8.15, Tuesday night. A suitably chill wind is blowing outside Leeds’ First Direct Arena as the crowds gather for a long-anticipated reunion between the city and The Cure, whose last appearance in these parts was more than a decade ago. There are more than a few of those dressed in black amongst the massed devotees – the show has been sold out for months – but thankfully the scariest part of the evening remains the venue’s eye-watering refreshment prices.
The reason for the early start is because well, there’s a lot to get through. Constituted almost forty-five years ago, the band’s debut Three Imaginary Boys was released in 1979 and as the evening proved, a talent for metamorphosis has since made them if anything more popular than at their commercial peak in the late 1980’s, as a recent induction to the Rock And Roll Hall of Fame went some way to proving.
Such is the depth of their incredible back catalogue – and determination to arc across it – that the elephantine set is split into three parts in a move designed to satisfy fans of all stripes, from obsessive to casual. Frontman Robert Smith is avuncular, pattering in his own style happily, although confessing that some of the notes were a stretch as “some fucker in Glasgow sneezed on me.”
The first section is in many ways the most sublime. Ignoring the rock convention which states you should open familiarly, Smith and co. begin instead with Alone, a song from the forthcoming album Songs of a Lost World on which the singer doesn’t come in until almost five minutes of swirl have passed by; few outfits would even consider such a move, but the congregation’s subsequent raptures are heartfelt.
It benchmarks the following ninety-minute segment during which almost anything can turn up, from back-in-the-day classics such as At Night and Pictures of You to relative obscurities like Burn. Smith occasionally traverses the stage, if not a natural frontman then one greatly appreciating the waves of devotion coming from his audience. Elsewhere presence is limited, although veteran bass player Simon Gallup wears his low-strung instrument like Peter Hook, but when you have things like A Forest – delivered here mesmerically, with Gallup grinding down its climax – pyrotechnics don’t matter.
After a short break a first encore starts with another new offering in I Can Never Say Goodbye and then flows through a brace of efforts from Disintegration, Plainsong and the title track, the relatively quieter interlude however serving to build up far more anticipation than it released.
This was because in the age of social media and widely available set list content, a crowd on tenterhooks knew that the upcoming finale was an all-killer, no-filler bonanza of hits, The Cure as an unlikely pop jukebox with eleven thousand people in receipt of all the joy that improbable concept would muster. Off they reeled black gold like Close to Me, Lullaby, Just Like Heaven and a singlalonga version of In Between Days that undid every mawkish trope ever levelled at them.
At the end though it was back to the beginning with a version of Boys Don’t Cry, the subject matter of which – ridiculously – is more pertinent now than it was in the cultural constipation of late seventies Britain when it first appeared. Outside afterwards it’s still cold, but for the outfit which seemed least likely to when no-one knew them, tonight was proof that on Tuesdays, we’re in love.
PICTURE CREDIT – Gaz Mather/Live4Ever
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