Concert Review: The Cure at Starlight

The Cure

Better Than: Sitting in a dark basement, shrouded in candlelight, listening to the Cure.

By ANNIE ZALESKI

Dear Diary,

Oh my goth. Last night I saw the Cure for the very first time. I wasn’t the biggest fan growing up – my heart belonged to Morrissey as a mopey teenager, you see – but the older I get, the more I appreciate the breadth and depth of the band’s catalog.

After a quick four-hour drive to Kansas City from St. Louis, I raced to the bathroom to apply my dark lipstick. (MAC Viva Glam, natch.) Shit. Smeared it a bit on my lower lip. “Fuck it!” I thought. “I’ll just look more like Robert Smith!” Sat through the U.K. instrumental act 65Daysofstatic, who are perhaps the loudest band I’ve ever heard. Like an industrial version of Explosions in the Sky – or a perfect match for Placebo – the synth-terrorists created a sonic boom of sound that was mixed at almost painful levels, even with earplugs. Still, they were a nice enough diversion for a half-hour set.

And then, before it was even dark – how odd — The Cure came onstage! Guitarist Porl Thompson sported fetching, red high heels and a sheer shirt/vinyl pants get-up that was trés chic fetishwear. Wiry, ageless Simon Gallup, the group’s long-time bassist, hunkered down at stage left. Drummer Jason Cooper, looking a little bit like Bryan Adams, settled in behind his kit. And finally Robert Smith strode onstage. Often (not so nicely) nicknamed Fat Bob, he instead looked like a giant goth teddy bear, his artfully bed-headed hair matching an all-black ensemble.

Photo by Scott Spychalski; click for slideshow