The Cult
Born Into This
By Dimitri
(SugarBuzz USA)
SugarBuzz Magazine
TOTAL DEMORALIZATION AND
THE SACRED LIVES OF DHARMA BUMS....
"Peace Is A Dirty Word-She Used To Be Our Painted Bird-Yeah!"
I skimmed a review of this in Rolling Stone at the grocery store, but I don't remember anything about it. I think the journalist probably knew their names and recalled their "Electric"-circa hits that won them the allegiance of hard-rawk fans, world-wide. "Born Into This" was summarily dismissed by several of my rock-critic acquaintances, but it seems we often have entirely different criteria for evaluating music's worth. Their perceptions sometimes seem a bit clouded now, by their current livelihoods as yuppie professionals, and once music becomes business, you're speaking an entirely different language than I am.
So listen here, wolf-children, and I'll tell you 'bout magic and madness, and the big neon beat. Back in the playful eighties, I was way too busy pretending I was Alice Cooper, cos everyday was Halloween, to worry much about the Cold-War, Wall Street, "Greed Is Good", or any of those "I Hate Reaganomics" hardcore bands. Oh man, who needs straight-edge, when I got T. Rex?
I was utterly charmed and deeply immersed in punk, glam, new-wave, and all things Cult-related. I adored the woeful Adam And The Ants tribal-stomp of Southern Death Cult, and the swirling, gothic-psychedelia of "Love"! "Love" is still one of my favorite albums of all time. They seemed like enchanted emissaries of Eden. Lost kings from some golden age of grooviness.
Ian Astbury was a glorious, seditionary, hip-priest with a mean tambourine, and Billy's chiming, spell-binding guitar sound was as distinctive, and picturesque, as any eighties guitar-god you could mention. From Bob "Derwood" Andrews to Johnny Marr. From Eddie Van Halen to Andy McCoy. This was absolutely heroic music that heralded a whole new dimension of possibilities, super-saturated with hellfire moons, angelic hearts, elaborate head-dresses, dangling rosaries, beat-generation mysticism, pet bunny rabbits, tarot cards, spooky girlfriends, paisley blouses, cool iron crosses, strobe-lights, peace-pipes, bell-bottoms, bonfires, bare feet, howling incantations...and you could dance to it! "LOVE....OBVIOUSLY...VERY SOON...EVERYBODY..." Was it just me, drunk outta my mind, on my youthful bravado, and Maker's Mark whiskey, or was "Love"-era Cult actually a sustainable-model for a new way of living?
I was initially, less enthusiastic about their Rick Rubin produced biker-rock make-over, the dumbing-down of my favorite rock band for mass-consumption, or at least, to distance themselves from airy-fairy elves like Gene Loves Jezebel. The band now sounded just like Danzig and AC/DC, and by the time "Heart Of The Soul" was released, Billy's sensual, spiritual, neon tone-poems could no longer be distinguished from the tediously-deedling, generic stadium-metal wankage of Richie Sambora, and Dave "The Snake" Sabo. How very sad, y'know? It seemed, for awhile, like they'd sacrificed alot of that visionary originality that made them so special, to play some only so-so heavy metal, with impressionistic lyrics about the desert, aphrodisiac jackets, and the ongoing plight of the Native Americans.
"Wild Flower" and "Lil' Devil" grew on me within the week, and I remember blasting down the highway singing "Fire Woman" from "Sonic Temple" with the wind in my hair, and a fifth of whiskey tucked in my leather "Sex God" jacket, on a blue Kawasaki, like it was only hours ago. 'Wish I still had those sunglasses.
I never abandoned my abiding faith in the Cult, and my loyalty was finally rewarded with their self-titled CD with the ram on the cover, in the otherwise dismal, grunge-era. Does anybody remember Filter, Tonic, Live, or Candlebox? Me, neither, but I saw all these old grunge cassettes at the thrift-store yesterday, and felt sorry for the lost generation of teenagers who came of age in the 90's. All that horrible, whining, Ethel Merman/ Alice In Chains/ and Hootie And The Blowfish-imitating! How ghastly! I fuckin' still can't escape the ghost of grunge. It's fuckin' everywhere!
I never owned "Beyond Good And Evil", but I remember thinking the music was kinda derivative of NIN and White Zombie, and that movie, "The Matrix". We listened to it non-stop, throughout my last, last-ditch, cross-country road-trip. An ill-fated, desperate mission to record some of our original music at an old friend's home studio, on the Coast. Naturally, the van broke down, and the guitarist got arrested, en route. He was divorced, soon-after and still blames me for all of it, in spite of his having been the one who showed up, unannounced, demanding that I accompany him on another one of these always doomed from the start, spontaneous road-trips, where we show up, and spook the fuck out of all our old friends who’ve “moved on” with their mature lives of striving for juicers and hot-tubs. Pretty standard misadventure, accompanied by a pretty standard Cult record. I did enjoy their VH1 "Behind The Music" episode my old friend Christiana sent me on VHS, cos I didn't have cable, quite thoroughly.
Ian's always been a sensitive, impulsive, mysterious, emotional, conflicted sort of cat. A velvet-clad, ostrich plumed, poetic contradiction. Part "Smash It Up" Sex Pistols nihilist, part pacifist, Woodstock Nation states-man/philosopher. His solo album of techno-dabbling left me pretty cool, and his Oasis inspired Brit-Pop garage band, the Holy Barbarians, had only one really amazing song ("Magic Christian") to recommend it. He remains one of my biggest influences from that era-a hard living prophet in black leather. He was the Original Spark-Lord, back when I was an outcast teen. Ian, Andrew Wood, Tyla, Zodiac Mindwarp, Alex Mitchell, and Frank C. Starr were the prime movin', spirit-walkin', high priests of Flash Metal. Those long-gone days had such an abundance of talent.
What happened to all the Real Rock-stars? Michael Monroe, Andrew Eltrich, Axl Rose, and Billy Idol. Who we got now? Fat, hooker-punching Vince Neil. All those mumbling, geeky, emo rich kids in the Crocs and Cargo Shorts? I waited half my life for that 3/4 Classic Van Halen Reunion, but I don't even have $35 for a lousy, black concert t-shirt---let alone $150 to blow on a rock concert.
‘Meantimes, I'm still a waitin' for the wizard to come back down from the mountain, and set the wild-hearted, rebel tribes free, again. Freedom is a vision, Freedom is a mission. Remember? GET DOWN MOSES! Deliver us from this vicious climate of unholy ladder-scrambling, slavery, lies, mandatory drug-screens, the disregarded Fourth Amendment, constant surveillance, government pills, pre-emptive wars for other nation's natural resources, imperialist expansionism, rigged-elections, shit and filth, and lion's den arena-style, voyeuristic, info-tainment.
Ian doesn't consent to many interviews, so I still don't understand his decision to join Ray and Robbie's "Doors of The 21st Century" tribute-act. When he got the Jay Sebring "Young Lion" -perm, it really seemed like he'd totally jumped the shark, no matter what the festival promoters in South America were willing to pay. I mean, I love Jim Morrison as much as the next rain-dancing, alcoholic, lizard-prince, but this was all too "Atomic Punks", for my taste. No matter how reverent or sincere the intention, this kinda behavior inevitably reeks of beach-house payments, and tawdry nostalgia. A singer of Astbury's artistic stature probably should not have tried to step in to someone else's rattlesnake cowboy boots. It's just like when they tried to substitute those two (!!) fill-in vocalists in place of Stiv Bators, in the "resurrected", Lords Of The New Church. Everyone will get behind the Brian James Gang-he's one of my very favorite guitarists, and probably yours, too-but please, please don't try cashing-in on the brand-name at the expense of the legacy. It just seems tacky and unbecoming, when Stiv and Morrison are both long dead.
In these times of chaos and futility, occupation, and immobilization, we rely on our lingering artists and poets and musicians to speak bold truth, and shine a light, y'know? Where are all our Great Medicine-Men? I'm gonna need some real hope if I'm gonna continue to cope with the shattered illusions of middle-age, the social-ostracism, and demoralizing grind of extreme poverty, the steady procession of all my comfortable, college-educated former allies steadily crapping-out, and abandoning yours, in order to seek favor with people higher-up the pyramid-scheme, the agonizing divorces, deteriorating ambitions, wage-slave bottom-feeder, job interview rejections, the constant dread and worry that gnaws at an estranged parent, all night and day.
I dunno how the rest of you former outlaws and rock dreamers feel about Hate-Radio, and Schmaltz-Pop, but if I gotta eat shit thirty-eight hours a week, just to not even have enough money for rent in the bad part of town, if I'm not entitled to the same choices, protections, career opportunities, education, and health-care as all my moneybags counter-parts, I'm gonna need some fearless honesty from my poets and rock bands.
I need to hear someone singing something pure, and true, and life-affirming. We can't all just sit idly on our hands, and expect Patti Smith, Leonard Cohen, and Ralph Nader to do all the hard work for us, indefinitely. Its unfortunate how we take our real heroes and artists for granted in this self-obsessed, greedy nation. George Carlin, Bo Diddley, Bozo The Clown...All the greats keep droppin' like flies, and it's scary, cos it seems like every time we lose a Joe Strummer, Bill Hicks, or Joey Ramone, that ten more Rush Limbaughs, Jessica Simpsons, and Pete Wentz' take their place.
Listening to "Born Into This", I'm struck dumb, by the sound of more faceless 90's nu metal. What is all this wrathful, post-industrial, corporate-rawk video-game music doing on a Cult disc? I'm stunned numb by it. I played it all the way through, four more times. Same problems. The question that springs immediately to my mind whilst grooving to the album's only real high-light, "Holy Mountain"; is, "Does an artist have any obligation to his die-hard fan-base?" –To which my girlfriend helpfully replies, "Ian Astbury has no obligation to pander to anyone's fondest eighties memories, just because some of his audience is stuck clinging to the past!" Hmm. Build Me Up, Buttercup.
Earlier today, we tried listening to Duran Duran's inexcusable, "Red Carpet Massacre". Long-Gone is the poppy, Euro-trashy, new romantic, Roxy/T.Rex glammy space pop. What we get from them now is just another slick Timbaland produced top forty quirky dance record. Madonna/Gwen Steffani/Justin Timberland/Nelly Furtado/Missy Elliot style, inter-changable dance tracks, with Simon LeBon poetry and Nick Rhodes synths added as an afterthought, later. No Wonder Andy Taylor quit that band, again! Embarrassing! (* We interrupt this Cult review to bring you this important News Flash: Justin Timberlake is not sexy, or cool, and he did not invent the moonwalk. The King Of Sucks Is More Like It. He only exists to make Usher look cool. Collaborating with this goon is the artistic kiss of death. Be forewarned, David Bowie.)
Ian seems to have improvised this cool Elvis Presley/Charlie Sexton/Jim Morrison torch-song, in one take. My old lady thinks "Holy Mountain" is a master-stroke of smoldering genius. The men don't know but the little girls still understand. Shit, babies-that's like the bare-minimum I expect from the author of "She Sells Sanctuary", "Rain", "Revolution", "Love Removal Machine", "Edie-Ciao Baby", and "Bleeding Heart Graffiti". I'm left wondering why he hasn't applied himself to writing any decent lyrics. He's obviously capable. David Johansen and Billy Idol's recent comeback records were impassioned, and profound. "Dirty Little Rockstar" is not good enough to be released as a Cult single. It's not even as good as alot of their older B-Sides. C'mon, Ian, Where Are You, Brother?
"Illuminated" is only like, decent. Kinda in the spirit of "Wonderland"-they tap into the classic Cult formula for this one, but I'm still wanting more from those cats than Zap-City Rehash, or some commercial, angry, little kid rock. "Tiger In The Sun" almost nails it-Ian's understandably restless and infuriated by the corporate crooks, international bankers, library spies, privatized assassins, warrantless wire-taps, Bill O'Reilley Fear-Factory, sovereign nation invading, Masters Of War, and insincere, misinformed, religious lynch-mobs. But like so many of us, he just can't seem to find his way through all the tear-gas, saber-rattling, and toxic wasteland, media-static. I still look to him to have something insightful to say, in desperate times, such as these. The enigmatic Astbury has always been on the fore-front of the Conscious Rock'n'roll Movement, I know that both Tibet and Darfur are near and dear to his heart. I know he shares my outrage, but I just can't connect to this new music, like, at all. It definitely seems like Duffy's on auto-pilot again, maybe somewhat more preoccupied with financing his lifestyle, than playing from the heart. Maybe he's reflecting the banality and aggression of the world we live in. I dunno. There's just not much of a window for me, here.
These are, clearly, two of the most creative, and charismatic dudes in rock'n'roll, so as long as they're both sucking air, and willing to work together to express a common truth, there's always hope that their best work is still in front of them, but you've no idea how it pains me to concede, that this just isn't it. It's not even as good as "Sonic Temple", or "Ceremony". This feels a lot like a hurried, half-arsed, contractual-obligation record. Where is all the hot emotion, ripe prose, and innovative guitar pioneering? What a disappointment, lads. I can't connect to this record at all, My Saints Are Down. I will stand true beside this poet-star, and shamanic riff-meister, and patiently await their more enlightening, next, phoenix-like revival. Wake Up In Time For Freedom, Cult-Leaders. I need your help, out here.
(-DIMITRI SUGARBUZZ USA DESERVES A JOB THAT PAYS A LIVING-WAGE)