The Cult: Great band, great theatrics, shame about the setlist

Ian Astbury and Charlie Jones of The Cult at the Royal Albert Hall
Ian Astbury and Charlie Jones of The Cult at the Royal Albert Hall - GoffPhotos

Bands thrive on opposites. Peacocking Mick and rakish Keef. Outlandish Freddie and bookish Brian. Acerbic John and cuddly Paul. Into this mould – in personality terms if not in commercial ones – fit British band The Cult. Ian Astbury is an earnest and spiritual singer fascinated by Native American mythology, while guitarist Billy Duffy is a dry-witted Manchester City fan who’s more likely to talk about striker Erling Haaland than animal spirits. But the yin and yang work: Astbury’s howling mystical-tinged vocals mesh with Duffy’s crunching guitar riffs to create thrilling hard rock.

And this 40th-anniversary sold out show at London’s Royal Albert Hall showed just how popular they are. The vibe – and I genuinely mean this as a compliment – was pre-internet Camden (lucky, because they’re playing a sold-out Roundhouse tonight). It felt nicely tribal, full of black-clad fans and the whiff of incense.

Astbury took to the stage in a black smock, bandana and beady pendant, looking far younger than his 62 years. Throughout, he was a manically shamanic tambourine-shaking presence. Axl Rose might have stolen his moves back in the day, but Astbury brought to mind another frontman – an animated Liam Gallagher, if reimagined by Bram Stoker. Duffy, meanwhile, played some sublime solos from his trademark white Gretsch Falcon, reinforcing his reputation as one of heavy rock’s great guitarists. It was just a shame, then, that the setlist initially lulled. It was only on the 10th song – Sweet Soul Sister, with its pounding groove – that things started to soar.

It’s over four decades since Duffy, 63, was playing a gig at Keele University when he saw a loin-clothed figure running through the woods like “Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans”, as he memorably told me in a Telegraph interview last year. He and Astbury have never looked back. Their sound morphed from (very British) post-punk goth-rock to a heavier, stripped-back, Rick Rubin-produced sound, which may explain why they weren’t even bigger: music purists frown on bands that change lanes. Still, we got both musical sides on Monday night in the form of, respectively, Rain and Wild Flower. An acoustic Edie (Ciao Baby) – from the louder years – was lovely.

I adore The Cult. They were one of the un-holy trinity of “C’s” of my teen years, along with The Cure and The Clash. And “goth” is having a revival at the moment. Just witness The Cure’s recent return. But something didn’t quite click. It might have been that the show’s first half was heavily weighted towards songs not from The Cult’s own holy trinity of albums – Love, Electric and Sonic Temple. Favourites such as Revolution, Phoenix and Lil’ Devil were therefore squeezed out. It might have been a flat-ish Monday night crowd; Astbury seemed irked and admonishing at times, at one point asking whether a just-finished song was “a little more ‘nail on head’?” And despite Astbury’s deliciously prowling presence, he had an occasional habit of doing a Morecambe and Wise when it came to big choruses: singing all the right notes but not necessarily in the right order.

So this stopped short of being a great gig. But by the time they finished with 1985 breakthrough hit She Sells Sanctuary – a dark yet certified banger, ironically produced by the man behind Wham!’s Club Tropicana – the Albert Hall crowd were on their feet crying for more.

Until Nov 5; thecult.us