Three months ago I sat at work, squinting at my computer screen and chewing my lip. Ticketmaster reminded me I had two minutes left to buy my ticket before I would lose my place in the queue. I wasn’t sure, did I really need to see The Cure, the band that cushioned my teenage angst and later determined the entire way I play guitar? It’s a risky business seeing old bands, bands you love but who have been touring for such a long time that you’d get it if they were tired and disappointing. Mercifully, I got it together and bought that ticket, and The Cure really pulled through for me. It feels futile to even try to describe what it was like seeing them in concert, they were so much, so perfect, completely unreal.
There was no opening act. Vector Arena, packed to the brim, went totally dark. In the pitch black chimes were ringing and guitars humming, my heart raced at the deep pulse of a venue about to totally lose control. Spots appeared on stage and The Cure made their entrance, Robert Smith instantly recognisable for his baggy black clothes and shock of spider web hair. Four drum stick taps ricochet around the stage and everyone is plunged headfirst into Plainsong, a deep masterpiece off the album Disintegration. The Cure are so together and so in control it feels as though you are swimming inside the studio recorded album. I am so far away I can’t make out Smith’s trademark messy eyeliner, but I make up for it by smearing my red lipstick and mascara across my face wiping away the tears slowly streaming down my cheeks.
Smith’s voice is unbelievable. He conveys tragedy and wild abandon with ease. Everything he does on stage is soft, comfortable. The Cure are totally immersive, huge, fluid and utterly visceral, and Smith seems content to let the music speak for itself, peppering the set with gentle arm movements and an occasional shimmy, each gesture deliberate and calm. The set covers a huge array of material and lasts three hours, the band slipping between glistening, ambient compositions, blistering guitar songs, and heavenly pop hits as though it is the most natural thing in the world.
The Cure are one of those bands you find when you’re a teen and never let go of. Like many millennials my first introduction to them was their greatest hits compilation, and those songs send me back to my old room, I can see myself spinning around in the dark at three in the morning, singing Friday I’m in Love under my breath, fit to burst with a combination of angst and pleasure. That compilation led me to harder things, the album Seventeen Seconds shaping the way I think about guitar tone, the way I write songs. When they play A Forest I am totally overcome. Smith doesn’t say a lot during the show, but his songwriting is ever conversational, even when it is deeply sad, introspective, searing, or carnivalesque. The set list is perfectly curated, and the accompanying lights and images make for a visually stunning and compelling show. There is something for everyone, emphasising The Cure’s versatility. If you don’t like one song, you’ll like the next one, and if you don’t, Smith jokes, you’re at the wrong fucking concert.
The Cure were everything I hoped. For three hours I swam in bottomless oceans of guitar, and wept at Smith’s plain spoken, heart-rending lyricism. By the end of the show I was overwhelmed by how beautiful and cleansing music can be. As The Cure closed their set with Boys Don’t Cry I found myself singing, laughing, and crying with all my might, choking out sincere thank you thank you thank yous as they finished the song and walked off the stage. Before they left they promised they’d be back, so if you missed them this time I recommend you don’t do that again.