No better way to experience The Cure than with a busted arm from carrying a suitcase filled with your life’s possessions to the hotel. A £17 ice cream and Coca-Cola combo to somehow simulate the thrill of booze in a teetotal life, and standing at the back of the crowd where the sound quality is consistently muffled, hearing vague pops of those Robert Smith classics, it’s a time when circumstance affects the viewing. But even without the stress of your suitcase exploding and launching cutlery everywhere like a kitchen-themed confetti cannon, The Cure has unfortunately missed a step on stage. There’s a little of that magic and mystique lost in seeing the Boys Don’t Cry hitmakers perform in a field a mere 10-minute drive away from Manchester Airport. There’s something lost, too, in hearing them do so. Still, the promise of a near 30-song set of mood-setting heartbreakers is too good to pass up, and The Cure are, at times, in great form.
Smith, for instance, sounds magnificent. When you can hear him over the choppier moments of the maddeningly sporadic sound quality, it’s clear he has kept his voice in good nick. He’s a man of many talents, but best of all is his ability to engage with the deeper cuts that dominate the first half of the set. These moments sound far better than a clunky Boys Don’t Cry and rather forgettable Friday I’m in Love. The Cure save those classics for the inevitable encore, but the real winner in those moments of the show is The Lovecats, mainly because the synth boom came just as a pie vendor started to waft the scent of gravy into the crowd. The Cure is one of British music’s great cultural exports, and the proof is in their album work over the last fifty years. But they miss a step on stage through circumstances that are not of their making. The band itself is in great form and clearly gearing up for a huge, upbeat blowout, but that never translates to the crowd, not at the back, anyway.
There’s an argument to be made for getting into the trenches of a crowd, but between a busted knee and a sugar high brought on by a 99p (flake included), there’s just no chance of getting in there. Instead, you’re on the fringes of the crowd, listening to songs about the discomfort of loneliness and the heartbreak of sudden change. It’s clear the open-air day festival setting of Wythenshawe Park needs a little overhaul. The same goes for many outdoor festival experiences, and live music hardly ever translates well when outdoors. A solid setlist that would sound all the stronger had it been in an indoor venue where you can hear the nuance and touch-ups of an extremely intense Simon Gallup performance. Fascination Street is a memorable, early moment, and the band delving into their deeper cuts is a fantastic moment for those who rightfully enjoy Burn and alt.end, but they’d hit a little better if you weren’t listening to two blokes talk about scaffolding.
Still, it’s a different experience with The Cure. Some are there to experience the two-year victory lap Smith and the band has set out as they near retirement; others are there because the weather promised a nice day in the park. A nice time to be had with some of those songs but The Cure’s live performance fails to keep the allure of the band’s studio work alive. Hearing Songs of a Lost World live is a real treat but it hardly translates to a crowd this size. Having your pal give you a side-eye every other song to make sure you’ve not collapsed under the stress and strain of the year, blubbering away at In Between Days, is perhaps what day festivals are all about. But for The Cure, this environment doesn’t suit them, and it hinders their performance far more than would be expected. Still, Just Like Heaven sounds great. Not all that memorable, and when you’re going to see your favourite bands, you can usually pool enough out of a show to cling onto something. Not this time.
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