The Cure

Sometimes luck hands you a ticket to the best show you’ve seen in ages. Sometimes it’s just a friend that does the handing, and luck decides to throw in some other favours so as not to feel useless.

I knew I wanted to see The Cure on this go-round since I hadn’t had the pleasure in four years (that sounds horrifically wrong). Through a series of happy accidents, my partner-in-crime from 2004’s Curiosa tour landed a pair of tickets for Radio City Music Hall. Not only was this the last stop on the US tour, but it was also at one of the most notable and impressive venues in the world.

Those aforementioned happy accidents happened to involve the singer of some rock band getting married and thus calling away said band’s manager to the wedding that happened to be the night of the gig, thus freeing up the manager’s tickets that happened to be some of the best seats in the house. So from 27th row, centre, I bring to you some thoughts on The Cure’s second of two nights in New York City (the first being the night before, at Madison Square Garden, a venue about six times the capacity of Radio City). Thanks, luck!

Robert Smith was in an excellent mood. You know that way bands get when a long stretch of triumphant road is coming to a close and they know they’re about to go home and bang their respective others? Songs are a bit rushed, smiles are a bit more detectable and even the shyest member is forwardly chatty. In The Cure’s case, you’ve got a guy in patent leather pants on one side and the original lunge-ing bassist (sorry, Mark Hamilton) on the other, and smack in the middle is Mr. Shy (-Smith). On this particular night, Smith looked his mopey part in all black shaggy hair and clothes, but acted the part of happy frontman – cracking jokes and running the length of the auditorium via the side balconies (pictured, top). (Maybe he was endorsing the new Coldplay with an homage to Chris Martin? God, I hope not.)

- - -

- - -

All the career bases were covered, and the joy of seeing a band as sonically distinctive as The Cure (in a room with acoustics like Radio City’s) is that even the unfamiliar songs sound magnificent. The elaborate lighting and visual accompaniment provided ample distraction from any slow bits, resulting in three hours of pure, dark bliss.

What amazes me about The Cure is the way such a stereotypically ‘goth’ band can make people happy. Maybe it’s the comfort we take in knowing how many people share the same crap experiences in love and life as us; maybe it’s the good memories certain songs instil. Whichever the case, the jangle of Cure guitars and wail of Smith’s voice are eternally satisfying. And thus the three hours of gig flew by without me even noticing the absence of synth (yup, just like those early Queen albums, the Cure Tour ‘08 was “no synths!”).

Setlist:

‘Out Of This World’
‘Want’
‘Alt.End’
‘The Baby Screams’
‘The End of the World’
‘Lovesong’
‘A Letter to Elise’
‘The Big Hand’
‘Pictures of You’
‘Lullaby’
‘Catch’
‘The Perfect Boy’
‘Kyoto Song’
‘Other Voices’
‘The Only One’
‘Hot Hot Hot!!!’
‘Sleep When I'm Dead’
‘Doing the Unstuck’
‘Push’
‘Inbetween Days’
‘Just Like Heaven’
‘Charlotte Sometimes’
‘The Hanging Garden’
‘One Hundred Years’
‘Bloodflowers’

Encore:

‘Freakshow’
‘Close to Me’
‘Why Can't I Be You?’

Encore 2:

‘Boys Don't Cry’
‘Jumping Someone Else's Train’
‘Grinding Halt’
‘10:15 Saturday Night’
‘Killing an Arab’

Encore 3:

‘A Forest’
‘Forever’