Soon You Will Feel The Cult's Love

"Machismo and mysticism" is one way to describe The Cult. But if you love them like we do, they're "The Motherfucking Cult." And they're coming to Seattle next Wednesday, to the Moore, to play their 1985 album Love (tickets: $27.50-$37.50 plus fees).

It's hard to overstate the way fans took to the frenzied, son-of-Hendrix guitar of Billy Duffy and the black-maned rock-god persona of Ian Astbury. Keep in mind that 1985 was the year they canceled The Dukes of Hazzard and gave us the likes of Mr. Belvedere and The Gummi Bears instead.

Wham! was making it big, and Tears for Fears were singing about a big chair. If your diet lacked testosterone, the arrival of Love from The Cult--you could almost get a whiff of bangers 'n' mash from your vinyl UK import--was an alternative to the relentless grim thundering of working metal. Their music, clad in stadium-anthem chords and throbbing with a kick drum's supernatural pulse, mesmerized by the thousands the teen boys of Reagan's America.

And what were these curious glyphs? Why was Ian wearing Michael Hutchence's black leather pants--with antlers? Was this some new London look? Before the internet, the small-town headbangers of America could only speculate, until the new Rolling Stone arrived to explain it all.

It's all right if you weren't there for it. We're going because we can't seem to get our fill of big neon glitter. It's like Ian says: "We never had fans--we have addicts. You either need it or you don't. You either get it or you won't. There is nothing casual about The Cult. We attract pure votaries."