Shadows and Light: The Cure at Moda Center

The Cure

Moda Center

May 31, 2023

The Cure’s music, elemental and potent, holds a certain magnetism. It was the final day of May, the outside air balmy and pleasant, yet the faithful spirited themselves indoors. There was darkness to reckon with.

The shimmering, fractured beauty of the Cure was on florid display throughout their 29-song presentation. Powerful yet delicate, drifting between eccentric and accessible, the setlist was culled from albums going back as far as 1980 (no selections from the band’s debut Three Imaginary Boys made the cut this night). Robert Smith, a most gracious host for nearly three hours, exhibited a vocal and physical durability that was astonishing; at age 64, he might even be called goth rock’s Springsteen.

Early on between songs, Smith was self-deprecating, speaking about the compressed nature of time and betraying a self-consciousness that, somehow, he’d worn out his welcome in this city. The truth of the matter is, the Cure hadn’t touched down in the region since 2016, and they hadn’t set foot in this specific arena since 1997. Humility of this ilk can be a motivator, and it might be part of what’s fueling Smith as he reliably carries the Cure legacy forward. His colleagues (bassist Simon Gallup, keyboardist Roger O’Donnell, keyboardist/guitarist Perry Bamonte, drummer Jason Cooper, guitarist Reeves Gabrels), who conjured a gathering storm of atmosphere and sound, seem to be on the same page.

These guys mean business, but there’s a distinct benevolence in the Cure machinery. Professionalism, immaculate live sound, and giving the customer their money’s worth are all apparent Cure standards. Even the t-shirts in the lobby largely sold for $25, a striking departure from the $40-50 per shirt most artists charge. Fan-friendly? You better believe it. The industry needs much more of this. 

For all the respect and deference Smith gives to his supporters, recent history suggests that on the business side, he’s more than willing to dole out the “and find out” part of the equation when an entity like Ticketmaster offers their “f*ck around” nonsense. This past March, Smith went toe-to-toe with the ticketing behemoth, and negotiated lower prices and fee refunds for his ticket buyers at a time when few (if any) of his peers were willing to take up such a fight. In this case, good guys wear black.

But on with the show. This night with the Cure was christened with the sounds of thunder booming from the speakers, foreshadowing the tempest the audience was about to be swept up in. Far from a nostalgia trip and devoid of cynicism, Smith and his crew knocked down a lofty stack of songs. Overall, it was less fan service than an exercise in pure artistic integrity, a total “come with us, you won’t regret it” invitation. Sometimes, you have to just give yourself to the storm.

Bookending the main set were the striking new works “Alone” and “Endsong.” In between, and later in the encores, this West Sussex, England act led a mesmeric journey through 44 years of their recorded history. Fans experienced a full spectrum of emotions alongside their high-haired talisman: They reflected on lost love during “Pictures of You”; imagined a bed of flowers during “If Only Tonight We Could Sleep,” and were time-warped back to 1994 and memories of Brandon Lee during “Burn.” They also felt defiance and disorientation, respectively, in the rhythmic Seventeen Seconds tandem of “Play for Today” (key lyric: “Tell me I’m wrong/I don’t really care”) and “A Forest” (“The girl was never there/It’s always the same”). Elsewhere, “Shake Dog Shake” found Smith adding extra hot sauce, with some bonus “Sh- Sh- Sh- Sh-” vocal punctuation. He was having the time of his life.

A pair of encores were more like additional mini-sets, with “I Can Never Say Goodbye” a heart-rending standout in the first of these two smaller frames. About Smith’s late sibling Richard, “Goodbye” features the devastating lines “Something wicked this way comes/To steal away my brother’s life.” Three songs later, the chiming “Plainsong” offered some solace and counterpoint, as its keyboards surged with a wounded majesty.

The human condition requires us all to face darkness, but life is about balance and realizing that there is also levity and light. In the second encore, after Smith warbled on “Lullaby” that “the spiderman is having me for dinner tonight,” the vibe shifted to something resembling joy and even whimsy. The frontman played a miniature keytar on “Six Different Ways,” offered up the smash hit “Friday I’m in Love” (“It’s a wonderful surprise/To see your shoes and your spirit rise”), and roamed the stage during the percolating gem “Close to Me.” The twirling, upbeat “In Between Days” was another serotonin boost, and the evening drew to a close with “Just Like Heaven” and “Boys Don’t Cry.”

Fealty to the Cure and similar acts is akin to cave-dwelling; some really like it down there. But before one slips too deep into darkness, along comes Robert Smith, holding a torch and summoning them back from the ledge. He may be a purveyor of gloom, but, to quote some other Smiths, his band’s music is proof that there is a light that never goes out.

Just Stand Back: Remembering Mimi Parker

"Here comes the knife 

You better just stand back

I could turn on you so fast"

Those lyrics, from the Low song "Just Stand Back," resonated anew last month. On November 6, the Duluth, Minnesota indie act's Twitter announced that its co-founder Mimi Parker had passed of cancer at age 55. Hers was a life lived, along with husband-collaborator Alan Sparhawk, in the service of uncompromising art. Parker's voice, woven with Sparhawk's, was a glowing beacon amid ominous yet mesmerizing music.  

Like a viper lying in wait, "Just Stand Back" strikes the listener about a third of the way into the dense and jarring thicket of the 2005 album The Great Destroyer. It's an admittedly obscure corner of their musical legacy, but in line with the majesty and mystery of their overall body of work, it captivates just the same. 

The guitar chords of "Just Stand Back" scuff and jangle as the song begins. Sparhawk, with his dry yet pleading voice, invites you in ("It's a hit / It's got soul," he sings). But once Parker joins in to harmonize with her partner, the shimmering magic of Low is revealed: "Just Stand Back" blossoms into an eerie campfire song. It churns and burns, seemingly daring the listener to interpret what lyrics like "Here comes the knife" and "I could turn on you so fast" mean to them. "With a swing like that / You better just stand back" is delivered by Parker and Sparhawk with such co-conspiratorial confidence, it both inspires awe and telegraphs danger.

Like Minnesota's countless lakes, "Just Stand Back" is just one place to dip into when it comes to Low's music. There are 13 studio LPs, and The Great Destroyer is just the seventh. It's an expansive songbook of cathartic noise, experimentation and abject sonic bravery. Parker co-created hymns for the struggling and the painfully alone, her voice and drums tossed like lifelines to anyone needing them. 

Mimi Parker and Alan Sparhawk 

In the realm of indie rock it's easy to become cynical and write off bands like Low as cult entities or just another Pitchfork-approved act of the week. It would be inaccurate to say they're easily accessible or widely known; the phrase "musicians' musicians" comes to mind. Tagged as slowcore, they've been heavily acclaimed in some corners, particularly for their last two albums, Double Negative (2018) and HEY WHAT (2021). Both of these releases garnered Low some of the strongest notices of their career, remarkably for work awash in digital distortion and static. Transgressive? Boundary-pushing? Avant-garde? All of the above, and then some. 

Low did see an unlikely cheerleader emerge from the rock world. Their songs "Silver Rider" and "Monkey" (both from The Great Destroyer) were covered by Robert Plant on his 2010 album Band of Joy. And the day after Parker's death, Plant performed "Everybody's Song" and "Monkey" at his concert in Glasgow, Scotland. Elsewhere, tributes poured in from admirers including Sigur Rós, Tool's Maynard James Keenan, Will Sheff, El-P of Run the Jewels, and producer Steve Albini. Wilco's Jeff Tweedy even shared a cover of Low's "I Hear... Goodnight" on his Substack newsletter page. Onstage in South America November 8, Father John Misty talked about how important Low was to him, and performed a cover of the band's "In the Drugs." And this month, Phoebe Bridgers and Storefront Church released their take on the 1994 Low song "Words."

The marriage and creative partnership of Parker and Sparhawk has precedent in popular music, but it should be noted that they stayed together and thrived artistically until the end. In this one aspect, they're more like Johnny and June Carter Cash than say, Richard and Linda Thompson or Jack and Meg White. Jason Isbell and Amanda Shires, as well as the War and Treaty (Tanya Trotter and Michael Trotter, Jr.) are current examples of couples doing terrific work together. It all just underlines the inherent sadness and sense of loss when one half of a creative duo leaves this earth. 

Parker's voice dispelled the darkness. In joining her husband on songs of emotional turbulence matched by their music's noisy commotion, she shared her gift to magnificent effect. A phenomenal artist, gone too soon. 

The Super-Sized 2022 Rock Hall Ceremony

We're not at the Waldorf-Astoria anymore.

In light of the dazzling, genre-diverse spectacular that went down at the Microsoft Theater two weeks ago, it's worth reflecting back on the original location of the Rock Hall ceremony, held in New York City starting in 1986. 

Ah yes, the glitzy, champagne-drenched Waldorf-Astoria, home to a whopping 23 private inductions over the years. The event did escape from New York at times—it landed at L.A.'s Century Plaza in 1993 (still private), and in 1997, the Renaissance Cleveland Hotel had the distinction of hosting the first public ceremony. After a second public induction in Cleveland in 2009, the Waldorf-Astoria hosted two more closed-door ceremonies. Finally, in 2012, the walls came tumbling down, making this largely closed-off event open to everyday music fans. 

Ten years later, so much has happened. There's been Rock Hall Foundation leadership and committee turnover (most notably, John Sykes in for Jann Wenner), the pandemic (which herded the 2020 inductees into a pre-packaged, documentary-style HBO program), and an erratic three-city rotation. This year, inductions returned to La La Land (or, in Alex Lifeson parlance, "blah-blah land") for the first time in nine years. 

This was a big one. Super-sized. It will put the "Max" in HBO Max this weekend. In a first, there were even bleachers onstage packed with fans. This was Sykes' first Los Angeles ceremony, and the iHeartMedia President and co-founder of MTV (along with the foundation and production team) wasn't leaving anything to chance. "Delivering the goods" appears to be the key methodology of 2020s-era Rock Hall ceremonies. Cleveland next year? Or Brooklyn? No matter where this event lands on the map, it would appear that state-of-the-art production and God-tier rock star power will be on tap. Last year, McCartney. This year, Springsteen. 

The 37th annual Rock & Roll Hall of Fame induction ceremony is getting a 4-hour window for broadcast on HBO. At the Microsoft Theater, it spanned five and-a-half hours (7:15 p.m. to about 12:45 a.m.). Having been in the room for ceremonies that ran about that long, but felt longer due to speeches and near-comical staging delays (looking at you, 2015), it must be said that apart from Duran Duran's brief sound collapse early on, the show mostly cruised along, with just a few plodding segments along the way. The final edit will likely jettison some of that excess baggage. 

The baggage isn't limited to the show itself. The Rock Hall ceremony is an exhilarating bubble to be in, but it remains peculiar due to various tensions. Maybe it's the mixing of industry and commoners, and maybe it's the feeling that the Hall, with its obvious inductee backlog and well-documented failures of committee-think, has a lot to make right; the fans showing up are carrying both expectation and indignation. 

If the show runners understand this, and they hopefully do, they'll work harder to find a balance between crowd-pleasing musical nirvana (knockout performances, once-in-a-lifetime moments) and the manner in which they recognize amazing individuals such as Harry Belafonte, Sylvia Robinson and Elizabeth Cotten. Those three inductees received only video packages, with no one onstage to even briefly announce their induction. In the late Robinson's case, her son Leland and granddaughter were there, so to not have them quickly accept the award on their mother's behalf was a mistake. Time truly must be made in these instances. Yes, it's a long show, time is of the essence, but some judiciousness was needed here.

And that's the problem with "big." Small, nuanced things get trampled upon. It's a vexing problem with shows of this scale, and with the Hall specifically. Much is done well, and much seemingly gets ignored. But flawed as it may be, the institution appears to be steering this colossal ship in the right direction. Vocal, intelligent observers have raised their voices for more women, more metal, more inductees, etc., and it would be inaccurate to say the Hall isn't listening. That said, Cleveland truly needs its first female hip-hop honoree, and hopefully 2023 brings that and much more.

But back to the ceremony. iHeartMedia boss Sykes is a different captain than Wenner, and there is an ambitious, new-look Rock Hall era upon us. With its 14 honorees and top-shelf list of special guests, the highly-produced 2022 edition could be split in half, and two ceremonies could be made from it. Goodness gracious, there were even two all-star jams, for all intents and purposes. (It seems the days of 5-7 inductees are a thing of the past.)

Speaking of Sykes, the inductions these last two years seem to parallel, in subtle ways, the genre-diverse, mainstream tilt of iHeartRadio Music Awards shows. In line with Sykes' references to "the sound of youth culture," there are several household names crossing over, and back, between that event and the Rock Hall ceremony (J.Lo! LL Cool J! Ed Sheeran! Olivia Rodrigo!). It's fitting, too, that SiriusXM looms so large in this annual affair (from backstage interviews to broadcasting audio of the ceremony), because its panoramic music station menu echoes the genre-inclusive approach that, at its best, the Hall manifests with its inductee slate and ceremonies each year. Where there is Dolly Parton, there is also Rob Halford. Where there is Eminem, there is also Steven Tyler. 

Started at the Waldorf-Astoria and now we're here.