23 Oct the cure disintegration review
And where are these “crushingly depressive” ghouls playing them? Helped by the kind of devotion in an audience that offers a standing ovation on arrival and regularly comes close to repeating it for the next two hours. But it’ll embrace other things, too. He should be happy, but as we know, happy ain't his style. Such was his motivation for going off and writing much of "Disintegration" on his own. The guitars danced like they were having their last chance, the bass came high and buoyant, the drums stayed mechanically insistent. Keep reading for our track-by-track take on this melancholy stunner. It’s not entirely unearned. No one needs to hear this while driving a car. * The Cure are performing Disintegration live exclusively to Vivid Sydney on 25, 27, 28 and 30 May. Once copies of "Disintegration" started hitting CD trays and turntables, the skies turned grey and the rain began to fall, and sad boys and girls everywhere soaked it all up like sponges. How did he do that? stars 3 out of 5 stars. No need to check the almanac to see what the weather was like on May 2, 1989, the day the Cure released its eighth studio album. It was a top 10 hit in the U.S. Even Christmas is "flatter and colder" than it used to be. But mostly there was Disintegration: the record where Robert Smith approached turning 30, got engaged and then married, got annoyed with the way his band was working, and went off by himself to write something deep and serious. All rights reserved.Billboard is part of MRC Media and Info, a division of MRC. Then, this one's all about stewing, and with no real structure to speak of, it's like an intro that builds and builds until there's no need for verses or choruses. That's kind of like saying it's the wettest raindrop. The 30 May performance will be live-streamed here, Available for everyone, funded by readers. Whereas the other songs are spare and opaque, this one is fairly direct and overflowing with words. All rights reserved. Modern music has many gods, and taking a chair alongside their peers The Cure sits contently, with a vague smirk on their faces. 12 on the Billboard 200 -— the Cure's highest chart placement to that point. The Cure’s 1989 album, released during what was arguably the band’s peak period, receives a lavish reissue with some terrific bonus material. A lot of them are mostly “intro”: The steady pulse of bass and guitar underneath, while glacially huge synth lines and liquid guitar melodies sparkle through the foreground. Like most remasters these days, this one has to pump up the volume toward modern levels, which means smushing things together and making parts fight for space. It’s monolithic, and most of the songs work the same way. A whole lot of this album’s appeal is that it’s comforting, practically womblike—big, warm, slow, full of beauty and melody and even joy. Previous reissues in this series have included home demos that felt more like curiosities than anything useful. Here in the States, it managed only no. "The Same Deep Water As You": On an album lousy with epics, this has the distinction of being "the long one." We would have been better off without an encore at all, rather than one that had the night and its energy dribble away. But these were the years during which they coalesced into this whole iconic thing, the Cure—a sound, a look, and a sensibility that a few kids in every other high school could build whole identities around. They’d always been good at this kind of album, too. "Lovesong": Simple and concise, this hit No. And that, to be honest, is the one drawback of this reissue. I’m not so cranky that this usually bothers me, but this is one album where it might really eat away at the point—those horizons you used to be able to see in all directions have been moved miles closer. "Plainsong": After about 20 seconds of wind chimes, the bass, synths and drums hit like a thunderclap, and just like that, you're in Smith's stormy little world. Closedown and Love Song, the latter dogged in its optimism; the former springing surprising euphoria from the room on the back of those rising, rising drums, were expansive. But then, if you were brutal about Disintegration, you’d say that’s what the album itself did, and not even a show this good for its first 45 minutes could fix that. If you want to be crushingly depressed with Disintegration, or frustrated, or self-loathing, it’ll embrace you right back. "Closedown": For a guy who's "running out of time," Smith is in no rush to introduce the main synth riff or step up to the mic and start singing. (You can also chuckle at the cheery-sounding ones that obviously got axed along the way.) Indeed, "Disintegration" had "commercial suicide" written all over it, but it proved gloomy in all the right ways, climbing to no. So at some point you realize that the intros aren’t really “intros,” not just a period of waiting for things to start: sinking into the sound of this album—a sound whose every element feels huge and magnificent—is the whole point. This is something the band always did well: listening to their “many moods” pop records is like exploring a new city, where every storefront and side street offers something unique. "Prayers for Rain": Another formless tune outfitted with a great hook — this time played on the guitar — "Prayers for Rain" may be the disc's most over-the-top melodramatic moment. On Kiss Me he yowled and croaked and had fun with it, but he spends the length of this album turning in tense, restrained performances, calm and steely and grave. "Last Dance": Smith and his beloved are in the winter of their relationship, and after years together, the good times aren't so good anymore. "Homesick": Eleven songs in, you know the drill: super lengthy intro, layers of lovely instrumental melody, and an utterly distraught lyric. The ending Smith envisions here might be worse than a breakup. But the ones here are enlightening; it's marvelous to hear them and consider how Smith’s instrumental sketches came together into anything as complete as this record. 74, which isn't bad, considering it plays like a Tim Burton movie condensed into four minutes of eerie pop hypnosis. The same went for Standing on a Beach / Staring at the Sea, a collection of singles stretching from 1978 to 1985, that was critical to introducing this band to North Americans. Oddly enough, when Cure mastermind Robert Smith began work on "Disintegration," he was a recently married 29-year-old whose pioneering U.K. post-punk band was finally making headway in America. The late 1980s and early 90s were the Cure’s heyday—from an American perspective. It's made countless all-time best-of lists, and 25 years later, it sounds like nothing in the band's discography -— or in anyone else's. Livestream Concert, Jack White Buys Busker a New Guitar After It Was Smashed by Passerby, Charlamagne Tha God Voices His Opinion On 50 Cent Endorsing Trump | Billboard News. This is a kind of reach I doubt Robert Smith ever imagined. Still, Smith was completely freaked by the prospect of turning 30, and amid tensions with his bandmates, he worried he'd missed his chance to make a masterpiece. It’s no wonder this was meaningful to a lot of teenagers: The sheer emotional grandeur of tracks like that opener, “Plainsong,” make a great match for the feeling that everything in your life is all-consumingly important, whether it’s your all-consuming sadness, joy, longing, or whatever. The Cure ’s eighth studio album, Disintegration, turned 30 this week, and it’s safe to say there’s a consensus that this album is the band’s finest. Interestingly enough the band's messages get through but don't fail to amuse. The album set ended on this less than ideal point, the room willing itself into believing this was a peak and offering another standing ovation, already anticipating an encore of some obscurities and some gems from the wider catalogue. Though not, you would have to say, for lack of trying by Robert Smith’s current lineup of longtime bassist and tattooed man of action Simon Gallup, drummer Jason Cooper, keyboardist Roger O’Donnell, and relative new boy of seven years, guitarist Reeves Gabrels. As this night showed, its peaks are impressive but its flaws are not easily wished away, or distracted from. Yet it was nonetheless true. And yet there they were. If Kiss Me is a crowded, teeming city to explore, listening to Disintegration is more like standing in the middle of some vast, empty space—the kind of ocean or plain where you can see the horizon in all directions. After a while, Smith’s voice comes in, echoing calmly, surveying the ocean around him. You can sense that focus straight from the first minute, during which some wind chimes knock around in an empty void, and then the band bursts out with one of the most overwhelmingly grand openings I’ve ever heard on a pop record—a slow-motion, radiant synth figure of such scale that Sofia Coppola has plausibly used it to soundtrack the coronation of Louis XVI. When he finally gets around to singing, he quotes a girl who compares the weather to death and complains about feeling old. Was it his compelling solidity among the spinning lights and hyperactive Gallup? "Pictures of You": If not for the nearly two-minute intro and 7:49 overall run length, this would have been a smash. Songs like this aren’t organized around parts and movements, just steady repetition and emotional build. There were two unreleased instrumentals from the Disintegration sessions – the second of which at least had the energy of the album’s first half – a b-side, Fear Of Ghosts, which Smith says they should have played more at that time (though there was little evidence to justify that), a couple of powerful if anonymous rock songs, and an unlikely, and unnecessary sea shanty called Pirate Ships. "Lullaby": Proving once again how different America and Britain are, this creepy-crawly fairy tale reached no. The follow-up, 1992's "Wish," reached even higher, peaking at no. © 2020 Billboard. It’s not just that they were making great music; they’d been making great music for roughly a decade already. He claims to want this girl back, but given the way those guitars tangle and glisten, it's possible he prefers the pining. Or was it a voice which retains its power and could rise to pin us back? When Smith sings "songs about happiness murmured in dreams," you'd swear he's reviewing his own album. Disintegration does not “scatter.” It’s a single, grand, dense, continual, epic trip into core stuff the Cure did well. Spread across eight songs and not that much short of an hour, this encore was for completists and trainspotters, and patient ones at that. "Disintegration": The eight-minute title track leaves Smith with plenty of time to pack in lyrics, and that's just what he does. The title track, for instance, plunges further and further into a frustrated wail before climaxing on one phrase: “Both of us knew/How the end always is.” (You can take that climax as harrowing or cathartic or just plain fun.) With this package, in fact, you can go from home demos to studio ones, from studio demos to the album, and then from the album to the third disc—1989 live recordings of each track, in order. Sadness galore Disintegration is argueably the band's darkest effort to date, and offers up some of the most eye-welling pieces of music and dank bedroom sitters you'll ever hear.
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