A couple of mysterious human forms, Cults emerged recently from the futuristic buzz hovering over New York. They’re inherently modern but yearn for an older era, a time and place where they can begin, a youth they never had. They stroll from town to town in dusty brogues and navy blazers. They try to cover the subtle film of warped flickers that form their bodies, but electric currents swim in those sleeves. Two suits, no souls, seeking out forgotten playgrounds where pre-Nintendo kids once played. Dusk, now, I see them passing through. A bustle of quarks and starlings takes flight. I’ll tell you what I know.
Brian Oblivion climbs a rusted slide to scan the grounds, silently noting the road they came in on and settling on one that will soon lead them out. He sits wishing he had bubblegum in his breast pocket as he watches his company, a minimal band of loyal followers. There’s the soft drum machine and an obedient bass, toeing fits of brown grass that have swallowed up old hopscotch squares. That glockenspiel, though – she needs supervision. Here she is, a satin-tied schemer, leading the pack on “Go Outside,” and twirling in her crystal slippers. She dances between decades on telephone wires, coaxing Cults to rustle up this sleepy town. They don’t want trouble, though, just simple times in a dying light.
Across the field, draped through a tire swing, Brian’s partner Madeline twists, idly humming “Oh My God” in an elfin voice. Braided metal chains cinch her orbit. They are strings of double helixes she has to make herself. With nothing more to sing or say she stops mid-turn, ready for a mortal thrill. Gravity finds her and together they spin, her dormant volts unraveling into ripples of electric waves.
Cults make their way to Cambridge next, settling in to Middle East Downstairs by Wednesday, August 11. I’d keep an eye out.