In retrospect, it may have seemed an insane idea - stand in a field of 35,000 black-clad Goths on the hottest day of the year for three hours plus - but sometimes insane ideas can be the best ones. And when that idea involves watching The Cure, legendary New Wave / Goth / gloompop overlords, play a 28-song set of absolute classics, after not seeing them for 30 years, you just have to go with it and try not to melt...
In a very similar vein to the A-ha gig in Cardiff back in July 2022, this was a case of me encouraging Sarah to reconnect with a band she loved. We'd seen The Cure a few times back in the late '80s / early '90s and had both been big fans of the band, but had lost track of them in recent years. I think recently re-watching their triumphant Glastonbury set from 2019 and hearing their comeback album, Songs Of A Lost World, rekindled our fascination ( street! ) with Robert Smith and pals. I somehow managed to get a couple of last-minute tickets from the Ticketmaster Hegemony and we were Cardiff-bound! ( Not knowing at that time that the UK would be in the grip of its second blistering heatwave of the year in June. I'm now typing this in July, during the third blistering etc etc. )
We rocked up in Cardiff city and joined the throng of already sweating punters heading to Blackweir Fields. The venue was about a 10-minute walk from Cardiff Castle itself and, after hearing horror stories about previous gigs, we found the whole process of bag searches / ticket scanning to be relatively hassle-free. Which was nice. We'd missed first band The Joy Formidable, who had been on at the ridiculously early time of 15:15 pm, but I was determined to catch The Twilight Sad, so we headed towards the stage and the small amount of shade it afforded. ( Those two bands' names sound interchangeable to me: The Sad Formidable? The Twilight Joy? )
The Twilight Sad came on stage with very little fanfare and started an intense, emotional set with Dead Flowers - a song which sounds like Mogwai covering The Cure and features the phrase "it's water off a duck's back" - so, perfect really. The pounding drums and glacial synths nodded to the likes of Joy Division, while the guitars were turned up to ear-lacerating volumes, and singer James Graham's Scottish burr spread a gloomily passionate, soul-baring force field of melancholy over the crowd. I mean, they're probably great fun at parties, but here in Cardiff, The Twilight Sad were definitely living up to their name, and it sounded glorious. They finished with the monumental Waiting For The Phone Call, a song apparently about "grief, love and mental illness" which was paradoxically uplifting as Graham dug deep into himself for some sky-scraping vocals. Yep, they were intense alright, but a spot-on fit for a Cure support band ( that wasn't always the case, if anyone can remember the fey likes of Shelleyan Orphan... ) and they certainly gave the crowd all they had. I think I'd like to see them again in a smaller venue, where the sound would, I imagine, be like an aural avalanche.
By this time, the heat had reached an official temperature of 33 degrees C, although my phone was insisting it was 35 degrees. Thanks phone. We were now so hot we were spontaneously creating new sweat glands and giving them an instant workout - even our teeth were sweating. You get the picture, it was bloody hot. There'd been concern for a few days that the gig wouldn't go ahead - in fact many people said it shouldn't go ahead - but we were here, and we were all in it together. And then some sadist by the name of R. Smith decreed that the sound of pouring water and crashing thunder would issue from the PA as torrents of rain were depicted on the video screens. Talk about adding insult to injury. At least we knew that heralded the arrival of the headliners and, sure enough, out they came...
As the beautiful, hymn-like synths of Plainsong washed over the crowd, Robert Smith wandered around the stage, looking out at the 35,000 Goths dissolving into a sea of eyeliner, seemingly overwhelmed by the love that was radiating towards the stage. Simon Gallup's unmistakeable bass guitar chimed in with the spine of the song and it was like those 30 years were dissolving too. For us, and for so many fans, whether long-term or recent, it was like coming home, even if that home was a baking hot field in Wales. We were there, we'd made it, and so had
The Cure...
The swaying, surging waves of Plainsong buoyed up the vocals of Captain Bob which seemingly hadn't changed one iota in all those years. As he sang about being as cold as the dead, the beauty in his voice - in his phrasing and delivery - was as magical as it had ever been, the paradox ( again ) of the warmth of Robert's voice melting the cold of the lyrics. I'd say "same as it ever was", but that was some other band. A brief "Thank you!" ( well, it's Robert Smith! ) and then the band kicked up the pace ( slightly ) with the New Order-goes-Goth of Pictures Of You, Smith strapping on his guitar and going head to head with the lanky figure of Gallup. This impossibly romantic song must have caused an ache in every heart there on that field: "If only I'd thought of the right words / I could have held on to your heart / If only I'd thought of the right words / I wouldn't be breaking apart all my pictures of you" - it's just a thing of dark beauty.
This set leaned heavily on my two favourite Cure albums, Disintegration and The Head On The Door, which was obviously fine by me. The bruised romanticism of A Night Like This and the pitch black balladry of Lovesong ( "Fly me to the Moon" ) took us back to our twenty-something days of seeing The Cure in the cavernous spaces of Wembley Arena or the Birmingham NEC. Although the atmosphere was like a furnace, I think I prefer Blackweir Fields. The Last Day Of Summer from the later Bloodflowers album isn't a song I'm too familiar with, but it sounded absolutely epic only a few days past mid-summer. And it really
wasn't the last day of Summer.
Following an early song in the set, Robert thanked the crowd in Welsh - "Diolch!" - which got a huge cheer from the Cardiff audience. He said "If there's one language I should have learned, it's Welsh, as I married into a Welsh family. Although, to be honest, sometimes it's best if I don't know what they're saying." ( I paraphrase, of course, but that's the gist of it. ) It's lovely to see the humorous, cheeky side to Robert, which does occasionally come out, and dispels all the stereotypes - you know: gloomy, morbid, depressing - about the band and singer.
A few unfamiliar songs ( to me, anyway ) were sprinkled throughout the set, but The Cure also pulled out classic after classic - there was a three-song run of Push / In Between Days / Just Like Heaven which was worth the price of admission on its own - and, when Gallup's iconic bass notes heralded the obligatory A Forest, the audience were transported to Goth Heaven. ( Which is probably a nightclub in Newport. ) We used to always jokingly complain about The Cure stretching out that song to impossible lengths but, after all this time it was wonderful to hear one of their most defining songs again. It really wouldn't be a Cure gig without an invitation to go "into the trees"...
They played From The Edge Of The Deep Green Sea ( one of Sarah's faves, so she was very happy to hear it ) and then finished the main set with Prayers For Rain ( stop rubbing it in, Robert! ) and an epic Disintegration.
Another defining thing about the band back in the day was the way they'd often bugger off stage before the encores for a crowd-antagonisingly long time, presumably to get some serious drinking in. Here in the burning atmosphere of Blackweir Fields they were barely off stage long enough to neck a couple of shots before coming back out to a seismic roar from the knackered-but-ready-for-more crowd. And it was Hits Hits Hits! all the way...
Robert invoked the spooky spectre of the spider-man ( not that one ) as Lullaby cast its spell and its web over the field. Barely had we escaped the arachnid's clutches than the band started up the highly appropriate, funktastic Hot Hot Hot! Yes, we were, and it was. Even after hours on our collective blistering feet, the crowd still found the energy to shake our black-clad booties to this dancefloor detonation.
After a Wild Mood Swings-era Wrong Number ( not a favourite, it has to be said ) the clattering drums and squelchy synths of The Walk gave way to the slinky, stealthy pop classic The Lovecats aka The One They Play On The Radio. This is the song that divides the fans between those who are too self-conscious to appreciate such a commercial outing for the band, and those who get it. Luckily, most of us did. There was a mass outbreak of joy, dancing and cat-ear-wearing as seen below. Gone, man, solid gone...
And the hits kept coming as The Cure reminded us just how many solid gold pop nuggets they've produced over the years: Let's Go To Bed and Friday I'm In Love were fun, singalong Top 40 anthems, while my favourite Cure song ever ever ever - Close To Me - was as claustrophobic and boggle-eyed as ever.
After a free-wheeling, funky Why Can't I Be You? the band dug back into their early years for the final song: the one that launched a thousand T-shirts and posters, the iconic Boys Don't Cry - a fantastic finish to a wonderful performance. A visibly moved Robert Smith thanked us all for being there and the feeling was indeed mutual. Everything about this gig had been excellent - the song choices, Robert's vocals, Simon's stick-insect stage moves, the sound and visuals, the band themselves ( including the legendary
Reeves Gabrels on extra guitar ) and the multi-generational, massively appreciative audience. I hope I can speak for all of the 35,000 people there when I say we had a hugely enjoyable, emotional time, watching one of the greatest bands to ever walk the Earth and bravely wear Panda-eyed makeup in 33 degrees heat.
Thanks Robert, you were simply elegant.
