THE CULT ELECTRIFIES
Some bands politely ask an audience to pay attention to their music. The Cult demand it. No pussy-footing around. They give a brutal wake-up call to those comatose from too much middle-of-theroad. No bubblegum or lollipops for this band. They’re in this rock ’n’ roll for real.
THE CULT ELECTRIFIES
Some bands politely ask an audience to pay attention to their music. The Cult demand it. No pussy-footing around. They give a brutal wake-up call to those comatose from too much middle-of-theroad. No bubblegum or lollipops for this band. They’re in this rock ’n’ roll for real.
But there’s something familiar about them. Lead singer Ian Astbury has a commanding presence onstage with his penetrating stare and long hair as black as his leather pants. A voice so rich and melodic and yet disturbing. You’re hypnotized. He’s rude, crude, funny and never boring. One might think of him as a
new Jim Morrison by the way he moves and the words he sings.
Astbury feeds off the energy of his audience, inciting them to get out of their seats and dance all night. Make noise. Make a statement of your own.
Astbury has stuck with the Cult, determined to make it a success although the band has gone through many transitions. In 1982 in England, he formed an outfit called the Southern Death Cult who released a hit single and had a tremendous following. But by the beginning of 1983, they split up.