Some bands are so dumb they’re smart. The Cult was not such a band. Hardly the sharpest knife in the metal knife drawer, they so flummoxed me I recently wrote on Facebook, “Are the Cult for real? I mean, they’re joking, right?” To which my pal and former bandmate John McConnell replied, “They are real. ’80s hair band crossed with ’80s goth band with a dash of Danzigesque shit.”
I responded to him by saying he’d pretty much written my Cult review for me, and frankly I didn’t know why I was bothering. But The Cult’s 1987 LP Electric IS worth writing about, because on Electric the band spent (in vocalist Ian Astbury’s words) “a quarter of a million pounds making an album that sounded like soup.” Only to scrap the whole thing and look to gonzo super-producer Rick Rubin, who (again according to Astbury) bluntly asked the boys, “Do you guys wanna make English pussy music, or do you want to rock?”
They should have said English pussy music. Because what Rubin proceeded to do was dumb an already dumb band down even further, and as I’ve already said, The Cult were not so dumb that they were smart. They were dumb as a sweat sock full of turnips. The Cult was a band without a brain, and Ian Astbury was a big voice with no apparent cognitive functioning, and the lack of cerebral activity trickled down from there.
Rubin’s genius idea was to strip the band down to metal basics. According to studio engineer Tony Platt, what Rubin did was appropriate “the guitar sounds from Back in Black, the drum sound from Highway to Hell, and the voice sound from Led Zeppelin.” Problem is AC/DC is the prototypical band that is so dumb it’s smart, and while you might be able to swipe their sound, you can’t swipe smarts. And it goes without saying that Ian Astbury is no Robert Plant. To quote my friend Charlie King, “Ian Astbury is the most Hostess Twinkie motherfucker ever.”
The results are baleful. Trouser Press’ Ira Robbins described Electric as “sensually gratifying as it is cornball retro-moronic” before damning the band for its “lowbrow compositional closet.” And what Rubin did—genius or not—was let The Cult OUT OF said lowbrow compositional closet so they could shine so dimly they make Grand Funk Railroad sound like a quarterly Mensa meeting. As for that “sensually gratifying,” I have to wonder, because the only sensual gratification I derive from Electric is turning it off.
But I’m not everybody, and there are those who will derive sensual gratification from Electric, which, un-brained as it may be, is also as big and loud as any fan of un-brained big and loud could possibly wish for. From the very, very monster AC/DC riff that anchors opener “Wild Flower” to the very, very AC/DC monster riff that anchors follow-up “Peace Dog,” The Cult aim to steamroll right over you. But from the very moment that Astbury opens his mouth to bellow (that’s all he does, is bellow and over-sing) things go wrong. I don’t know which is dumber on “Peace Dog”—Astbury’s moose mating calls or the band chant of “peace dog!” that backs the ardent moose up.
But the real problem is that while a band like AC/DC was smart enough to stay in the pocket, The Cult stretch things out, and the melodies they drag out with such fury and bombast (the bombast levels are through the roof) aren’t nearly catchy enough to support the stretching. We’re back to that lowbrow compositional closet again.
My pal Martijn de Vries’ verdict on The Cult was, “They seem fake. Like an eight on the scale of Jon Bon Jovi. Yes, 8 JBJ’s.” And I know what he means. There’s a sameness to the songs on Electric that almost gives you the sense they’ve been generated by machine, that they’re all sonic effects with no real living intelligence behind them.
And it’s the kind of sameness that makes talking about the individual songs on Electric a waste of time. Perhaps the only song that really sticks out on Electric is the ill-advised cover of “Born to Be Wild,” which I am prepared to state for the record is the worst cover of “Born to Be Wild” you will ever hear. Its peg-leg swing makes Steppenwolf sound like a dance band, and Astbury’s ham-fisted vocals are a real treat. Once you’ve heard him sing “Heavy metal thunder” you’ll never be able to unhear it, so do yourself a favor and never, ever listen to it. That said, The Cult’s “Born to Be Wild” has personality. It could only have been produced by human beings. No machine is this dumb, including your average wood chipper.
I said above that talking about the individual tracks on Electric is a waste of time. Well, let’s waste some time. “Lil’ Child” doesn’t sound like AC/DC or Led Zeppelin and is boring. It was Robert Christgau who pointed out that “Aphrodisiac Jacket” is basically a sonic rip of Cream’s “Tales of Brave Ulysses”—that titanic guitar riff did not come out of the imagination of King Kong guitarist Billy Duffy, and does the world really need another version of “Tales of Brave Ulysses”? I’ve never been certain it needed the first one. “Electric Ocean” reveals that Ian Astbury’s real inspiration is Billy Idol, but he lacks the snarl and wit. The guitar solo has sting, and that’s all to the good, but thinking of the ocean of love does nothing for me.
“Bad Fun” at least has a furious tempo going for it, as well as a Duffy solo that is nothing to sneeze at because he appears to be attempting to break a land speed record. The lyrics run to “Mayhem children take no lip/Rev your engine from the hip” and are 100 percent intellect-free, so just try to block them out as best you can. “King Contrary Man” is all sizzle and no steak, a “sell your soul to the devil at the crossroads” rehash on which Astbury throws me for a loop with the lines,
“Zany antics of a beat generation
In their wild search for kicks
Fighting, drinking, scorning convention
Making wild love, making wild love.”
That “zany antics” will crack me up forever, but I won’t be listening to the song again.
“Love Removal Machine” is pure dumb fun; Astbury screams “salt shaker” at one point, but what the song really needs is some pepper. That said, there’s no denying the song when it goes into hyperdrive towards the end, even if you do wish Astbury would shut up and give it a rest. “Outlaw” is as vapid and generic as The Cult get—they’re going through their paces like the consummate pros they are, and every note and gesture seems pre-ordained. You’ve heard this song before, plenty of times, right down to the Badlands The Cult know nothing about.
“Memphis Hip Shake” is sub-sub-sub-sub-Zep blooze ’n’ boogie. It does give Duffy a chance to bang out some gargantuan riffs, but gargantuan riffs aren’t much good if there isn’t a melody to back them up. And hearing Astbury sing “Shake” some 83 times at the end isn’t my idea of fun.
The Cult/Rubin connection did no one any good; writing about The Cult’s follow-up album Sonic Temple, Robert Christgau wrote, “Having risen from cultdom as a joke metal band metal fans were too dumb to get, they transmute into a dumb metal band,” but his words apply more to Electric. I enjoy dumb metal as much as the next person, but dumb and pretentious irks me, especially when the pretensions aren’t earned. I get the sense Astbury thinks he’s the second coming of Jim Morrison. He is not.
Electric is an electric appliance that serves no function. It won’t even clean the living room carpet. But I’m upping it half a grade because I don’t have a living room carpet and the silly fur hat Ian Astbury’s sporting on the album cover amuses the hell out of me. Besides, there are lots of people out there who love this album, and I sometimes get the sneaking suspicion one of them knows something I don’t. Like the whole album is an inside joke.
This C- is for you, pal.
GRADED ON A CURVE:
C-
