Embrace the wind with both arms! The Cult kicked ass at Avalon a week ago Wednesday — beery, white, early-40s, predominantly male, and somewhat non-reactive ass. They kicked it repeatedly, with high professional zest, looking for signs of life. “Boston . . . what the fuck?” grumbled Ian Astbury from beneath his headband. “I’m just not used to these chilled-out audiences.” He diagnosed the problem: “Too much Starbucks and TV.” Astbury still does his stamping-in-the-ceremonial-ashes dance, and he still shivers a wicked tambourine. After all these years, the affectations of the shaman are intact. “This is a living, breathing band,” he assured us. “You can move to the music. I won’t judge you.” Guitarist Billy Duffy, his great golden head inclined in disapproval, was sterner: “Are you just gonna stand there? Trust me, I do this for a living. Get involved!”