‘Songs of a Lost World,’ The Cure’s feverish, melancholy procession – Technologist

Is it any wonder that Robert Smith is resurrecting the discography of his band, The Cure, on the eve of the Day of the Dead? The November 1 release of Songs of a Lost World could be interpreted as a nod to the singer’s status as the prince of gothic rock. But this All-Saints’ Day is above all in tune with a 14th album steeped in mourning and thundering with darkness.

We dive in it slowly, like following a funeral procession under a stormy sky. After more than three minutes of a majestic instrumental procession, a plaintive, unmistakable voice greets us in Alone: “This is the end of every song that we sing (…)/ We toast, with bitter dregs, to our emptiness.” It’s been a long time since Robert Smith wept with such class.

Sixteen years separate this album from its predecessor, 4:13 Dream. Announced regularly since the late 2010s, the new chapter, constantly delayed, became a running gag. Was The Cure’s leader overcome by vertigo at the thought of satisfying the expectation, remembering the disappointments caused by their previous albums? Since the success of 1989’s Disintegration, the quality of their records had turned into a caricature, from the disjointed Wish (1992) to the more insignificant Wild Mood Swings (1996), The Cure (2004) or 4:13 Dream (2008), with Bloodflowers raising the bar a little in 2000.

Powerful, generous concerts

But The Cure had not disappeared in the last 16 years. Smith was busy working on copious reissues of his back catalog. Above all, the band’s stage presence (250 concerts since 2008) has never ceased to impress. Improved even with time, like the Shows of a Lost World tour, which kicked off in May 2023, these powerful and generous concerts – almost three hours long – allowed us to celebrate the exceptional consistency of the repertoire. They were also an opportunity to measure the importance of the band, born in 1978, a postpunk pioneer shaping new sounds and choruses that echo the disillusions and self-destructive obsessions of a leader capable of confessing his fragility.

The group also reinvented itself through periods that were sometimes cold (1980’s Seventeen Seconds) and contemplative (1981’s Faith), at times apocalyptic (1982’s Pornography) or – almost – playful (1985’s The Head on the Door), as Robert Smith gradually constructed a persona of explosive black hair, mascara and drooling lipstick, an iconic look of which he has sometimes seemed a prisoner.

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