English gothic rock band’s 12th studio album “The Cure” ironically sticks out like a sore thumb in their discography. From the kindergarten scribbled cover art, grudging metal guitar chugs and stylized song titles such as “alt.end” and “(I Don’t Know What’s Going) On,” The Cure’s eponymous 2004 record is not a pitiful injury, but rather a cool one caused by attempting a badass skate trick.
Producer Ross Robinson (Slipknot, Glassjaw, Korn), known as “The God of Nu Metal,” drives the group out of the calm and directly into the eye of the storm. From this storm comes the emotional LP that frontman Robert Smith regards as being created with more passion than all of the others combined. After months spent locked in a studio with Robinson, the band ends up with 37 demos, 11 of which would make the final cut to be their first release on Geffen Records. Bubbly bass lines and squeaky-clean vocals fashioned on 1992’s “Friday I’m in Love” are shoveled with dirt on opener “Lost” as Smith uses his last breaths to repeatedly cry out, "I don’t know where I am” and “I can’t find myself.” Meanwhile, a left-panned feedbacking amp is moments away from bursting into flames. “Anniversary,” track four, is where Robinson’s dark and moody direction is kicked into full gear. Roger O’Donnell’s simple, off key piano melody sits low in the mix while thick flanging guitars sweep like a jet plane, leaving just enough space for Jason Cooper’s nightclub kick drum to cut through. Effect pedals are maxed out on “Us or Them” as Smith screams over the chorus: “I don’t want you anywhere near me/Get your fucking world out of my head.” The second half of the record slowly inches back to the Cure’s melodic pop sound until Robinson swerves them into “The Promise,” a 10-minute finale that combines ‘70s psychedelic rock, ‘90s power metal drums, ‘00s bright post-punk basslines, and a delusional Smith doing whatever the hell he wants to. After letting out an ungodly shriek that turns into a powerful scream, he mutters out repeated obscurities such as, “You promised me” and “Trying to forget,” growing in intensity after each passage. Songs with repetitive, arbitrary lyrics can accomplish one of two things: getting a record done as quickly with as little creativity possible or evoking the uttermost pain and catharsis until you finally feel a semblance of healing. This track is the latter: the song could have ended three minutes in, yet nobody was ready yet. The goal had not been met. Cooper’s drums grow in complexity, abruptly switching time signatures, Perry Bamonte makes sure he has showcased every effect pedal in his possession as loudly as possible, Smith is still waiting, waiting louder, waiting harder, and that’s the end. “The Promise” is the very essence of flow state, feeling every ounce of frustration, persevering through pain, all to snap back into reality in a moment’s notice. The Cure would resort back to its twinkly pop riffs in their following album, “4:13 Dream,” but this eponymous storm is felt in full: every explosive lightning strike and restrained roll of distorted thunder are just as intentional as the Cure’s decision to declare these 11 songs as their remedy.
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authorHallie Newnam studied journalism at Columbia College Chicago. You can find her archived journalistic work here. |