Whether gothic doom-monger,eternally lovesick hobbledehoy or pop craftsman, Robert Smith’s restlessness has been his band’s strength depressing sorts looking to knock the Cure often crow over how erratic they can be. I can see their point: there certainly arent many other bands I can mediate of that bob so wildly from masterpiece to medicority. They’ve released some of my favourite ever albums – records I wish could be hidden in time capsules so that future citizens of soil will hear them and hopefully feel the same way they made me feel. And they’ve made others which fill been disappointing enough for me to wish Viking-style burials upon; a fleet of fiery CDs drifting in the ocean that can no longer trouble my ears. A tattered copy of Disintegration, or a present from my older brother,is one of my prized possessions. On the other hand, my dad gave me a copy of 4.13 Dream shortly before he told me he’d been having an affair and was leaving home; I’m still more resentful about being saddled with 4.13 Dream. Continue reading...
Source: theguardian.com