The Cult: Love : Music Reviews : Rolling Stone

Album Reviews

Just what the world needs – a postpunk Grand Funk Railroad. The dark, scraping guitar and paisley trappings of Love, the U.S. debut of current British sensations the Cult, suggest a hip marriage of Joy Division's introspective angst and the colorful expansions of Sixties psychedelia. But don't let singer Ian Astbury's love beads and the pseudo-Egyptian typography on the cover fool you. Love is a bummer, New Wave bravado masking a devolutionary return to the static riffing and Cro-Magnon thud of early Seventies arena rock.

Much of Love, in fact, is just leaden Zeppelin. Astbury and guitarist William Duffy, the band's songwriters, rarely take the fateful step from a basic chord sequence into real melody. For nearly seven minutes, they stretch the hazy cosmic vision of "Brother Wolf, Sister Moon" over Duffy's treadmill strumming – a dreary rhythmic landscape broken only by brittle single-note guitar spires. The lumbering blues-rock stomp and agitated but unengaging guitar fills of the LP's title song recall those glory days of Bloodrock and Captain Beyond. Duffy, in spite of his limited tonal ambitions, is at least a spirited guitarist, and when guest drummer Mark Brzezicki of Big Country puts a little pedal to their heavy metal in "Rain," the Cult finally achieves liftoff with a jolt of U2-like energy and a simple but riveting chorus. "The Phoenix" also opens with great promise – a venomous flourish of wah-wah guitar over scimitar chording and zoom bass, mimicking the ferocious intro to the Stooges' 1969 proto-metal classic "I Wanna Be Your Dog" – before lapsing into undistinguished Blue Oyster-style Cult. But Astbury's hammy bellowing, a sorry lack of killer licks and too many empty gestures deep-six this album from the start. The Cult may believe they are headed for a brave new rock world; Love, however, is strictly nowhere.