207. The Cure
Wembley Arena
12 December 2022
The Cure, back at Wembley Arena, closing their 2022 European tour with a masterclass in beauty, gloom, and glorious noise. It was meant to be me and my oldest friend, as tradition dictates, but fate, or at least some unfortunate scheduling, intervened. So once again, it was the now-established father–child duo: me and my daughter, rolling up to North London through the permeating cold, ready to be spiritually pummelled by Robert Smith.
Now, here’s the thing about The Cure: they are still, after forty-odd years, one of the most misunderstood bands in British music. To the uninitiated, they’re the sonic equivalent of a mopey teenager’s diary, all gloom, eyeliner, and romantic self-flagellation. But for those who know, they’re something entirely different. They’re a rock band. A proper, ferocious, emotional, stadium-level rock band who just happen to dress like Victorian widows.
From the moment the house lights dimmed, and the stage flared in deep crimson, it was clear that this wasn’t going to be some nostalgia cash-in. They opened with “Alone”, one of the new tracks from their forthcoming Songs of a Lost World album, sprawling, majestic, slow-burning, and then the whole thing erupted into “Pictures of You”, “A Night Like This”, and “Love Song.” The sound was huge, crystalline, utterly enveloping.
And there, in the centre of it all, was Robert Smith, still the most unlikely rock god alive. White shock of hair, lipstick slightly awry, face like a haunted cherub; part pagan priest, part suburban nana, part relic. He shuffled, smiled, waved awkwardly between songs, and then, when the lights hit, unleashed that voice: the same aching, cracked, magnificent instrument that’s been soundtracking heartbreak since Thatcher was in power.
My daughter, who had approached the evening with measured curiosity rather than full devotion, was, by song three, utterly won over. When The Cure lock in, with Simon Gallup’s bass like a juggernaut, Jason Cooper’s drums hitting with thunderclap precision, and the guitars shimmering like frozen fire, they’re a force of nature.
The setlist was a tightrope between the melancholic and the monumental. “From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea” was transcendent. “Push” made the entire arena levitate. “A Forest”, that eternal anthem of yearning and mystery, was as hypnotic as ever. And the new material, far from being an afterthought, slotted in seamlessly, proving that Smith still has plenty of shadows left to explore.
The encore was pure euphoria. “Friday I’m in Love”, “Just Like Heaven”, and “Boys Don’t Cry” turned Wembley into a mass singalong of people. Smith, beaming, looked genuinely moved. “Thank you,” he mumbled, half shy, half triumphant, like he still can’t quite believe the world loves him back.
As we spilled out into the freezing December night, my daughter turned to me and said, “That was one of the best gigs I’ve ever been to.” I had to agree. The Cure, forty-four years on from Three Imaginary Boys, remain a paradox, sad songs that make you feel alive, gloomy lyrics that make you grin, and a frontman who somehow makes despair look like the most noble human emotion there is. They’re not a goth band. They’re The Cure. And they just keep getting better.