Leadmill, Sheffield, England
AN air of anxious expectation hung over the queue of disciples. Waiting patiently
for over an hour in the rain-swept street, they could be heard laughing nervously;
would everything still be the same? Would America have blunted the aggressive
edge upon which their heroes so greedily thrive?
Inside at last, and at first, it looked like The Cult had become the monster
they'd always scoffed at; a typical rock'n'roll band with their heads in the
clouds. Their inexplicably late entrance meant many younger followers had already
left for home. And Ian appeared strangely aloof, even condescending, for
the first 15 minutes.
But the transatlantic trip had also brought rich rewards. The Cult have improved
beyond recognition as a live unit. At last they are approaching live work with
the correct degree of prior consideration.
No longer do the four of them simply thrash uncontrollably into their material.
There's now room for calculated subtlety and a large degree of skillful mastery of
their audience. After banishing the early reservations (and a ridiculous
surfeit of dry ice) The Cult turned in a stunning display
Moving swiftly forwards thanks to a bruisingly forceful rhythm section, they
tackled an impressive spectrum of songs covering the full length of their
relatively short career to date. And the proof of their resurrection...
Taken from Pure Cult