Estonia's concert landscape is undoubtedly in full bloom, and I find myself wondering whether The Cure's concert truly was this summer's biggest music event. Perhaps it was John Legend's performance in Tartu — the man has a bag full of Grammys. Or Lenny Kravitz, returning to Estonia after more than 20 years? Moby? Black Eyed Peas?

All are great names, each of whom has held a loyal place on my listening table at some point. But The Cure stands apart for one crucial reason: the band, active for 50 (!) years, is not touring the world to stir up sweet nostalgia. They remain a fully creative force whose role in pop culture is no smaller now than it was in their late‑80s and early‑90s peak.

What do I mean? On the morning of the concert, reading Pitchfork confirmed it: the music outlet seemed to celebrate alongside Estonians the fact that the legendary British group had finally reached this distant corner of Eastern Europe, choosing The Cure's remix album Mixed Up for its weekly "Sunday Review" of classic records. Recently, Netflix's most talked‑about summer thriller The Last House featured a family dancing blissfully to "Close to Me" amid catastrophe. And of course, frontman Robert Smith appeared on pop star Olivia Rodrigo's latest album. It's starting to feel like the whole world is breathing in rhythm with The Cure right now.

Still, as I got into the taxi, a doubt crept in: maybe I remember their Flow Festival concert too romantically, and Unibet Arena Quarter would greet me with a retro cocktail enjoyed mostly by people whose teenage years were spent listening to The Cure? Those thoughts vanished before I even stepped through the gates. Around the venue, the crowd consisted mostly of barely‑adult fans — many with eyes darkened like Smith's and dressed in themed outfits. So no, this wasn't a We Love the 90s event. It was clearly broader, connecting multiple generations.

Unlike the overcrowded Kings of Leon show in June — which drew many Finns — this time the situation was calmer. Back then, hundreds were still in line minutes before the concert began; now, entry took barely a minute, and the area near the stage buzzed with friendly chatter rather than constant pushing. I didn't squeeze too close to the stage, but I wouldn't have had to step on many toes to do so.

It was a slightly windy, cool summer evening, and during the first half hour the band was still accompanied by the last rays of sun. Wait — sunshine and The Cure?! When Robert Smith wandered awkwardly around the stage during the four‑minute instrumental intro of "Alone," he looked like a vampire stepping into daylight. Any moment he might burst into flames or crumble into ash. But once the nocturnal creature finally reached the microphone, I felt the same jolt I experienced years ago in Helsinki: he remains one of the finest vocalists of our time. His paradoxically sweet yet cuttingly cold voice is unmistakable, unique — and I'm still defenseless against it.

It's hard to believe that "Alone," the opening song, isn't from the band's decades‑old golden archive. Released just two years ago, it sounded like a multi‑layered, slow‑simmered masterpiece finally served at full richness. And not only that — "Endsong," played before the nearly ten‑song encore block and also from their latest album, works in the same registers: symphonic and post‑rock‑like on one hand, yet fragile and deeply personal on the other.

Don't think The Cure came to Tallinn selfishly to showcase only their newer material. Quite the opposite: their nearly two‑and‑a‑half‑hour set ranged from beloved pop hits — "Friday I'm In Love," "Just Like Heaven" — to deeper, gloomier, lesser‑known tracks. Mood shifts were handled cleverly: alongside the dark, mist‑like songs creeping through the crowd, they offered moments to dance, shout along, and pull out phones to film. You could sense how deeply their rich catalog has touched listeners — nearly every song's opening triggered a chorus of joyful cries, followed by phones rising into the air. Yes, of course, one could just watch with their eyes, but the waves of phones made it easy to see what resonated. In this case… everything?

Among the passionate younger fans, you could occasionally spot kids wandering around bored — brought along by parents hoping their old favorite's stage energy might infect the next generation. But that reaction is expected. The Cure has never been a band trying to please everyone; I'm not even sure they've ever cared about "likability" as a concept. Their strength over half a century — confirmed again by this concert — is their boundless, genre‑defying unpredictability.

In most of his few stage remarks, Robert Smith simply thanked the audience, but he did admit he hadn't learned any Estonian phrases, since he barely speaks English as it is. Touring bands often learn two quick words backstage to earn applause, but The Cure doesn't need such trivialities. They showed how seriously they took their Tallinn concert without any gimmicks.

The nearly 30‑song set wasn't a conveyor‑belt program but a finely stitched whole, with certain anchor moments likely always present, yet leaving room for spontaneity. For example, in the final quarter they performed "Mint Car," a surprisingly upbeat mid‑90s track that doesn't appear often in live shows. The shifting weather added a pleasant nuance: sunset quickly gave way to dusk, then suddenly to pitch‑black night.

Most surprising was that after two hours of full‑throttle performance, once darkness finally took over, Robert Smith seemed to gain extra energy, delivering the final songs with bold, sharp vigor. Meanwhile, the band's second‑longest‑serving member, bassist Simon Gallup, looked the entire time like a desert‑mad guitarist from Mad Max: Fury Road, welding furiously while hanging off a speeding car.

So yes, we can talk about the Rolling Stones' upcoming 65th anniversary, but The Cure — celebrating their own milestone — showed they're no less formidable. I dare believe they still have several albums left in them — maybe they haven't even made their best one yet — and their first concert in Estonia won't be their last.

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