So, it came to pass that The Duke pressed play on The Cure, the self-titled record from Robert Smith And Friends, produced by that fella mentioned earlier, the one what did Limp Bizkit's debut.
The first thing you notice is that this sounds like a collaboration, like it should be called The Cure Featuring The Bloke What Did That Vanilla Ice Record. Robinson's input is evident from the moment album opener, Lost, rumbles through the speakers.
Lost starts with a brief bit of stuff crashing about, then a detuned guitar and Robert Smith groaning about "I… can't find myself". Things get progressively louder, more frantic, Smith seemingly perplexed as to where the hell he fits in anymore. Where does his sticky up hair and bizarre yelping fit alongside that Britney Speares record about The Toxic Avenger or whatever, and the latest hip song from a jeans advert. Where the fuck am I?, asks Robert Smith.
And it sounds pretty much identical to something KoRn would have put together back in the day. You could easily imagine Jonathan Davis croaking his way through this dirge. The self-pity, the ever-so-aggressive instrumentation, it all reeks of that fella sitting behind the desk pushing buttons and saying "More soul, Smith, you lipstick-coated motherfucker!"
And it sounds amazing, actually. It has passion dripping from every bass rumble, every line about where oh where are the damn royalties from these records every motherfucker claims to own nowadays?
That paranoia, that fear of obsolescence, it crops up quite a few times throughout the record, but thankfully, the tunes get better. Hell of a better, in fact.
After Labyrinth, another fairly "aggressive" number that rolls along on a swell middle-eastern sounding guitar line, we get a kick in the guts in the form of two amazing pop songs. They still sound heavier than much of anything they've done in the past forever, but not because they're all Venom-referencing riffs and growling, but because Robinson has gone ahead and captured that "essence", that "soul" that he's ever so keen on.
Before Three plays host to among the best melodies The Cure have flung their name to, something fit to sit alongside Pictures Of You, or A Letter To Elise, even. It's slightly reminiscent of 13th from Wild Mood Swings, except with less yacking about "Sickly sweet snakes" or whatever the hell was annoying him so much. He should have spent less time crawling about in front of that telly, is what The Duke would suggest. Bound to mess with a fella's skull.
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