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Rating: The Art and the Manner
Part One: The Manner
The boy wears a black suit, it reminds him of when – years ago – he began to harbor suspicions about colors. He is accompanied by a petite Greek girl, she says it makes him feel good. At twenty, the boy played "Without You I'm Nothing" on the street, and tonight he wears the same suit as then. The girl painted her lips black and went crazy for "Pure Morning."
A long track of "Taste In Men" starts and will last 10 minutes. The choreography flows cold, showy, impactful. Brian Molko doesn't smile, doesn't look, barely speaks, making sure his cigarette brand is well captured by the Arena's two giant screens. The boy looks at that petite and arrogant being, made up like a dark dandy, as beautiful as the night when he recognized "Without You I'm Nothing" in the story of his life, and he thinks, "Taste In Men" will not last forever.
In order, like a perfect stage machine, the dark dandy will explode from his guitar: "The Bitter End" powerful and aseptic, "Every You And Every Me" nervous and charged, "Centrefolds" diluted and languid, "Special Needs" stripped to the bone, an "English Summer Rain" never so faithful and a "This Picture" manneredly arranged.
All in one breath, without taking a breath: the boy and the girl have the impression of having watched Mtv. No edge, no leap into the void, no emotion that tears. Brian Molko has lost his virginity and – at times – the singer takes on the guise of a professional and mannered whore.
Yes, the manner.
Part Two: The Art
Brian Molko reenters in silence. The Arena is in ecstasy, 5000 youths moved en masse from the dark outskirts of Camden Town to the posh suburbs of Wembley. The boy looks at Molko but doesn't see much.
A moment of silence, the lights go down, and an extremely overweight Robert Smith unexpectedly takes the stage, awkwardly holding a guitar and then – God bless them – they kick off "Without You I'm Nothing," and the boy's eyes start to sparkle again. It's about me that Smith is singing – he thinks. It's one of the images each of us is destined to carry along for a long time, Molko's voice is light, thin, magnificent; Smith's is powerful and deep.
4 immense and sublime minutes. Smith steps away from the microphone, kicks in with "Boys Don't Cry," fierce, impetuous, punk to the core. It's here that the boy grabs the girl, pushes her to the center, further and further down, and when finally there in front, the song is over and in the silence he looks around and sees nothing.
On stage, Molko embraces that elegant fatty until it hurts, and it's the deepest emotion.
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