The Cult swept through West Auckland like latter-day saviours, writes longtime Otago Daily Times music reviewer Mark Orton, who remains an apostle to this day.
As a long-time fan of The Cult, I had been checking their website regularly for any hint that they might be bringing their "Alive in the Hidden City'' tour downunder. So, when Australia and New Zealand were listed, I, like many other southern dwellers, was stoked to see that Dunedin was getting one of only two dates scheduled for New Zealand.
For many people who came of age listening to bands in the '80s, a fair assumption might be that The Cult have reformed to cash in on the appetite of Generation Xers to relive their youth. The reality is, The Cult never actually went away and with the release of Hidden City this year completing a trilogy of albums since 2007's Born into This, they proved they are still evolving while honouring a signature sound that emerged out of the gloomy mid-'80s post-punk movement. So when an article proclaimed The Cult to be "heavy metal revivalists'', I figured it was time to set the record straight.
Long before I succumbed to the lure of Otago, I grew up in West Auckland and as cliche as this might sound, my teenage years involved a diet of cheap alcohol highs, modified cars and '70s rock music. In my secondary school, there was constant antagonism between the punk and metal kids ... but there were two bands that managed to transcend the divide: Motorhead and The Cult. While Lemmy's cool was beyond doubt, for a testosterone-filled teenager hoping to attract attention from the opposite sex, modelling yourself on a man with prominent facial warts wasn't ideal. Whereas, The Cult's Ian Astbury and Billy Duffy were an entirely different proposition altogether.
With his mesmerising mane of hair, Lizard King-like looks and booming baritone, Astbury was most certainly the main attraction, but for me, Duffy was who I wanted to be. The down-to-earth Mancunian riff-machine transcended all of the coiffured shred merchants of the day. Armed with his Gretsch White Falcon, Duffy's "Mick Ronson'' homage hit a raw aural nerve and what's more, he didn't use chords that you couldn't pronounce ... let alone play.
Duffy's primal fretwork on 1987's Electric was soon blaring out of backyard barbecues from Te Atatu to Titirangi, cutting through the wild West Auckland soundtrack of AC/DC, Sabbath and Led Zeppelin. Chock-full of rough-hewn licks that sounded like they were generated by the outrageous engine parts that jutted out of car bonnets everywhere, the unbridled bombast of Electric paved the way to the more subtle goth-inspired new-wave leanings of The Cult's first two albums, Dreamtime and Love. It became acceptable to ditch black fisher-knit jumpers, stonewashed jeans and mullet haircuts in favour of paisley shirts and faux rockabilly quiffs, and the anticipation for 1989's Sonic Temple was intense.
On its release, I have never felt as proud to be a Kiwi: we were the first (and only country to this day) to give The Cult a No1 single. Firewoman was huge, though I had no idea what Astbury was waxing lyrical about. There were more references to "babies'' on Sonic Temple than a maternity ward. The main thing was that The Cult looked cool and they were popular with the ladies ... or so I was lead to believe from the music videos. However, I was still no closer to seeing my heroes play live.
In 1991, I landed in London with tickets to see The Cult at Wembley Arena. From my position three rows back, I was mesmerised to hear the soundtrack to my secondary school years in all its glory and what's more, when Billy Duffy launched his guitar pick into the crowd, I leaped higher than everyone else and unbelievably it landed in my leather jacket pocket. I treasure that wee souvenir to this day.
As stable as the band was in the mid-'80s, with just one change of drummer, The Cult's line-up would from that point on be rooted in a Jagger-Richards combo of Astbury and Duffy, backed by whoever they could convince to staff their rhythm section. With the rise of grunge, internal friction, over-touring and creative differences, when I next saw The Cult play London's Finsbury park in 1992, the writing was almost on the wall, even though they delivered a blinding set that day.
So it was with a certain amount of surprise, when I arrived back in New Zealand three years later, that The Cult were announced on the bill for The Big Day Out. Hot on the heels of a new self-titled album, which was unjustifiably ignored but still stands up, they looked invigorated and Astbury and Duffy had a backing band that had at least lasted a little longer than the studio sessions. Though, with the rise of electronica and Astbury's waning attention span, the rest of the '90s and early 2000s would be marked by dabbles in side projects, in-particular Astbury performing with Ray Manzarek and Robby Krieger as a member of The Doors of the 21st Century.
Fortunately, when it comes to being a fan of The Cult, you have to realise that no matter how hard Astbury and Duffy try to pull the sound in opposite directions, there is still that special chemistry when Astbury's booming voice and Duffy's distinctive tone come together. So while there has been the odd hiatus and a revolving roster of bass players and drummers that would put Spinal Tap in the shade, their consistency and strength of songwriting in the past decade has given birth to three of their best albums yet.
When The Cult light up the Dunedin Town Hall tonight, I'll be there to reminisce about a life that has been lived with their music as my soundtrack. From Astbury's spiritually-infused lyrics to Duffy's righteous riffs, The Cult has managed to move with the times, occasionally crossing genres while still staying true to a core sound that is distinctly their own.
The show
• The Cult plays Dunedin Town Hall tonight at 8pm
