52nd City

The Cult

My last three concerts have been: Fishbone, Fragile Porcelain Mice and The Cult. Is this 1997? I dunno, 1987? I'm happy, in any event.

Attending The Cult's show at the Pageant last night was funny on a few levels, not the least of which was ID-ing the desperate aging rocker factor on both the stage and in the audience. I was fairly impressed on both counts, including (on-stage) Ian Astbury's possum tail/belt accoutrement and Billy Duffy's of-the-moment-rock-guy-hair. Nice.

The group - Astbury, Duffy and assorted hired guns, including what appeared to be their accountant on second guitar - played most of the songs I essentially wanted to hear ("Fire Woman," "Edie [Ciao Baby]," "Wild Flower," "Nirvana," "She Sells Sanctuary" and "Love Removal Machine" among them), missing only "Rain" and "Sun King," from my personal "must" list. So, yeah, the show worked for me, though a free ticket also helped, since $36 for a group in this stage of career ain't necessarily a nice price.

The most amusing moment for me, though, may've been at show's end, when the group partook in the time-honored ritual of tossing tokens into the crowd. Drumsticks. Guitar picks. And two tambourines, the last of which arc-ed three feet to my right, bounced off head and then into the hands of someone three feet the other direction. Maybe the Hefeweizen had something to do with it, but my hands never left my sides as tambourine clanged it's merry way into someone's collection, with my noggin as a temporary side trip.

If the group's not quite what they used to be, then as an audience member, I have to confess that my old-goalie quickness has clearly degraded, as well.

Damn. Like I needed the reminder.