Screaming Under The Stars

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A few months back, if anyone had been laying odds on a Summer artistic renaissance, The Cure surely wouldn’t even have figured in the reckoning. What with Robert Smith off doing his bit as a part-time Banshee and collaboration with Severin under the banner of The Glove, Lol Tolhurst denouncing his drum kit and starting on keyboards from scratch, Simon Gallup quitting altogether, no live action for nearly 14 months and the last single, “Let’s Go To Bed”, proving a half-hearted and unsuccessful disappointment, The Cure were, to all intents and purposes, widely considered a lost cause.

Strange, then, that when or if July ’83 is at all remembered popwise, two peaks will belong to The Cure. The first, a fragile, hallucinating shock hit single called “The Walk”, acts as a timely reminder that, even off-beam, Smith still figures among our acutest sensory autobiographers, vividly imparting his brooding introversion with all the organized passion of Ian McCulloch and some of the clipped authority of Siouxsie.

The second, last weekend’s retrospective at the Elephant Fayre, was testament that not only does the spirit of The Cure still exist despite (or because of ?) its creators extra curricular activities, but that in the risky corporate decision to ration its action, The Cure positively thrives.

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The Elephant Fayre, no matter what anybody feared beforehand, was not some Philistine promotional cash-in by a hastily concocted line-up. Far from it. After two warm-up (sweat out!) club dates, this temporary Cure functioned inspirationally, often on adrenaline alone, and achieved what few gigs on the last Cure tour managed – to convince the crowd that Smith’s obsessions are worth investigation.

Still scarred, but recovered from the sapping monotony of that last tour (which incidentally, very nearly did scupper The Cure), Smith responded energetically to the challenge of coaxing and cajoling a novice band through a set of songs obviously sacred to the thousands of spellbound Cure fans who’d made the trek south west. More animated and eagerly expressive than most of us can ever remember, Smith flirted with disaster and came through smiling.

Without trotting out the usual platitudes about performing on the edge evincing more stimulation that strict rehearsal, it’s true that this experimental Cure was the most eloquent ever. Andy Anderson is a magnificently muscular and sensitive drummer, producer Phil Thornally is a nervy bassist reveling in the opportunity to indulge in a little exhibitionism, and Lol is still a basic keyboard operator, stripping “The Drowning Man” and “At Night” down to their bare, painful essentials.

Screaming there, in a field under the stars, The Cure treated the Elephant Fayre to a set that evolved from tension through realization to exasperated ecstasy – “In Your House”, near the start, was furtive and taut with caution completely complementary to the song’s frozen fright. “Primary” and “Three Imaginary Boys” were looser excuses to stretch out and test their new rhythmic possibilities and, when they hit “100 Years”, they were beginning to believe that the telepathic mayhem that finally overcame the encores was well within their grasp.

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From something old sprang something new, and although there was no attempt to introduce new numbers or premier clues as to where The Cure might go from here, it was a show of strength with the power of trance a dominant blue fused from a doubtful grey.

For one marvelous, all too brief midnight, The Cure were back and, thanks to the Fayre (easily Britain’s best true “event”), we need no longer worry, they’ve assured us there’s a Cure present and all the signs are that The Cure future will be well worth the wait.

© Steve Sutherland & Melody Maker

Elephantastic Days

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The heat! The dust! The flies! And especially those flying ants buzzing around your ears at night, keeping you awake and sounding like Hell’s hornets. All this and more comes as part of the Festival Experience, and are some of the perils of covering such an event.

But the best hazard of all befell my photographer and I on the Friday night. It was dark and we were hot-footing it over to the main stage for Clint Eastwood And General Saint. Negotiating collapsed bodies, cow-pats and the main stream on site was successfully achieved, but when caution was thrown to the wind Simon and I stumbled into an unfenced foul-smelling brook!

But with equipment undamaged and dignity restored, we arrived in time to see Eastwood and Saint introduced, and they quickly made their presence felt. The crucial difference about the pair when compared to most other reggae acts in this country is that their material is rooted in the situation in the UK; their exuberant humour is happy to ridicule any pomposity or righteousness and their sharp spread of social commentary invariably hits the nub of the problem addressed.

Asa result, the set was nicely contrasted and paced so that one moment the high-stepping, track-suited, on-stage antics of jaw-cracking vocal interplay on songs like ‘Matty Gunga Walk’, ‘Scandle In The Family’ and ‘DJ Reaction’ could crack you up with laughter. And then the mood would be broken by the sombre intro to ‘Nuclear Crisis’ or their tribute to four million unemployed who ask ‘Give Us A Job’.

The vital link to the success of Eastwood And Saint is their magnificent backing group, the Inity Rockers septet. They are one of the few UK reggae groups I’ve seen who can open the music out, pushing it mightily forward. Their several instrumental high-spots were contributed primarily from the soulful sax of Courtney Pines, the snakey wicked guitar licks from Cameron Pierre and Delroy’s stylish keyboards, the latter giving a new meaning to bum notes.

Perhaps the tightly knit Eastwood And Saint verbal and dance routine occasionally spilled over into the realm of cabaret, with the audience milking – for example, Saint teasing at the end of each song “another one bites the dust” – going a bit too far. But Eastwood And Saint are good fun for anyone’s money and their train is always worth catching.

Saturday daytime was an opportunity to find our bearings. The covered walkway shopping arcade felt, in the heat, like walking through a greenhouse but offered a wide range of clothes, food, antiques and other paraphenalia. The social, political, religious and welfare organisations were well represented, but seemed to draw few takers. So the most enjoyable activity was to have a drink on the Isles Of Elephant, a constructed platform streching out into the river Tiddy from which you could watch the swimmers and the mud-people, the latter being some of the stars of the weekend.

As twilight approached, so the beauty of the Elliot estate and the surrounding countryside became less incongruous with the opening rumblings of SPK. I could have been worried about them and their motives: from their publicity material with its pseudo-mystic Psychic TV predeliction for substituting K’s for C’s just like the Crowleyites and Sixties hippies, and for the possibility of them being another set of Rock Conceptualists whose words outshone their deeds.

But SPK ritually disembowelled the sequence, logic and time of Rock, presenting a vibrant music. Pre-recorded rhythms, sounds and textures provided the backdrop and any number of variants could be added, be they trumpet, the eerily phrased voice of Sinan, or the demolition derby percussion exploits of Graeme and Derek.

They embody the true spirit of un(en)forced internationalism: New Zealand, China and England are represented in this group and their tri-levelled pipe/metal/machine music is an apposite soundtrack for the holidaymakers from the North who had been hammering down the M5 that day.

SPK can summon up the trance of Tibetan monks, the solemnity of Catholic rites to conduct their own version of the Spanish Inquisition (the drill says it all) and the movement of the Industrial Age, and mould them into an exhilarating dance-form. Future recordings may indicate a marked step towards accessibility and club connection but in performance, SPK are a living, breathing trio celebrating the unity of Man and Machine. They can put me in their camp of concentration anytime.

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The clear darkness of summer provided an essentially intimate setting for a date with the Cure, and the band didn’t let us down.

I’d had a sneak preview of the new line-up in Bath two nights previously, and it’s obvious that the personel changes have been for the better. The new recruits, drummer Andy Anderson and bassist Phil Thornally, have added a much needed zip and punch, which gives a freshness to the group that transcends the cocaine-suffused cocoon of numbness that afflicts some Cure recordings.

Over their four LPs and numerous singles, the Cure have inspired a devotion from their fans and have developed a group sensibility that parallels the progress of Joy Division into New Order.

Lyrically, the JD connection is in the field of more songs about Death, Rooms without a View, Water and Love Embittered, with the importance and drama invariably concluding with the drums. And the musical link with NO is shown by the moving away from Guitars and Doom, towards synthesisers and the maxim: Alienation? Enjoy Yourself! This Is The New Age!

The Cure’s set was long – some seventeen songs, none of them ‘seconds’ and running through what could be viewed as either a Greatest Hits swansong, or clearing out for a new era.

There were the classic atmosphere-laden, rolling pleas for help and understanding: ‘Figure Head’, ‘Drowning Man’, ‘Cold’ and ‘Hanging Garden’. The quasi-motorik anthems of ‘Forest’, ‘M’, ‘Play For Today’, ‘La Mente’ and the stunning ‘One Hundred Years’ where Anderson added a jet-propelled funk backbeat over which Robert Smith contributed a steaming, searing guitar solo that could saw your ears off.

And even the semi-punk/rock pulse of ‘Primary’ and ‘10.15’ were given a new dimension, driving their definition to a new frontier.

This was a group at ease with itself, supplying close on two hours of music that could score, sooth or scintillate without ever losing control, and they provided a classic illustration of the possibilities of imaginative rock music.

© Dave Massey & Melody Maker

Ain’t No Cure For The Summertime Blues

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At 5UKP a day, the Elephant Fayre gets a better class of reveler. European festival-circuit hippies basked under the same blazing Cornwall sun as did those punkier sufferers who’d come especially to be Cured of their angst. The genteel setting and sounds of ‘Pornography’ wafting over the PA established the mood of a terminally subdued garden-party. After all, what could be more certain to wet-blanket unbridled summer holiday frolicking than the prospect of a set by the funboy Cure? As the shadows lengthened, so did our faces…

The greatly improved SPK quit the stage to tumultuous indifference, and aeons elapsed before the headliners walked on to a rapturous reception from the faithful – they were duly rewarded by a crystal clear, impassioned performance of some of the most banal pretentious and dreary music I’ve ever heard.

Robert Smith raises fourth-form poetry to new-heights. Here are some of the key words without which a Cure song would cease to exist – “mouth”, “fingers”, “eye”, “cold”, “kiss”, “mirror”, “die”, “cry”, and most important of all, “I”. Self-obsessed and self-important, Smith’s is the unremittingly tragic whine of the 17-year-old whose girlfriend has just given him the heave. With ’10.15’ he said it all; since then, Smith’s lyrics have become increasingly half-baked and ridiculously overwrought – and therein lies their appeal. What Tears For Fears are to pop, The Cure are to rock: bedsitter downers for the new Cold War.

And they play music to match. Devoid of all drama, tension or variety, a Cure song hangs on one solemn riff or forgettable melodic phrase, usually undertaken at a resounding plod. In this context, the relatively pacey ‘Primary’ bangs up the excitement ten-fold. But for the main part, a barbiturate litany of ‘The Figurehead’, ‘In Your House’ , ‘The Drowning Man’, ‘Cold’ etc. etc. drones on remorselessly.

“But it always feels the same”, whinges Smith in ‘Siamese Twins’, an emotion ironically shared with the forthright punter who bellowed “Booooring!” after one particularly lugubrious number. The Cure followed up with a song if anything even more monotonous, which moved our by now despairing critic to yell “You’re still boring, you BORING BASTARDS!!!”. True enough, but not the whole story.

‘One Hundred Years’ and a couple of others nag their way under the skin – though no further. The new rhythm section of bassist Phil Thornally and drummer Andy Anderson did what they had to do with force, precision and as much invention as they were allowed.

Since he joined hands with Steve Severin in The Glove, he’s revealed more of his intricately resonant brilliance, but this ability is wasted as mere adornment to The Cure’s self-pitying dirges. Smith’s talent is being steamed up in a mirror of his own making. He should get out of the bathroom and into the daylight.

© Matt Snow & NME