (I last saw the band in the late 90's on their first reunion tour at the Roseland Ballroom), but I'd say they pulled this off with dignity largely intact. They were also filming it, so conceivably it'll end up on a DVD you really won't need to go buy.

In any case, in lieu of a proper reivew, I exhumed the below copy from a discussion I started on the ILM boards, zealously extolling my fandom for the band's 1987 album, Electric. A co-worker of mind recently exclaimed that the Cult "were such a mediocre band," a statement that almost prompted fisticuffs. Sure, they're silly -- but god bless'em. Long live the Cult.

Rewind to 1985. I hear "She Sells Sanctuary" for the first time and am immediately hooked. One glance at the video; I see Billy Duffy's spiky quiff and big fuck you Gretsch guitar, and I'm instantly reminded of Geordie of Killing Joke (probably not an accident). Within a week, I own both Love and Dreamtime and soak up as much of the band's music as possible. I later come across Live at the Lyceum (the versions of "Moya" and "Dreamtime" upon which alone make it essential). Astbury's penchant for lamentably hippy-esque claptrap aside, the man's vocal prowess and Billy Duffy's chiming guitars (and I'd like to point out Jamie Stewart's criminally unsung bass playing, especially on the earlier stuff) just gave them such a distinctive sound, making them swift contenders for "second favorite ever band" at the time.

While I loved Dreamtime's neo-psychedelic atmospherics, it's the Love album I really latched onto, and -- let's face it -- it's really all about Billy Duffy's guitar. Deftly balancing jangling chime with a thick crunch that echoes `Pistol Steve Jones (I always thought the intro to "Big Neon Glitter" sounded like an inverted version of "Pretty Vacant"), Billy Duffy was a solo-friendly guitar hero worth respecting (this would, of course, later change). I saw them play at the Beacon Theater on the Upper West Side on the tour for the Love album. While the Goffs came out in force, and while the band dressed like an excess-fueled Viennese motorcycle gang, you could sniff that the pull of "big rawk" wasn't exactly a far cry from them.

Rumors started to circulate about the band going into the studio to re-tool their sound (and Electric-haters should go seek out The Manor Sessions -- probably out of print by now, but available in snippets on the Rare Cult box -- to hear the same songs played in their old style). Next thing you know, Beastie Boys/Slayer producer Rick Rubin comes in, confiscates their crushed velvet ascots and love beads, snaps their Siouxsie LP's in half, dresses them up in denim'n'leather, and force feeds them a steady diet of AC/DC and the less delicate moments of Zeppelin. The Cult transform from trippy baroque gothic fops into power-chord-crazed leather-clad RAWK PIGS.

I was initially incredulous. The sleeve art of the 12" of "Love Removal Machine" didn't give away a lot of clues (but the picture of crushed 'Cult Electric Beer' cans on the back surely signified a departure). Subtlety was no longer the watchword, clearly. Hijacking the riff from the Stones' "Start Me Up," the single blossoms into a very metal dumbo classic. A travesty to the fishnet-stockinged cobweb brigade, "Love Removal Machine" was a big beery belch in the face of the Batcave. Piss off, Peter Murphy, Detroit Rock City here we COME!

It was all a joke, of course. Electric is such a purposefully hoary, ridiculous album that it is IMPOSSIBLE to take seriously, nor was it designed to be. For all it's cathartic riffage (and check your damn pulse if you can't get into the chug of "Wild Flower," brazenly ripped off with unsubtle aplomb from AC/DC's "Rock'n'Roll Singer" ), it is PARODY metal of the sort The Darkness *WISH* they could muster. The band are practically in "character" throughout, polishing up ever ludicrous heavy metal cliche in the book and wearing them like a chest-full of shiny sheriff's badges. Electric -- much like the Prodigy's The Fat of the Land -- achieved so convincing a parody that it became indistinguishable from the definite article to the lay person.

The trouble is, much like Daffy Duck's self-immolating T.N.T. act ("I know, I know, but I can only do it once!"), there was no way back. Instead of scaling back, the Cult's nudge-&-wink was lost and they *became* those hoary rock pigs. Much like Rick Rubin's re-casting of the Beastie Boys from goofball ex-hardcore kids with a beatbox into frat-schmucky beery boys with a penchant for foul-mouthed misogyny and giant hydraulic stage penises (they claim to this day that said incarnation was simply an act), the Cult were now stuck in dumb metal mode. Sonic Temple and its dreadful younger sibling, Ceremony were the sounds of a band whose identity crisis had finally caught up to them. The joke wasn't over....it was now on them. What's worse, some of their peers (notably Balaam & the Angel and Gene Loves Jezebel) followed them into the dumb metal abyss, never to return intact.

Regardless, Electric remains a hugely fun record. So long as you ignore the lyrics ("Aphrodisiac Jacket," especially) and don't take it all so deathly seriously.

ADDENDUM: Incidentally, if you're curious about the show last Monday night, you can download and/or buy a copy of it on disc by clicking right here! I heartily recommend the rendition of "King Contary Man".