The mesmerising monochrome erotica Cigarettes After Sex’s ‘X’s tour kicking off in Gurugram

From the first, delicate notes from their latest album “X’s,” Greg Gonzalez and his band conjured an ephemeral, almost narcotic, shared dream, at their third concert in India

The pensive crowd of sleek ebonies and ivories moving in murmuring unison outside the Backyard Sports Club in Gurugram last night could have easily been mistaken for a massive funeral procession if not for the palpable sense of anticipation spreading like static. Beneath the nippy night sky of a receding Delhi winter, indie-pop phenoms Cigarettes After Sex, those mystifying purveyors of witsful dream pop drenched in nocturnal longing, inaugurated the India leg of their ongoing X’s World Tour.

The Texan band’s whispering frontman, Greg Gonzalez, has a curious knack for turning understatement into an unsuspected spectacle. He’s never been one for flashy, crowd-pleasing theatres. In fact, his stage presence leans closer to a kind of monkish detachment. But the moment the shimmering opening notes of “X’s” floated into the night, the crowd was already his. Cigarettes After Sex doesn’t command your attention so much as lull you into giving it willingly. Part of their music’s soft, persisting charm has always been this cocoon of time suspended, that has consistently drawn in generations of fans that revel in their emotional ambush.

I must confess that the audience was surprisingly more reverent than I’d expected. Though for a band so averse to reinvention, Cigarettes After Sex has the uncanny ability to keep its listeners inexplicably hooked. Their latest album, X’s, adds a faint disco sheen to their usual reverb-heavy melancholia but isn’t too stark a departure from their trademark style. Tracks like “Tejano Blue” and “Run Towards Your Fears” fit seamlessly into their setlist amongst the likes of classics, “Nothing’s Gonna Hurt You Baby” and “Heavenly”. The songs bleed into one another, their edges blurred, like the smoke dissipating from the dimly lit stage. Their music never demands too much but offers plenty for those willing to lean in.

The band, predictably, stuck to their signature grayscale palette — minimalist lighting stretching into dramatic shadows, interspersed with film-noir video projections of burning roses, drifting snow, and waves collapsing in slow motion. It’s this calculated stagecraft masquerading as sobriety that tries very hard to look like it’s not trying at all. It’s a style that suits them, a kind of aesthetic humility that lets the songs do the heavy lifting.

Couples swayed, arms around each other, in rehearsed synchronicity; solitary onlookers mouthed lyrics with the fervour of a reflex. Even strangers exchanged knowing smiles, bonded by the music’s quiet ache. Cigarettes After Sex knows their crowd, and their crowd knows exactly what they’re getting.

During “Apocalypse,” two giant disco balls dropped across each other and turned the open-air venue into a galaxy of lights. There’s something almost comical about the ritual: thousands of strangers swaying in unison, mimicking stars while holding devices designed to distract them from moments like these. Gonzalez himself, briefly broke character to thank the crowd, his voice barely rising above his usual breathy croon. 

What’s remarkable though, was the layers and layers of erotica laced into every note that felt almost forbidden to be made privy to on Indian soul. Not the garish kind that shouts for attention but a subtler, more insidious intimacy. Gonzalez’s voice is a smoky half-whisper, less sung than exhaled, carrying with it the faint heat of a confession you’re not sure you should have heard. The lyrics are stripped of pretense and wrapped around simple but potent images: lips, skin, a sensuous touch.