ROLL OUT THE BARREL

ROLL OUT THE BARREL

THE CULT

The Ritz, New York, NY

June 2, 1987

Ida S. Langsam

Four hours before, the show combining Billy Idol and the Cult on the same bill was cancelled, throwing the New York rock crowd into a tizzy. Official word was Madison Square Garden pulled the plug due to incomplete construction, or an asbestos leak, depending on whose report you heard. But the bottom line was that the SRO concert was definitely, positively, no bout-a-doubt it not happening. I can only imagine how Idol’s mood was affected, but the Cult tried to make it up to their fans by playing an 11th hour performance at the Ritz.

By the time tickets went on sale (literally hours before the show), the lines were way around the block. The Cult are fave raves in this town, and their fans are numbered in the multiple-digit figures. Showtime was scheduled for 10:30, and the band went on—bang—on time. Naturally, the house was packed as solid as it could be and, in conjunction with the hot, humid weather outside, there was not a dry armpit in the place.

The Cult revel in their resurrection of late 1960s San Francisco hippie style and memorabilia, and the newest logo that served as decorations around the club via posters on the walls, T-shirts on the fans and signs on the reserved tables on the balcony brought this point home in a vibrant, visual way. The impact was multiplied many times over by the huge flag/curtain hugging the wall at the back of the narrow stage. There, in all its glory, hung “The Cult Electric,” adorned with the skull and black-light/dayglo colors that just shone in the carefully orchestrated lighting. Very effective. All that long hair, black leather, tattooed biceps, well-worn T-shirts and faded jeans could make someone on a bad drug trip forget that this was Manhattan in 1987. After all, this is the 20th anniversary of “The Summer Of Love,” isn’t it?

Lead singer Ian Astbury has always reminded me (and half the world) of Jim Morrison in his heyday, a move that has got to be calculated on the Brit’s part. Tonight’s show did nothing to dispel that image: the resemblance was stronger than ever as Astbury took the stage, draped himself over the mike stand, long black hair flowing around him, his black leather fringed jacket repeating the slightest movement of his body. In his tight black leather trousers and black leather boots, the picture was almost perfect. The crowd went wild! In those opening moments, despite the unbearable heat, the man looked as cool as any idol who came before him—no pun intended.

For a show pulled together so fast, things went incredibly well: after bursting into the opening song with guns blazing (“Nirvana” from the Love LP), the crowd voiced their approval by letting go an earshattering release of noise. It was unreal, and made everyone from those of us toocool-to-sweat in the record company seats to Astbury onstage break into an infectious grin revealing absolute pleasure. It was a gas, man.

Noting the last-minute changes that took place over the course of the past few hours, Astbury remarked: “This was so last minute, I didn’t expect to see so many people. This is so radical!”—all spoken in^almost accent-less American! Where did the man’s English-clipped tones go? See what touring the colonies will do for ya? Some very fancy video work on the suspended screens around the club focused on the singer, guitarist Billy Duffy and the singer again, playing with special effects like split-screen and freeze frame. It all added to the illusion of grooving in San Fran circa ’68.

The continued wild reaction from the crowd brought more smiles to Astbury’s face. By now—after rousing renditions of “Big Neon Glitter” and “Wild Flower”— the frontman had removed his jacket and was left standing there, soaking wet, in a black T-shirt. Gone is that lean and hungry look of the past. The Astbury of today has developed a gut instead of biceps. It was a very disturbing sight, to tell you the truth... all that young flesh gone limp.

Live, the Cult lose the produced gloss of the Electric album—they sound more like the band on the Love LP, the one I saw in concert last time around. Gone are the obvious Led Zeppelin influences, at least to these ears. While there’s nothing wrong with being influenced by one of the best, it’s just not the way I prefer my Cult worship. What stood sweating before me was a gutsier rock ’n’ roll/blues band than I heard on the most recent vinyl.

“The Phoenix” became a signal for a small but rowdy bunch of skinheads to begin slam dancing. The drum solo was accompanied by a strobe, setting off someone’s acid flashback. When Astbury and the rest of the band took the stage again, after Les Warner’s brief but wellpaced moment in the spotlight, I noticed a giant silver cross hanging from the singer’s neck, bouncing against his barrelled-out stomach as he finished the song. Show ending #1: the group left the stage to tease the audience, goad them into chants of “Cult, Cult, Cult, Cult,” demanding more as it grew into stomping, clapping, whistling and cheering. A few moments later, a relaxed Astbury strode over to the mike, drinking beer from a can and clenching a cigarette between his fingers. A little too arrogantly, he tossed the can into the audience, telling them that they had to get rowdier to bring the band back out. His saving grace was a shit-eating grin and self-effacing comment: “You know I like to tease you.” A naughty little boy, indeed.

“She Sells Sanctuary” is, for my money, one of the best rock songs in recent memory. As soon as the Cult launched into the opening chords, the entire orchestra floor began bouncing up and down in place. Maybe it’s because I love the tune so much and have almost worn out my vinyl version of it that I found this live rendition a bit too, too—I don’t know, too something. It’s almost like Astbury is so familiar with the song that he takes undue liberties: he takes it for granted. If the Cult never do anything again, this song is perfection for me.

As far as I’m concerned, this is a band that holds great promise. It’s evident in everything they do, slick and clean or mean and sloppy. After another ending (#2), they returned to the stage with the threat of “We’ll play all night if you want us to,” which was, of course, met with a wild chorus of affirmation. Not surprisingly, they went into “Born To Be Wild,” a classic in its own right. After screaming the chorus, Astbury demonstrated just how wild he was born to be by defiantly sticking the mike down into the crotch of his trousers and standing still with his hands on his hips. Bassist Kid Chaos was thrashing his head about like he was auditioning for Motorhead, and the striking second guitarist, Jamie Stewart, looked like he was truly enjoying himself, letting it rip. Concluding the song, the Cult ran (crawled?) offstage again as the overhead monitors focused on a frozen shot of Astbury—mouth open, eyes closed, head thrown back, arms outstretched—captured on video just a breath earlier.

Drenched, dripping, wrung out, the singer returned with yet another beer in his hand and once again asked for an impressive response in order to get “one more song” from the band. Naturally, the fans complied and the Cult blitzed through “Wild Thing,” yet another rock classic from the era of love and peace. These boys know their musical history real well. In a time when so many new songs tend to sound alike, so many new bands tend to over-polish their act, I’d rather see a group like the Cult be a little sloppy around the edges, as they were here. Throwing in snatches of the blues classic “Summertime,” the final tune was woven together with threads of funky metal.

Maybe to prove that this really, truly was the end of the show, Astbury suddenly began thrashing away at everything in sight, attacking the drum kit on a minimalheight riser behind him and bashing it apart with the mike stand before setting his sights on the amps and speakers rising up in stacks at the rear. He just wouldn’t give up until barely a piece of equipment was left in it original position, and at one point even picked up the bass drum and almost hurled it at the audience. He stopped at the very last second, perhaps having second thoughts or perhaps never really having intended to potentially smash someone’s skull with the instrument after all. It would have been a scary, violent ending had it not been for the sheer tease and fun written all over his grinning mug.

Personally, I’m glad the major arena show got cancelled—otherwise, none of us would have had the chance to see this band as they should be seen, bigger than life smack dab in front of your eyes. They’re too important to be able to do it that way any longer. I guess I should send a thank you note to someone.