There’s a certain irony in watching a band like The Cult—a band built on gritty guitars, snarling vocals, and the kind of energy that makes you want to kick a tambourine into the sun—take the stage at the Sydney Opera House. The venue, all iconic curves and cultural refinement, doesn’t exactly scream “gut-level distortion.” But tonight, as The Cult weren’t here to blend in. They were here to shake the rafters—and possibly knock a few tiles off the roof.
From the opening riff of In the Clouds, it was clear this wasn’t a nostalgia act dragging their amps across Australia for one last hurrah. Billy Duffy, wielding his guitar like a weapon of mass distortion, turned the song into a bruising, hypnotic experience. It was as if he’d decided to turn the Opera House’s acoustic precision into an unholy playground. Ian Astbury, meanwhile, entered the stage like a shaman, draped in headwear reminiscent of Jamiroquai and armed with his trusty tambourine—his weapon of choice for the evening. By the end of the first song, that tambourine had already taken flight, soaring across the stage like a metallic comet.
Astbury’s energy was part trademarked rock god, part mischievous trickster. He snarled and howled through tracks like Rise and War, windmilling his microphone with the flair of a man who knows exactly how to toe the line between chaos and charisma. During Wild Flower, his voice was a whipcrack, cutting through Duffy’s dry, AC/DC-inspired riffs. It was rock ‘n’ roll as it was meant to be: dirty, loud, and just a little dangerous.
Still, for all their power, The Cult also know when to pull the reins. Mid-set, they stripped things back with an acoustic rendition of Edie (Ciao Baby), the spotlight narrowing on Astbury as he poured raw emotion into the ballad about fame, destruction, and all the ways we find to sabotage ourselves.
Not everything landed perfectly. The band’s notorious lack of onstage interaction was on full display, with the four musicians keeping to their own orbits like celestial bodies locked in their own gravitational pull. This gave the set a sense of intensity but occasionally left the crowd feeling like voyeurs rather than participants. The audience, a mix of goths, aging rockers, and newcomers looking for a taste of vintage cool, occasionally seemed unsure whether to headbang or simply marvel at Duffy’s arsenal of guitars.
That uncertainty melted away, however, with the arrival of Fire Woman. Like a spark to dry kindling, the song ignited the Opera House. Suddenly, fists were pumping, heads were banging, and Astbury’s tambourine found a new level of velocity. It was moments like this that felt less like a concert and more like a revival meeting for the Church of Rock, presided over by Reverend Astbury and Deacon Duffy.
The night’s finale brought the inevitable: She Sells Sanctuary. The track, still as electrifying as it was 40 years ago, turned the room into a collective frenzy. Fans young and old shouted every word, while Duffy’s swirling riffs cascaded through the hall like a siren song. It was the climax of a performance with the kind of theatricality only Astbury & gang could pull off without tipping into parody and a poignant ending to a night that had been anything but predictable.
The Cult’s 90-minute set wasn’t just a reminder of their legacy; it was a statement of intent. Sure, they’ve been through more lineup changes, style evolutions, and tambourines than most bands could survive, but they’ve emerged not as relics but as warriors. At the Opera House, they proved they’re not just still standing—they’re still stomping, snarling, and unapologetically rocking.
If there’s one lesson from last night, it’s this: you can take The Cult out of the dingy clubs, but you can’t take the raw, unfiltered rock out of The Cult. And thank the gods of distortion for that.
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Words by AW.
Photo courtesy of The Cult.