Ian McCulloch in NYC, October 2008 / Photo by Lucas Blalock

The gods, being gods, have intervened. The autumn sky over Radio City Music Hall looks like the freaking album cover: wet, midnight blue, and barely lit by the moon. It's perfect weather for a full orchestral performance of Ocean Rain, Echo & the Bunnymen's masterpiece, 25 years old next spring and possibly the most romantic 36 minutes of nocturnal pop ever recorded. There are, however, earthly problems. Someone keeps calling out for the 1980 song "Do It Clean." Forty-nine-year-old Ian McCulloch, lead singer, erstwhile guitarist, bearer for three full decades now of the dark high-rise hair, is losing his patience. "Yeah, 'Do It Clean' is not on Ocean Rain," he snarls. McCulloch has already made it clear that he needs a cigarette badly. But he's prohibited from smoking in the venue.

The band just played a greatest-hits set. Now, from shimmering opener "Silver" to the title-track closer, McCulloch, longtime partner Will Sergeant, the young quartet replacing founding bassist Les Pattinson and late drummer Pete De Freitas, and the 12-piece string section lovingly re-create the album as if they're restoring a da Vinci. Watching McCulloch in his shades and overcoat from the third row, it's hard to reckon with his irritability. It could be the nic fit, but more likely it's that every perfectly played note, it seems, now serves to remind him of how brilliant this band was and how much of a legend he now is; and shouldn't a legend be able to do whatever he wants, especially while entertaining? Would they deny Sinatra his ciggie, these Yanks? Or Lou Reed? Leonard Cohen? This hauteur has been the Bunnymen's Achilles' heel since '78. It's why they were one of the best British bands of the last 30 years -- certainly the most important group from Liverpool since the Beatles -- but also the reason they imploded before fulfilling the promise of their astonishing first four albums, acknowledged influences on the likes of Coldplay and Arcade Fire. It's essentially the reason they are not U2.

Sergeant and Pattinson were schoolmates in Melling, in the countryside just beyond the city limits. "if you live outside of Liverpool, you're called a Woolyback," Sergeant, 49, says. "It's a derogatory term. It's like a sheep-shagger or something." While they weren't close, their paths from the pastoral to the urban were similar. As teens, both ventured into the city via bus to shop for records. Sergeant got a Höfner guitar at age 13, but rarely played it. He was convinced he could never hope to match the ability of then-heroes Jimmy Page and Yes' Steve Howe. "We had this sort of elevated image of musicians," he says. "You had to be trained and you had to be technically brilliant. I didn't even know what a time signature was."