How many times can a man listen to Sting and Peter Gabriel before he’s declared clinically insane?

Back at Emerson College in the ‘90s, my friends and I would congregate at John and Leo’s room. Like a lot of times when men get together, we’d talk about women. There were also many conversations on music, movies, theatre, literature, and Miami Vice. We’d even bust out the occasional Charles Bronson or Sean Connery impression. Every available space was covered with film posters or ripped out photos of directors, actors and musicians. Leo had a series of Twin Peaks posters that spotlighted the actresses Sherilyn Fenn, Lara Flynn Boyle and Mädchen Amick looking very alluring. It was the film school equivalent of those Budweiser Bikini posters prevalent in other colleges at the time. A manically perplexed John Turturro from Barton Fink, looking as if he were grappling with some complex philosophical query, was placed next to Amick so it would appear he was reacting to her. In that context, he simply looked horny.

The 5-Disc CD Player was in constant use, with acts ranging from Pearl Jam, Cypress Hill, Kate Bush, Marvin Gaye, Warren Zevon, John Coltrane, Steely Dan, the Beastie Boys, and on and on providing sonic sustenance. John and Leo had home-field advantage, so we mainly listened to their collection, which for the most part overlapped with everyone else’s. Once in a while though, some of us would bring our own music. If the mood was slightly tense, I’d put on Soundgarden, Van Halen, Sex Pistols, Thin Lizzy, Buddy Guy, James Gang, The Who, ‘70s Aerosmith or any other heavy, guitar-oriented act that seemed appropriate.

When things reached DEFCON 1 levels, it was, as Jim coined, “Time to break out the Pantera.” Even John, whose hatred of hard rock/heavy metal was only surpassed by his disgust for sports and jeans, appreciated the humor in the genuine therapeutic value within Dimebag Darrell’s scorched Texas desert Randy Rhoadsish guitar, Vinnie Paul’s treadmill run amok drums, and Phil Anselmo’s blood-curdling screaming and rumbling, which could either sound like the Cookie Monster or William Hurt as Randy “Macho Man” Savage.

If you happened to pass by the room and merely heard the threatening opening drums of “I Don’t Care Anymore” by Phil Collins, it would be apparent that circumstances had moved to the nuclear winter phase. Like the time Sean got rejected by his crush, a dancer who resembled the young Isabella Rossellini, in favor of the fat, dirty, stinking caveman-looking guy best known for recently sitting on and breaking one of the toilets, a fitting symbol for Sean’s obliterated ego.

But the two acts that were heard from the most were Sting and Peter Gabriel. Between the solo careers and their time with The Police and Genesis, we listened to them so often, it’s like we were getting paid to. It started early. Most of us first met in the beginning of September ’92. A few weeks later, some of us took a midnight march though the chilly Autumn gas lamp lit streets of Boston’s Back Bay to pick up Gabriel’s Us at the Tower Records on Newbury the moment of its release. The album in part dealt with broken relationships, exuding a soulful, wounded romanticism. We recognized that this somber, at times celebratory record illustrated how Gabriel could make blissful art out of pain and failure, but as 18, 19-year-olds, too young to personally relate to the adult situations inspiring it.

The songs on the first few albums from The Police fit our stage of maturity. “So Lonely,” ”Hole In My Life,” “Be My Girl – Sally,” The Bed’s Too Big Without You,” “It’s Alright For You,” and the others connected with us on a more primitive level. Sting and Gabriel’s work are equally intellectual, spiritual and physical. With the Merchant/Ivory vibe of Sting, it’s easy to forget about the last aspect. One of the more cultured and articulate writers in rock’n’roll, this former teacher also expertly communicates through reggae chants and wordless vocals that sound exotic.

One of our favorite examples was the title track to 1979’s Reggatta de Blanc, an expanded version of the simultaneously spirited and poignant dub-funk instrumental break from the previous year’s “Can’t Stand Losing You.” A couple of times we’d replicate The Police’s dorky dance moves from their videos, chanting along with Sting, “JAH!” and “RIOOOOOOOOO-RIAYYYYYYYY-RIAAAAAAAAAAYO!” However, they made being goofy look cool. We did not. But God (or in this case, Jah) that was fun.

John once took goofy to extremes when we were listening to the last album Gabriel did with Genesis, their 1974 magnum opus, The Lamb Lies Down on Broadway. During “The Colony of Slippermen,” I’d noticed something odd and asked, “Did Gabriel just say shoobedoobe? That’s pretty silly.” It shouldn’t have been too surprising. After all, the song was titled “The Colony of Slippermen.” Not looking too amused by my comment, John proceeded to give an earnest, thorough examination on the significance of the “shoobedoobe.” Even for a music obsessive like myself, that was excruciating.

Sitting at Madison Square Garden, waiting for the Sting/Peter Gabriel show to start, it was difficult not to be bombarded with all these songs and memories. After one left, another immediately took its place, like my cerebral cortex had staged a college reunion. The Police’s “Bring on the Night” was next. It suddenly occurred that the song, or more specifically the title, befitted our lives back then. After classes, we’d meet up and talk, oftentimes until the sun came up, or go out and partake in the peak of independent film, and the resurgence of guitar-based rock’n’roll, the last time it would influence the mainstream on such a massive scale. There’s such a preponderance of colleges in Boston, it was akin to living in a science fiction movie where the adults have disappeared.

My friends and I are now the adults, having experienced birth, death, war, disease, weddings, making movies, being in Manhattan on 9/11, long-term unemployment, mediocre goatees, reunions of Van Halen and The Police, the Red Sox winning the World Series three times, having your ads greet you throughout the city, falling in love, shattered relationships, and all the good and bad life throws at you. Astoundingly, the most painfully shy of us joined the Marines and ended up losing a foot in service to his country.

I would soon turn 43, a year older than Gabriel was when Us came out. Predictably, with the passage of time it’s a completely different album, no longer an abstract work of art to marvel at. It had become real life. These thoughts then dimmed when the lights did, signaling the crowd to focus on the present with these songs of the past that were about to be performed.

It was time to bring on the night.

Matt Leinwohl

The 6:44 train to Penn Station would be pulling in soon. On this first night of summer, under the bright, early evening sun, a sixtysomething woman danced while waiting, using the Rockville Centre Station elevated platform as her own Studio 54. Her grey hair, styled in a bob, bounced up and down as she did jumping jacks, Pat Benataresque shoulder shakes, and other moves to the music only she could hear. You could easily imagine The Cure’s vibrant “In Between Days” and “Close to Me” as part of her imaginary playlist. Maybe she was headed to the show?

If so, hopefully she caught The Twilight Sad’s dynamic opening set. The Scottish act were evocative of the stellar British post-punk groups that came up with The Cure in the late ‘70s/early ‘80s, such as Killing Joke, The Chameleons, Joy Division, The Sound, and many others. They’re all linked by a sound both cinematic and nocturnal, with jagged or ambient guitars, and haunting keyboards like dying breaths. The word “gloomy” is usually associated with these bands, yet they somehow found the beauty and humor in loneliness, anger, death, misanthropy, and self-loathing. As a bonus, some of their material had killer grooves, which made them songs of danceable dejection.

In his Cureish “Lovers in a Dangerous Time” from 1984, Bruce Cockburn sang, “Got to kick at the darkness ‘till it bleeds daylight.” This is exactly what artists do. The world is a dark, depressing place. That’s not an original notion, but it’s an oddly inspiring one. When artists reflect this in their work, whether it’s Edvard Munch, John Lee Hooker, Neil Leinwohl, Michael Mann, Richard Yates, Dorothea Lange, or The Cure, they’re testifyifing that you’re not alone thinking this. It makes the world less dismal and more stimulating, in the process creating future artists. At Madison Square Garden, The Twilight Sad triumphantly picked up that flaming torch of Sturm und Drang, topped off with the occasional Scottish brogue.

They got their name from a line in the poem But I Was Looking at the Permanent Stars by British poet/WWI solider Wilfred Owen, “Sleep mothered them; and left the twilight sad.” Aside from their impressive literary pedigree, they’re also a formidable live act. Singer/lyricist James Graham did odd dance moves that were equal parts Ed Grimley, Ian Curtis and Michael Stipe circa ’91. Songs like “Last January” harked back to the days when Stipe sounded like Roky Erickson trapped in Kudzu. Promoting their recent album Nobody Wants to be Here and Nobody Wants to Leave (great title), TTS took such complete command you would’ve thought they were headlining “The World’s Most Famous Arena.” Some day they will.

 The actual headliners wasted no time in spellbinding the crowd by opening with “Out of This World,” from 2000’s Bloodflowers, followed by “Pictures of You” and “Closedown” from their 1989 masterwork Disintegration. Like some of their best compositions, all three are semi-Overtures, taking their time getting to the lyrics, allowing the audience to get deep into the ambience. “Closedown” was particularly mesmerizing, combining Bo Diddley tribal percussion, Robert Smith’s quiet, teary guitar, and Simon Gallup’s boomingly melodic bass with lush synths. This powerful synthesis of sounds was a perfect example of why The Cure are one of the most popular and respected live acts in the world.

There was a mini-set of 1985’s The Head on the Door, featuring “A Night Like This,” “Push” and “In Between Days” performed in a row. The first one showcased guitarist Reeves Gabrels, who replaced the sax solo from the original with a solo that gave it more weight and intensity. After his stellar work with David Bowie, Tin Machine and Modern Farmer, it was good to see this underrated musician playing the sold-out Garden with The Cure. Gabrels and Smith played MSG with Bowie for his 50^th birthday show in ’97, where they did “The Last Thing You Should Do.” Smith memorably (and fittingly) handled the repeated lyrics, “Nobody laughs anymore.” After Bowie shouted, “YEAH!!,” Gabrels unleashed a torrent of head-banging guitar so powerful, you can probably still see the cracks in the roof.

Back to the present; the other two songs showed the buoyant side of The Cure, at least musically. “Push” always gets the crowd excited. The opening guitar riff and proceeding high-five melody have an optimistic, “Morning in America” feeling. You can picture people with big smiles exchanging pleasantries on their way to the office. Or major sports highlights of the ‘80s, like Jesse Orosco skipping towards Gary Carter after winning game 6 (perhaps the greatest, most suspenseful baseball game ever played) of the ’86 playoffs in Houston, clinching the NL Pennant. Never mind the lyrics begin with, “Go! Go! Go! Push him away!” and also include, “Oh smear this man across the walls like strawberries and cream.” Then there’s “In Between Days” with, “Go on, go on, your choice is made. Go on, go on, and disappear.” But those melodies! Despondence never felt so effervescent.

Next up was “The Last Day of Summer” on the first day of summer. You would expect nothing less from Robert Smith. “Kyoto Song” fused surrealist imagery with Far Eastern sounds. “A Strange Day,” from 1982’s incredible Pornography, contained unsettling drums which were like loud 3:00AM door knocks and a low, eerie, watery keyboard drone that went perfectly with a line like, “Move slowly through drowning waves.”

“Lovesong” and “Just Like Heaven” were crowd pleasers, as one would expect. A remarkable aspect of The Cure is that the songs which were embraced by the mainstream have as much depth as anything from their oeuvre. The former was Smith’s wedding gift to his wife. It’s the opposite of something like “Push,” in that the lyrics are devoutly blissful, even as the music has a beautifully exotic, almost Spanish melancholy to it. And it’s got another one of Simon Gallup’s unforgettably expressive bass lines, simultaneously moving while wanting to make you move.

Smith is the soul of The Cure, but Gallup’s bass is the pulsing heart, the dominant instrument of their sound. His singable bass lines are Phil Lynottesque, which Smith, a massive Thin Lizzy fan (he once stated he’d seen them ten times in two years) presumably noticed when he hired him to replace original bassist Michael Dempsey in ’79. It’s time Gallup (cool name for a bass player) got his due as one of the elite, up there with Jack Bruce and Motown legend James Jamerson.

The first set ended with “Bloodflowers,” its grandiose shadowiness ideal for the cavernous arena. The first encore began with the new “It Can Never Be the Same,” a stunning slow-burner that bodes well for the future of a band that’s been focusing on the past in recent years. Speaking of which, 1980’s creepy “At Night” was a particular favorite. It’s the kind of atmospheric tune you can imagine hearing at the end of a Miami Vice episode, where Crockett and Tubbs give each other the “Oh shit” look, having just realized the serial killer they brought in is actually innocent. Meanwhile, Lieutenant Castillo is so enraged that the real killer is still out there, he does one of his intense stares that burns a hole through the soul, just like the song. And yes, I probably have watched that show a little too much.

The second encore ended with “Burn,” written for and featured in the 1994 film The Crow. The graphic novel in which the movie was based on had been party inspired by The Cure. Surprisingly, “Burn” was first played live in 2013. Since then, it’s been a constant on this tour, and deservedly so. Yet another reminder of what a deep bench they have.

The sonic twins “Play for Today” and “A Forest” from 1980’s Seventeen Seconds concluded the third encore. Although the latter leans more phantasmagoric, a nightmare you can dance to. There are many interpretations, but it seems to document that grim feeling one gets when you realize that love can have an expiration date. And you were unaware that date had already passed. “The girl was never there. It’s always the same. I’m running towards nothing, again and again and again and again.” The propulsive force of the music echoed that sentiment. Towards the end, Gallup laid it to rest with a steady “dun-dun” heartbeat tempo, then the bass suddenly dissipating like a dream.

Recent set lists revealed that “Boys Don’t Cry” would finish the show. So when it started, that was the signal to do my Rickey Henderson impression. Nothing against the song, but some boys don’t want to be stuck like a sardine on the crowded MSG escalator for an hour. The 12:01 back to the Island would be pulling in soon.

Matt Leinwohl