The Cult have been onstage for half an hour now. Worcester Centrum is on its feet, and the rock ’n’ roll roar gets increasingly louder after each successive salvo from the “Love Removal Machine.” You can feel the heat rising, the limbs twitching, the sweat pouring and the smiles spreading.

Ian Astbury tosses back his black mane, swaggers to the front, stands with black-leather legs well spread, and asks a question:

“How many of you own Cult albums?”

Several hundred voices answer to the affirmative.

He then asks: “How many of you are going to buy a Cult album?”

Several thousand voices roar in ecstatic affirmation.

“Good, then there’s hope for rock ’n’ roll in the future.”

He took the words right out of my mouth.

Worcester, Massachusetts, is just another night in the Cults’ 1987 campaign for total rock ’n’ roll domination of the States (notice how I’m saying “rock ’n’ roll” a lot—better get used to it!). They might be opening for Billy Idol, but every night literally thousands are converted to their shiny new, stripped-down rock ’n’ roll (heee!) killing machine.