Pull on your pout

So I saw The Cure last night at the Dodge Theater, and I don't even have the words to describe how affected I am by the entire experience. I suppose it's worth mentioning that for the longest time, I had no idea that The Cure were still together, still touring, still even a viable band. And I still had my doubts when Robert Smith shuffled onto the stage, looking from the neck-down like my overweight, 50-something uncle, in his faded camo pants and ratty button-up shirt. But he had black smudged around his eyes, and red smeared across his lips, and his hair was just...well, if you know The Cure, you know. Then they started playing, and Robert tilted his head just so—and he was a rock star, and I was transported.

It was just everything. The music, the lights. The light show was the best I've ever seen. The combinations of colors, and the shape of the lights...there were at least four or five separate moments, staring at the stage, that I was sure I was gazing at the most beautiful thing I'd ever seen. I knew there was no way my camera phone could even remotely document what I was seeing, but I took handfuls of snapshots anyway, needing to capture it somehow. If I can ever figure out how my phone works, I'll post some of the photos.

And then there was the music itself. Lush, and glittering, and Robert's voice was amazing. And Robert. I don't know what to say. In those lights, with that music and that atmosphere, even Robert Smith seemed intermittently attractive from 31 rows back.

Yes, I sought out the slash today. No, I'm not very serious about it. I swear.