Yesterday afternoon found me lying back in the sun and enjoying the cricket at Channel 4’s Indian Summer event in Regents Park, when I got the call: Cinderella, you shall go to the ball, and it won’t cost you a penny. An hour or so later I’m sprawled, Pims in hand, in the VIP enclosure at The Cure’s Route Of Kings event in Hyde Park, a mile or so further south. Now I’m generally not really a fan of these places — the drink is always more expensive than it is out front, and you end up surrounded by wannabe media bunnies queuing up for their next line of ‘beak glitter.’ Talking of which, and on the up side, the toilets tend to be clean, and you get to stare in wonder at Gary Numan’s extraordinary dress sense (baggy shorts, black socks and patent leather shoes, anyone?) and his incredible looking stalker-wife (insane hair, tiger-print dress, high heels and lavish cleavage).
Oh yeah, and I watched the bands. Mogwai sounded as good as I’ve ever heard them, despite the daylight and genteel surroundings, whilst The Cure continue to rely on a set the bulk of which features songs between fifteen and twenty years old. Almost to reinforce the fact that they probably belong in a different era now, they encore with songs by Alex Harvey and Thin Lizzy. It’s kinda sad, kinda karaoke, kinda irrelevant, but judging by the sheer number of Robert Smith-alikes in the crowd the band can continue to wheel out this tribute to themselves act for a few more years to come.