We tend to automatically chart a bold line from age to maturity, accepting the latter as some kind of veiled vindication for recycled ideas, thinning ideals, an inevitable middle-aged penchant for jazz and an overnight appreciation for all things easy on the ear. The Cure though, they never really grew up. Not exactly in a Peter Pan way (Christ, have you seen the bloke lately?!), but Robert Smith still yearns, wallows and self-depreciates in much the same way he has done for nigh on 20 years, and then some. He’s an angst time-warp trapped in dark amber. And there’s been sparse evidence of any break out attempts, on his or their parts.
There have been no active lurches in the direction of progress either though there has been ambition, fierce and dynamic ambition, within their shady realm that has led boldly through an unparalleled series of powerful, varied and definitive records. Which leads us on here, to something like a fourteenth album which may have lost the capacity to surprise us, as such, but undoubtedly hits a spot only he seems to have profound knowledge of.
The last album they made that really held together, on one single hypnotic level, carving endless impressions from the same craggy emotion rather than sounding like a collection of songs from a similar angle, was 1989’s introverted masterpiece ‘Disintegration’. This eponymous effort doesn’t quite repeat the same trick, it’s not nearly as easy on the palette for a start, but it takes the hint and beats it into a tattered, irresistible gothic frenzy, consistently, from start to finish. One upshot of age is clearly becoming that much rougher round the edges, but that’s no problem, The Cure could never be tattered enough. There are pop songs here, hit singles possibly, not that you’d know from first glance.
Beginning with the grinding, writhing, detuned and immediately satisfying ‘Lost’, you can sense the influence of filthy-rock-producing legend (At The Drive In, Korn, etc.) and Cure super-fan Ross Robinson right away. And damn, it’s really stoked the Smith fires, where the usual atmospherics (space-filling keyboards, dramatic guitars and low, jabbing bass, etc.) paint a dark backdrop he spits impassioned fury like he’s still got the pieces in his pocket from when his heart first broke, ebbing out unexpected melodies and leading like only he knows how. If he’s weary, then he’s meeting it head on. ‘Before Three’ is delicate with firm hands and pleasingly reaching, the closest we get to a ‘Lullaby’. ‘Never’ is driving goth rock at its most menacing. And in between you’ll find all the subtle shades that make this so beguiling in its entirety. So how about your best record in 15 years to reassert your renewed relevance?