1985-09-21---Sounds-(GB)-p39

HEAD BOY
BOBBY SMITH takes The Cure
T H E C U R E /H A R D CORPS
W e m b le y A re n a
THERE'S ROOM at the top, but I’m late fo r an im portant
date. T raffic trouble while Regine is m otivating Hard Corps.
And this is slightly embarrassing, because I bump into her
from tim e to tim e in late night South London. The French
are unforgiving, especially where the English are
concerned. Merde ...
Park, pay one pound, pass go and run along the outside
of the Arena. It’s a lrig h t I can still hear Hard Corps’
synth-dance in progress. Collapse through the door,
m inding the head, and the noise stops as a greeting. Oh.
But Dave Elliott is sitting among the thousands; so tell me
what Hard Corps were like, Dave?
...Normally, the Cure follows a malaise, but what need is
there of rem edy when body and soul are bonnes santes and
the beat is elite? Who are Hard Corps? Is it of consequence
that they are foreign, slipping perhaps into an attractive gap
once occupied by Kraftwerk? Who cares - Hard Corps are
hard, and they offer a splendid kick to the solar plexus.
Regine, in her red jacket, sings 'I Need To Breathe’. Don’t we
a ll. . .
A soothing interval to have a mulled whine over whether
The Cure have become part of The Disease. I don’t think so.
Robert Smith is beyond the pale of the likes of Nik Kershaw
or King. He makes Top Of The Pops watchable: turns it into
a lipstick scarred, stubbly, greasy, shabby song of fear.
T h e n ...
God flips a switch and blows out the electric candles.
'T he Baby Screams' and so do the audience. I’m slightly
amazed that The Cure can fill this Arena, but not fo r long.
Before the man with the untucked shirt and volcanic hair
can sing “Strike me dead,” the hall is alive with a rush
stagewards, with unbridled enthusiasm. This is a sign of the
times.
Gavin Watson
The Love Cats - no, they didn’t tw itch that whisker - will
only experience one night like this. The show is a zenith of
sorts fo r The Cure, but they aren’t revelling in the cream of
adulation.
Right now the band are walking the thin line between
stadia-shit the com prom ise of grand rockist gestures that
so often entails, and the need to air the ir sins seriously.
Robert seems well aware of this. He wants to speak to us, he
says, but isn’t very good at talking, anyway, so he’ll just
leave it
The Cure’s attitude is still in ta c t they are taking perverse
pleasure in not becom ing clowns in the circus of megaentertainm
ent. I stand on a seat and get knocked off by a
transported dancer, but it doesn’t matter. Bodies in the
arena are in perpetual m otion though, paradoxically, there
is little movement on stage bar an introverted wagging of
tails. The sound is immense and tightly woven; sails in
tw ilig h t and that’s all that’s necessary to n ig h t
An odd thing: I couldn’t tell you the names of the rest of
The Cure and it’s my job to know such facts. There is
som ething faceless about the band aside from the ragged,
broken puppet of Smith. This works to the ou tfit’s
advantage: egos down and heads buried in the noise.
And most of that was fine and made me forget about my
backache and the little girl gnawing with sharp teeth on my
knee-cap because she couldn’t see. There wasn’t really
much to be seen, anyway, just five figures in stark lighting.
But there was plenty to be heard, and I’d ignore any
tendency towards occasional ponderous pomposity of
sound sim ply to catch a pop song as em otionally
enchanting as 'In Between Days’.
There is room at the top for The Cure so long as they
m onitor The Disease.
JA C K B A R R O N
publication issue (YYYY-MM-DD) country
Sounds 1985-09-21 UK