The Cure: Sorry, Santa – this is the true face of Christmas

Much like Christmas, The Cure’s greatest hits were on the way. But before ripping off the wrapping on their run of classic Eighties singles, Robert Smith and bandmates were serving up the pop equivalent of Brussels sprouts: songs that were nourishing rather than fun.

At 63, Smith still has the quality of a little boy lost. He brimmed with adolescent angst as the whey-faced warhorses kicked off the latest leg of their first post-Covid tour with a vigorous and, finally, delightful concert.

They took their time getting to the crowd-pleasers. Hearts were worn on the darkest of sleeves during an early dusting-down of the stately power ballad Pictures of You, which showcased Smith’s ever-green choirboy lilt. A hauntingly slinky Lovesong was a reminder, meanwhile, that among their similarly po-faced Eighties peers The Cure were the best at crafting pure pop moments.

Yet from there it was a deep plunge into the abyss. Flanked by rangy bassist Simon Gallup and former David Bowie guitarist Reeves Gabrels, Smith negotiated a calorific two-and-three-quarter-hour set that will have tested casual fans.

It was epic, occasionally excessively so. During The Last Day of Summer, from the underrated Bloodflowers album, the guitar solo entered an infinite loop. Time became an abstract concept, the tune chugging ever forward.

This year marks the 30th birthday of the last truly great Cure LP, Wish, and more cynical bunch would have exploited that birthday, and potentially even have constructed an entire tour around it. But the only calculating thing about Smith is his vertical hairstyle – the opportunity to make a song and dance about Wish, and flog more copies of a recent vinyl reissue, was resisted.

The closest the band came to cashing in was belting out Wish’s exultant lead single, Friday I’m In Love. Here was perhaps the most unadulterated expression of The Cure as purveyors of pop, band and fanbase alike having decided to pretend the toe-curling Love Cats never happened.

The band’s lead singer has kept busy during lockdown. A smattering of new tracks suggested – and not all in a bad way – Robert Smith doing Coldplay, but such distractions were, however, dispensed with as the evening rounded the bend into the first of two encores. “It’s such good fun this – fun with a dark heart, fun that leaves you waking up crying,” joked Smith, his grin now visible even from the cheap seats.

That smile grew broader as the band reached the tickle-the-audience section of the night. Lullaby, The Walk and Just Like Heaven were delivered with doe-eyed zing. The Cure had by now conjured a spooky winter-wonderland, Smith front and centre as a sort of goth Father Christmas.

As the final curtain loomed, they bowed out with early single Boys Don’t Cry. The room had turned into a sea of hugs, dad dancing and selfies. Smith, at the centre of the feel-good maelstrom, was beaming. He stood under the spotlight – confirmed, in the end, as a miserabilist who loved company.

Touring until Dec 13; thecure.com