Live Review: The Cult

The majestic interior of Eatons Hill Hotel is absolutely packed for a Tuesday night, seeming not just like a weekend but rather a weekend at the tail-end of the '80s. There are just as many tattoos on display as you'd spy at any half-decent hardcore show, only instead of fresh colours and crisp lines this body art  is all faded and lived in, obviously relics of an era before such displays were so ubiquitous. Anticipation hits fever pitch as the lights drop and an ominous video begins – perhaps Marlon Brando in Apocalypse Now, it's hard to tell as everyone jostles to see their heroes enter the fray – and soon The Cult are amongst us once more, kicking into Wild Flower – the opening track of 1987's classic opus, Electric, which they're here to play in full tonight –with hellbound intent. Frontman Ian Astbury is the star, clad in sunnies, slicked-back hair and a fur-collared jacket (despite the oppressive heat) and looking the epitome of the Wolf Child, yet when he hits the mic there's no vocals, just the choppy guitars. They recover and move onto the slightly turgid Peace Dog, before powering into Lil' Devil – the sound pristine now – Astbury offering a fey intro at its conclusion before decimating the rousing Aphrodisiac Jacket, the venue's PA sounding incredible in full flight. Veteran guitarist Bill Duffy unleashes the night's first major solo during Bad Fun, which descends into a massive drum solo finale – this was the era of excess after all – before Astbury yelps his way through King Contrary Man, after which they almost raise the venue with an incendiary rendition of Love Removal Machine which has the place in raptures.

So far so good, but then at this juncture – for reasons which we're never privy to – they leave Electric behind, omitting its final three songs entirely, and veer off into “career highlight” territory; they begin this phase with recent single Embers, which is bemusingly terrible. From here the night oscillates wildly, veering between relatively uncooked recent material (Honey From A Knife, Lucifer, Rise) and bygone brimstone anthems (Sweet Soul Sister, Phoenix, and the  incendiary She Sells Sanctuary which closes the main set): they sometimes flicker and sometimes flame, although to be fair everything is delivered with passion and conviction. They close with a fiery triumvirate of older fare – Nirvana, their first single Spiritwalker, and Sun King – before Astbury introduces the band almost like an afterthought, before doffing his sunglasses to us like we're special and disappearing into the backstage darkness. Tonight's show is hit and miss, but the massive throng are all smiles as they head into the equally massive carpark which is most likely all that matters.