The Cult, The Black Ryder @The Palais, Melbourne(08/05/2010)

Mon 10th May, 2010 in Gig Reviews

Check out photos from the Palais here

It’s 9 o’clock on a Saturday, the regular crowd shuffles in… except this is The Cult at the Palais, not Billy Joel, and the crowd, well… they’re far from regular.

From the Morrisey look-a-like and the neon devil child to the zebra-clad lead singer of Steel Panther (possibly), the 3000 strong gang of misfits and misanthropes packed into St Kilda’s least likely rock’n’roll venue have stuck through the seemingly endless incarnations of Ian Astbury et al to witness this mythical event: 1985’s neo-punk-goth-psychedelia album Love, performed live from start to finish.

A full 15 years since last performing on Aussie soil, Astbury and long time collaborator Billy Duffy conspire to translate what they dreamed in 1980’s Bradford, England through what they’ve become since discovering black leather, big riffs and the United States in the 90s. Having realised the album in its entirety, they’ll treat fans new and old to a ‘best of’ set, encapsulating work from all 3 decades of their existence.

But before the history lesson can begin, The Black Ryder swarms the stage, providing little more than background music for the few audience members trickling into the auditorium. Sounding like the unholy offspring of a Billy Corgan/Kim Deal love tryst circa 1992, they acquit their feedback laden, obsidian grunge dirges admirably, but ultimately fail to inspire a crowd devoted to a higher cause. The use of male/female lead singers, grappling for prosperity in the sonic soup is actually quite arresting, as is the sight of the gargantuan bass player taking centre stage to corral another wild melody. Yet for all the attention afforded them, they may as well have stayed in the bar. After all, warming up for The Cult, they may as well be Tom Cruise rallying the ranch for Charlie Manson for all the attention they receive.

Amongst all the rock paraphernalia on show, The Palais initially seems a strange venue for a rock gig of this magnitude; pesky seats fixed in everywhere to spoil the fun. As the headliners take the stage and the opening chords of Nirvana ring out to a pounding drum beat though, the now swollen audience leaps to it’s feet, furniture woes forgotten in a flash. Second track Big Neon Glitter turns up the heat in the theatre some more, cooled only by the waft of a thousand bouncing bandanas.

The beefed-up production learnt from their heavier future albums really helps to deliver the appropriate punch and shuffle combination of _Love_’s sound, meaning Billy Duffy’s Rickenbacker sounds more like Geordie Walker of Killing Joke and less like The Edge of U2. Thank God.

Throughout the Love segment, only one or two songs fail to keep the crowd moving. Mid-set, Brother Wolf, Sister Moon for instance, is too claustrophobic a number to truly enjoy live, reining the fidgety crowd back to the dreaded head nod, foot shuffle dance – the scourge of rock shows. Gladly, as the wall of sound deconstructs, the serpentine opening refrain to hit single Rain slithers in and bites the audience on the bum. Much of the set carries on in this way; stonewall classics jumping in to rescue the performance from The Cult’s ‘dirgier’ moments.

Having a pre-determined set-list renders any element of surprise obsolete, but does build anticipation for the crowd favourites and, inevitably, She Sells Sanctuary is the biggest hit of the night. While the fans audibly crackle in excitement, Astbury jokes, “You know, I forget which song is next”, before Duffy sets the floor alight with the opening notes. When the band eventually stop the tease, the #17 greatest ever rock song (if VH1 is to be believed) has the crowd throwing shapes so hard that security has to intervene when an elderly lady accidentally takes a hippy hippy shake to the face.

Right through the album performance and into the truncated ‘best of’ encore, Astbury yelps, howls and wails at his best; standing relatively still to eliminate the distractedness that has marred some of his other live performances. Occasionally his vocals are lost amongst the melee, but only once does he throw a rock star hissy fit, consigning a microphone to spare part heaven when it fails to be ‘a correct tool’ during the heaviest number Rise.

Professional as ever, Duffy, takes over the vocals then, and meanwhile delivers the kind of balanced control and zeal through his guitar that you might expect from a certain recent collaborator of Astbury’s by name of Saul Hudson (that’s Slash to me or you). Refusing to rely on the greatness of the melodies, he is note perfect for the night and, more importantly, looks to be enjoying himself just as much as the wild things in the audience.

Between the two of them, along with a fully assembled touring band, they rip out favourite after favourite in the encore, tickling an already over-excited throng into throes of unrestrained ecstacy. In the absence of a recognised mosh pit, the aisles become the setting for the most diversely populated rock out this side of a Beck concert, and the appearance of final song Love Removal Machine generates a banshee howl so loud that some of the staff had to leave the theatre.

Not every song was perfect, nor was the album based setlist always well paced, but watching hundreds of knackered hippies stagger deliriously back out into the beach air breeze from a fully seated arena tells its own story about how hard The Cult, and the Love album, rock, nearly 30 years on.