The George Washington Hotel towered above Lexington Avenue, a remnant of times long gone. After staying there for a few months in 1939, W.H. Auden was so enthralled with the building, he wrote a poem about it. Nearly 80 years later, I was across the street, waiting in line for The Cult show at the Gramercy Theatre, listening to some modern poetry from the guy behind me.
“Da singa of Da Cult sang with da guitar playa and da keyboard playa of Da Doors. Dey were called Da Doors, but because of a lawsuit, dey had ta change it to Da Doors of da 21st Century. He did a good job replacing da singa of Da Doors.”
He was a short, graying, fiftysomething guy talking to his taller, younger friend. Not once did he use the names of any of the musicians he was referring to. Jim Morrison was simply “da singa.” Did he forget the names? Did he even know the names? People are strange. And that would include me for fixating on this in the first place.
Once inside, my friend and I were in the lounge, staring at the overpriced shirts by the merch table. A middle-aged man who looked like a semi-high George Takei claimed, “You could get that $35 shirt for $5 online.” It was an observation made to no one in particular, and without a shred of bitterness. His slightly dazed, genial grin appeared to be that of a man stoned and alone.
Behind the merch table was a round guy with a baseball cap and glasses that were both oversized. He took in this comment with a deflated expression, like a despondent muppet. Mustering the strength to recover, he then gave George a Tom Sizemore stare, which one couldn’t take seriously because of his Elton John circa ’75 look. However, his sad attempt at an intimidation tactic seemed to work, as George got closer to the table and said, “Hey man, I didn’t mean anything by that.” Crisis averted.
Before The Cult came on, David Bowie’s Blackstar album was played in its entirety. The crowd kibitzing and enjoying libations while the melancholic intensity of a dying man’s last statement hovered over everyone made for an odd dichotomy. Bowie was a master of contrasts, so he might’ve appreciated the image. The section of the title track where he, accompanied by only a heavenly sounding guitar, croons, “Something happened on the day he died/Spirit rose a metre and stepped aside” takes the term “soulful” to new heights. Wow.
No time to get verklempt though. Not with the propulsive drums from “’tis A Pity She Was A Whore” blasting throughout the theatre. Let’s dance. Or since we’re already comfortable in our seats, just nod along to the beat. After the final song, “I Can’t Give Everything Away,” the record started again. It was a nice touch, an acknowledgement of the immortality of artists. At this moment The Cult took the stage.
They started with “Dark Energy,” from their new record Hidden City. I haven’t had the chance to pick it up yet, but if that and the other three songs they played from it are any indication (“Hinterland,” “Deeply Ordered Chaos,” and “G O A T”), it could be their best album since 2001’s underrated Beyond Good and Evil.
Next up were the classics “Rain,” “Horse Nation,” and “Wildflower.” When performed live, the first two come across as tribal warfare, especially on the latter. John Tempesta’s rapid-fire drums and Billy Duffy’s raga guitar had an Indian ambience, both Native American and South Asian. “Wildflower” was one of many examples of Duffy’s riff mastery, even if that one is “borrowed” from AC/DC’s “Rock ‘n’ Roll Singer.”
It was around then that a beefy bald dude with a backwards baseball cap started dancing in the aisle, pointing towards the stage, and “broing out.” You could sense he was going for a Channing Tatum vibe, but ended up appearing as just a fat bald guy having a conniption.
He was doing his thing to the monster groove of “Sweet Soul Sister,” especially the funky bass breakdown where Ian Astbury sings like Glenn Danzig at Graceland, “Hustle and strut through the city at night/Hustle and strut.” Come to think of it, this really would’ve been a great song for Elvis.
Astbury is always fascinating to see live. Aside from having a voice that contains the grandiosity of Freddie Mercury and the bluesy grit of Danzig, his interaction with the crowd never disappoints. Perhaps it’s merely rock’n’roll theatre, but there always seems to be genuine tension radiating from the stage. You have the compelling dynamic of a cultured guy performing for a group of people who for the most part aren’t. A learned individual facing people who are mainly interested in hearing him sing lyrics like “Hot damn, ooh, mercy ma’am.”
When I saw them ten years ago, he blurted out between songs, “Songs of innocence, songs of experience.” It was a reference to a book of poetry by William Blake. Crickets. A few years later at Irving Plaza, Astbury made a sincere recommendation of the play Equus, which had recently come back to Broadway with Daniel Radcliffe. It was met with indifferent silence, the worst kind of all.
On this particular evening, Astbury was in fine form as a vocalist and courteous ball-buster. As usual, he took aim at NYC hipsters and fashion snobs, and would end most songs with, “Thank you kindly.” At this point, he’s probably accepted that the audience has a lot of middle-aged dudes who are simply content to rock out to “Lil’ Devil” because it reminds them of their first lap dance. While not “art,” there’s something oddly, sleazily poignant about that.
Speaking of which, “Lil’ Devil” was now being performed, the crowd shouting along, and the sights and smells of strip clubs and roadhouses of yore coming back to them. The vibe then changed to “haunted house” with “Gone.” This was a first. The Cult rarely play material from their 1994 self-titled album. It’s one of their best, and I’d never seen them do anything from it before. The sinister thump of the drums/bass, along with the eerily calm piano shadings were like the Nefertiti-era Miles Davis Quintet providing the soundtrack to Nosferatu’s shadow creeping up on an unsuspecting victim. The exploding guitar and vocals in the chorus are acid rock at its finest. They need to play this more often.
The aforementioned “Deeply Ordered Chaos” was another stellar addition to the set. It was inspired by the 2015 Charlie Hebdo massacre, and the title comes from the artist Francis Bacon, who stated, “I believe in deeply ordered chaos.” It’s a mid-tempo ballad with a magnetic, impressionistic Malcolm Young riff that drives the song, until the tempo picked up and Tempesta took over, increasing the tension for a while, then segueing back 30 years to “The Phoenix.” Duffy expanded on Ron Asheton’s “I Wanna Be Your Dog” riff with savage Wah-Wah pedal wizardry that came across as so psychedelically violent, it invoked giant lava lamps swirling with blood.
Another Love favorite, “Nirvana,” came next. These last three songs demonstrated that Tempesta is one of rock’n’roll’s premier drummers, able to shift from swing to bombast at a moments notice. It was a homecoming for him, as he grew up in the Bronx with Frank Bello and Charlie Benante of Anthrax, and worked as a drum tech for them early on. Now he’s the longest-serving drummer in Cult history, a crucial part of what makes them such a killer live act.
The luminous opening chords of “Fire Woman” got the crowd pumped. After each chord, Duffy raised his hand in the air, same as in the video and the cover of 1989’s Sonic Temple. Many grown men, myself included, did the same and felt compelled to shout, “YEAH!!” Before the next song, Duffy picked up his trademark White Falcon Gretsch. The crowd got even more animated, as we knew “She Sells Sanctuary” was next. For the unconverted, this might all seem a little silly. They would be correct. But it’s all part of the unique pageantry of rock’n’roll.
“She Sells Sanctuary” usually brings to mind some alternate universe where it’s playing at a dance party in a John Hughes movie. It was also a reminder of what a multidimensional guitarist Duffy is. He can play spiraly, post-punk psychedelia on par with his old friend Johnny Marr and Echo & the Bunnymen’s Will Sergeant, or coarse riffs along the lines of Tony Iommi, Keith Richards, Dave Davies, and Angus/Malcolm Young.
The latter style was showcased on their greatest song, Love Removal Machine, always a perfect way to end a show. In a live setting, the outro rave-up is like an earthquake that grooves. In fact, when they did it at Roseland in 2013, the ballroom seemed to shake. While the venue was torn down the next year, it was essentially destroyed that evening. Same with the Gramercy. No matter where they play this, by the end, you feel like Bobby Cannavale at the end of the first episode of Vinyl, blissfully covered in dust and debris. Sing with me everyone, “AHHHHHHHHHHH YEAAAAAAAAAAAAH!!!”
The doors opened to 23rd street, and we took in the cold, urban nocturnal winter, while bathed in the holy afterglow of an exceptional show. After my friend and I said our goodbyes, W.H. Auden came back to mind. He once said, “Music is the best means we have of digesting time.” And with that, I hustled and strutted through the city at night back to Penn Station.
Matt Leinwohl