Sometimes it feels like The Cure are a tribute band. But their songs never age as such : they were always old, often decades older than their years, and, as the band sort-of approach old age, they seem to have finally caught up with the songs they wrote as young men. As a 15 year old listener, “Disintegration” – most of which is scattered through the night – felt like some kind of melancholy I couldn’t quite understand. Three decades later, those songs have become the sound of a modern life. The sound of a tired commute to a job. The sound of what it is to be this age. The sound of what it is to have had enough.

The Cure sometimes seemingly slide away from currency to being merely an enticing live proposition, and sometimes seem to fall victim to the same malaise as The Rolling Stones and Roxy Music – that is, not releasing new music and becoming a touring museum. In that respect, a Cure show is always a history lesson these days. But it’s never nostalgia as such : every show is firmly rooted in today and now, and the knowledge that it is the path of history that lead to here. And those songs seem to exist outside of time. A great song can be written last week, last century, or a millennium ago. What matters only is that it still speaks to you. A Cure show isn’t a time capsule to another century, but an experience that seem to cover most emotions that a life contains. Joy, tragedy, and the wild mood swings inbetween.

This, their first Dublin show in 27 years, is the opening stop on their summer festival jaunt : and over two and a half hours – a relative skimp by Cure standards, given some nights they play over four hours – they present a wide reaching overview of their entire body of work, from the deep depths of their more obscure albums, and bringing long-neglected songs back to the stage (“The Wendy Time” gets its first live performance in 27 years and only its sixth outing ever, alongside “Just One Kiss” returning from a 7 year holiday).

In some respects, I’m glad they play “Shake Dog Shake” and “From The Edge Of The Deep Green Sea” in the first 15 minutes. Of the songs the band play regularly, they are my least favourite ; being simplistic, repetitive, and of relatively few sections with little variation.

With the most stable lineup they’ve had (7 years, and counting), The Cure have found a configuration that is playing some of the best shows of their lives. I’ve seen good Cure shows, legendary Cure shows, and bad Cure shows. Even the bad ones are better than some bands on their best night. It’s taken some time, but with the core lineup playing together for twenty five years, and relative newbie Reeves Gabrels (formerly David Bowie’s best guitarist) at only seven years in post, it’s a definitive version of the band tonight. Jason Cooper – the most under-rated drummer there is – effortlessly punctuates each song with a precise attack, alongside Roger O'Donnell on keys, and bass player Simon Gallup (who joined the band forty years ago) prowls the stage protectively. This Cure are as good as any other lineup. That is a hill I will fight you on. And win.

Support comes from Just Mustard, who remind me of no one so much as the long lost, now defunct Cranes, with unfriendly, obscure vocals, and a dense roar of sound. After that come The Twilight Sad – not only Robert Smiths favourite band (and Cure support act at many of their shows) – but also one of my favourite bands in the world. A short thirty minute set in daylight barely scratches the surface of possibilities for this band, but they stick to a compact and powerful, undiluted roar through their work. A truncated Sad show in daylight is by no means the best environment to catch them, but does provide a glimpse of their magic.

Ride are penultimate on the bill, with an assortment of new, old, and very new songs from their upcoming album. I’m sure they work better in darkness, but they don’t connect with me. I like them, and they are more than capable of weaving a spell, but sunshine in a field is not their world.

And onto The Cure. These days, they play live because they want to, not because they need to, and have long become financially self-sustaining to the point that the bands existence is a luxury : every show and release is the result of it being an artistically right thing to do and not an act of commerce or profit. And, unlike some bands, there’s not really a sense that a Cure gig is Yet Another Day At The Office. There’s a sense that this band are creating a world of music and emotion, and inviting you to be part of it.

But, given that it’s the thirtieth anniversary of “Disintegration” – an album the band have just played five times at Sydney Opera House, alongside a large number of b-sides – there’s a sense of this night being, perhaps, a special show, or an event, which will see them play that album in full and in order. No such chance. As such, it’s a broad career retrospective that covers almost all of their work, with at least something from every album bar the most recent two. Which means that even the youngest song is 19 years old.

Nonetheless, I’ve seen The Cure a lot of times in a lot of places. And this show reminds me so much of a previous one that I actually think I might have seen them too much, if you can do such a thing. Or that some things never change. There’s distinct points where it feels just like Finsbury Park in 1993, right down to the weather, and where I am stood. Which is bizarre.

Most bizarre of all is during “Play For Today.” I have a sudden, violent and weird flashback to this exact moment, in this exact field, with the band playing this exact song, a feeling of having been here before, despite this never having happened before. And at this exact moment, it’s the rudest, and most unsociable Cure crowd I have experienced. After many of us have patiently waited most of the day, there’s a handful of rude, pushy, drunk men (well, mostly men), who seem to think it is their god-given divine privilege to stand exactly where you are, and push you out of the way, because that is What They Want To Do. And they’re drunk, of course. So get out of the way. I Want To Be At The Front. I Want To Be A Moron. I Want To Be Annoying.

And it spoils things. There’s no need to be so selfish, and no need to be so obviously annoying. No need at all. Is your pleasure worth so much you can piss off dozens of people? (It isn’t). We’re all here for the music that makes us forget the world, and makes us forget people like you.

And then after ten minutes he leaves when he realises they’re playing the Doom-And-Gloom part of the set (“Want”, “39”, “One Hundred Years”), and someone else, seemingly immediately barges in his place, then they leave, then two drunk people think they can just shove everyone else out of the way, before they realise they can’t. These seemingly infinite cavalcade of cuntery keeps up from “Inbetween Days” all the way to the last notes of “Boys Don’t Cry”.

It breaks the spell The Cure are working so hard to achieving, and one that, when it works, makes a Cure show like nothing else in the world. Where the band use music to vibrate the air in a way that somehow changes the way we feel. That’s the magic. Magic is something that can’t be seen or touched, but that changes what we feel in relation to the world around us. Despite all the stupidity, the band are still playing an essential, and cleansing set of songs that make the world make more sense. What more do you want from art than that?

Shake Dog Shake,
Burn,
From The Edge Of The Deep Green Sea,
A Night Like This,
Pictures Like You,
High,
Just One Kiss,
Lovesong,
Just Like Heaven,
Last Dance,
Fascination Street,
Never Enough,
The Wendy Time,
The Walk,
Push,
Inbetween Days,
Play For Today,
A Forest,
Primary,
Want,
39,
One Hundred Years,
Lullaby,
The Caterpillar,
Doing The Unstuck,
Friday I’m In Love,
Close To Me,
Why Can’t I Be You?,
Boy’s Don’t Cry