"Billy Ray Cyrus has got a lot to answer for," Astbury opines after breaking away from the interview to point out an especially egregious example -- "all business in front, party in back" -- to his traveling companions. "That is not an attractive haircut on anyone -- man, woman or child," he continues, surmising aloud that a photo of the specimen sitting before them might be worthy of inclusion in the band's scrapbook.
"In America," Astbury states, "you find these cultural ambiguities which are quite entertaining. The mullet is definitely one point of conversation. It doesn't matter who you're going to see, either."
One certainty of Yankee culture at the dawn of the new century, Astbury postulates, is that you're bound to see at least one member, and probably more, of every crowd sporting the 'do.
Aside from its entertainment value, the comedic coif might provide Astbury with a form of reassurance -- which may be exactly what he needs at this stage in his band's trajectory. The Cult has careened from college-rock curiosity to coliseum-crunching juggernaut and back to relative obscurity in a manner that would make producers of VH1's Behind the Music cream their Calvins. The band's '80s-era excesses, Astbury confesses, were "endless," noting that he personally burned through millions during that time.
"There've been plenty of arrests, drunken incidents, violence and outrageous behavior," Astbury offers, "but that's all par for the course. We're not really looking in the media to be vilified or say we're an authentic band because we behave badly. [Because] without the music, forget about it. It doesn't matter how many TV sets you throw out of hotel rooms or how many times you OD on the road. You can be a clown all you want. There's a lot of circus and not enough good music going on" in today's market, he says.
Granted, the Cult hasn't fully outgrown its taste for high-wire antics. "There's been incidents on this tour already," says Astbury, including a mosh-pit melee at the previous night's gig. Even before that, there was a dustup between guitarist Billy Duffy and bassist Martyn Lenoble that resulted in the latter's being replaced with Brit Billy Morrison just prior to the completion of the band's latest long-player, Beyond Good and Evil.
Nor is Astbury himself treading the straight-and-narrow path. When asked if he's living the sober lifestyle that provided subject matter for most of an eponymous 1994 CD that justifiably stiffed, he replies, "I live my life the way I choose to live it, you know? It just is as it is. I do what I want to do when I want to do it."
Luckily for Cult fans, what Astbury really wants to do these days is sing. This news should come as a relief after rumors in the mid-'90s that his sometimes-straining vocal style had ruined his pipes to the point that touring was no longer an option. In truth, he claims, "We took a four-year break because we were just exhausted." As for his vocal woes, he blames these on fatigue and the phlegm produced by his sensitive upper-respiratory tract enduring air conditioning and other hazards of life on the road. "I've been to a voice specialist," the singer adds. "I have no nodes, no polyps, nothing."
Of course, skeptics might scoff that the Cult's reformation has less to do with Astbury's clean bill of health than with his and his bandmembers' empty bank accounts. "I'm broke," he confesses cheerfully. But when asked what role this fact plays in the band's reunion, which began with a series of 1999 concerts that included a date at Denver's Fillmore, he claims, "It's pretty obvious it's about the music. If you're joining a band to make money, forget about it, because very, very few actually do make money. And very, very few actually hold onto it."
One thing the Cult has hung onto, however, is its fan base, an unlikely amalgamation of alt-rockers and aging leather boys and girls for whom chafing, one assumes, is a way of life. Regarding the reunion, Astbury states, "that was probably the most surprising thing, the overwhelming response from the audience and just how partisan our audience was, how passionate people were about the band. It was very exciting."
Granted, such devotion can come with a price. Should the combo -- which includes former Guns N' Roses pounder Matt Sorum on skins -- neglect to play a hearty helping of hits such as "Fire Woman," "She Sells Sanctuary" and "Edie (Ciao Baby)" in any given performance, Astbury reveals, "we hear about it. People go absolutely berserk. They demand to hear those songs." As such, he says in a tone that bears perhaps as much resentment as appreciation, "we have to placate our audience, also."
For the current tour, which will last more than a year, this means the Cult will rely on material from its seminal albums Love, Electric and Sonic Temple, particularly during earlier dates, along with a couple rarities from the recently released Pure Cult singles collection. Also heavily assailed will be Beyond Good and Evil, released on the Lava/Atlantic label in June.
Produced by Bob Rock (who helmed a handful of previous Cult offerings), Beyond Good and Evil bears enough classic Cult touches to satisfy longtime listeners while unveiling a more adventurous aural palette that wouldn't sound out of place alongside the work of artists young enough to consider the Cult their mentors. Prime examples are the first single, "Rise," and "Shape the Sky," both of which serve up characteristically sweeping melodies over the band's practically patented descending chord progressions. "Nico," on the other hand, is probably the closest thing to a pop ballad the band will ever release, while the riff-based "My Bridges Burn" packs enough attitude into its 3:51 length to delight delinquents of all ages.
About the only false steps on Beyond are "Speed of Light," which proves that grunge stylings are at best a mixed blessing in the Cult's mitts, and "True Believers," a preachy dirge that quickly wears out its welcome. Aside from these criticisms, the worst that can be said about the album is that the band's rousing choruses and pseudo-spiritual lyrics have by now become formulaic.
But at least it's a good formula and one for which Astbury seems unlikely ever to apologize. When asked if there's anything about the band's history he'd change if he could, the singer replies, "I'm really bad on hypothetical questions. Although they might be interesting talking points, they're kind of irrelevant to me. We've done what we've done. And I just have to find acceptance in maybe mistakes and errors we've made. But we're at where we're at today for a reason, you know? How many bands in their late thirties are getting signed to a major record company? In the history of music, it's really rare, and I think we're a very unique band. And it's taken a long time for people to even begin to understand what we're about, because we don't fit into the nice structured boxes that have been created. Although we're a rock band, there's aspects of hard rock and traditional rock in what we do, but there's also aspects of modern and alternative rock, which we're very much involved in and have been a cornerstone in since, like, 1983."
What the group will do in the future, however, is anybody's guess. Although he plans to keep making music until he's an old codger, Astbury states that, with the volatile personalities involved, "I can never predict anything. I think it's really about if we get momentum and have a good experience, then we'll keep going. But when you're actually out on the road touring, you're away from home," spending 22 hours of each day doing everything but making music. These conditions tend to take their toll in a hurry.
Perhaps the strongest hedge against such stresses that the bandmembers possess this time around is the collectively thick skin they've developed with age. Though he wasn't certain the reunion would fly until the Cult's most recent album was in the can, Astbury is far from astonished that the group's shtick still works more than twenty years after he and his cohorts began crafting it.
"It always works," the singer says. "I mean, we're not freaked out by anything. We're old pirates -- we don't give a fuck, you know? We're not children anymore. A lot of young bands, you get out there when you first start, and you're like a puppy. You spend more time pissing on yourself than anything else. But you get around for awhile, you travel the world, and if you're wise and insightful, you take some of these experiences and use them to grow. You bury a few friends. You get wise" to the fact that the art of creating music demands and deserves your respect.
"That's when the true magic begins," he concludes, "and, without sounding too tired or insincere, I think that's the place we're in right now."
