A hugely successful band that has remained true to its underground roots, The Cure and its 64-year-old singer and songwriter, Robert Smith, are unlikely heroes for the post-pandemic “revenge spending” concert era. Economists theorize that consumers are splurging on luxuries, travel, and experiences out of a desire to make up for what they missed during the pandemic, and driving up prices in the process. Last year, tickets to see the working class rock icon Bruce Springsteen in concert went for as much as $5,000; spending on the kick-off Beyoncé’s world tour in May has been blamed for an inflation spike in Sweden; and tickets for the US leg of Taylor Swift’s record-breaking Eras are in such high demand that Swifties are finding it’s cheaper to fly to Argentina and catch her show there. Now the heavily mascaraed and scraggily haired Smith has said enough is enough.

The Cure set ticket prices for this tour at prices starting as low as $20, far less than demand would dictate, and aggressively blocked scalping of tickets—though many tickets still ended up priced at $100 or over (one fan posted a screenshot of tickets priced at almost $1,400 each) because of fees imposed by the ticket seller Ticketmaster. This infuriated Smith.

“I AM AS SICKENED AS YOU ALL ARE BY TODAY’S TICKETMASTER ‘FEES’ DEBACLE,” the singer tweeted in March, in all caps (one habit that reveals his generation). He was looking into the matter, he said, and promised, “IF I GET ANYTHING COHERENT BY WAY OF AN ANSWER I WILL LET YOU ALL KNOW.” (Indeed, Smith was able to get Ticketmaster to reverse some of the fees, and fans received refunds of $5 or $10—not a huge amount, but huge in principle.)

A cure for ticket gouging

As I walked past the merchandise booth, I realized this stance went far beyond the symbolic for Smith. “Merch” sometimes earns as much as 20% of gross sales at an arena show. As a music fan, reasonably priced $25 T-shirts made me smile; and as a music business executive, $8 hats made me wince. How are they making money? I wondered.

The Cure have made a rare, conscious choice to leave money on the table. It’s a gift to the “Cure kid” who was a fixture in 1980s high schools, often dressed much like Smith—all in black, with hair straight out of Edward Scissorhands. Now grown up, those Cure kids have been waiting for this tour for a long time; The Cure haven’t toured North America since 2016, and given the musicians’ age, there may not be many more opportunities to see them live.

It’s a brave choice for a band to make right now. After a pandemic that crippled the live music business, artists at every level are trying to make up for lost income. Add inflation, surging fuel prices, and the worldwide ripple effect caused by Brexit’s havoc on European touring, and it becomes clear why we’re seeing some of the highest ticket prices in history. The bigger the band, the more people, gear, and infrastructure it takes to keep the show on the road. And the margins of these enterprises are tight: Even at a higher ticket price, just one canceled show—whether caused by a sick band member, a new Covid variant, or an unexpected weather emergency—can flip a tour’s profit and loss sheets upside down. A band has to account for mishaps, like any responsible business.

I don’t know if the Cure are making a killing on this tour or writing off a gigantic loss. And I don’t get the feeling that Mr. Smith cares much. Because there’s a value that isn’t captured on those P&L sheets. As I scanned the packed St. Paul arena, I wondered how many of the enraptured fans would have turned up if the tickets had cost twice, three times, 10 times the price. How many could afford it? Would I still be at a sold-out show? Or would twice the price bring out only half as many fans?

Just like heaven

During the two-and-a-half hour concert, it became clear that the Cure were there because they wanted to be, and they wanted all of their fans to be there with them. Some audience members around me, I learned, had paid as little as $8 for their tickets. Exuberant fans sang along to every one of Smith’s moody, reverb-soaked songs—comfortable, perhaps, in the knowledge that the concert tickets didn’t set them back so much that they’d have to curtail their summer vacation plans or put off a home repair. Unlike many concerts where the most fanatical attendees crowd the front rows, a quick glance around the arena revealed that the most enthusiastic dancing, jumping, and arm waving was happening at the back, the nosebleed seats at the very top.

Before this stadium packed with adoring fans, the singer-songwriter famous for evoking depression in his music appeared unmistakably cheerful. As the gentle ring of open guitar strings resonated after “Push” from The Cure’s breakout 1985 album, The Head on the Door, Smith marveled at the moment. “We’ve probably only played that song six times in the past 30 years,” he told the crowd in a moment of typically unpretentious between-song banter. Now, he explained, midway through the tour, they were mixing up the set list each night to keep it exciting for both the crowd and the band.

And it was an exciting experience, despite having none of the pyrotechnics that concert-goers have come to take for granted. Don’t get me wrong: I love over-the-top arena and stadium concerts. I’m a sucker for blinding flames, elaborate set changes, and dancers who move in uncanny synchronization. The Cure’s stage production offered none of this: The band was backed merely by a skeletal riser that held the drummer and some amplifiers, and a giant LED screen projecting artful images and close-up shots of the six musicians onstage. The set never changed, nor did the personnel. And that just seemed to make it more special. Not every artist can get away with such a down-to-earth live show—for some artists the spectacle is as important as the music. But it’s unlikely that Cure fans expect to see Smith flying over the crowd while singing, “Yesterday I got so old, I felt like I could die.”

That night in St. Paul, the Cure performed a bombastic, epic rock concert. But between songs, an intimacy hung over the arena that made it feel more like a band practice in someone’s living room. In a music business increasingly reliant on streaming, automation, and algorithms—on volume and on incremental gains—it’s not easy to find ways to offer more for less. The Cure’s show was a reminder that even now, it can be done. 

Nabil Ayers is the president of the record label Beggars Group US, and the author of the memoir My Life in the Sunshine (Viking).

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