From the intimate settings of English church halls echoing with songs of suburban alienation to the grandeur of global stages resonating with life’s profound mysteries, The Cure’s journey spans six decades, defying the conventional rock ‘n’ roll narrative. Their enduring success story proclaims a powerful message: artistic freedom and individuality, pursued at one’s own pace, can indeed resonate with stadium-filling audiences worldwide. Robert Smith, often likened to a post-punk Monet, has masterfully employed a consistent artistic palette for over forty years. Yet, through the meticulous detail and complexity of his craft, he continually unveils fresh perspectives and nuances, ensuring his work remains perpetually captivating.
The Cure’s songbook is remarkably diverse, rivaling even that of Smith’s idol, David Bowie, in its creative pivots and sonic range. Their musical landscape effortlessly accommodates both vibrant fantasy and stark monochrome gloom, the ecstatic and the melancholic. This duality is evident in tracks ranging from the exuberantly whimsical “The Love Cats” (“So wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully, wonderfully pretty!”) to the stark existentialism of “One Hundred Years” (“It doesn’t matter if we all die!”). Robert Smith, much like a musical Willy Wonka with a baritone guitar, dispenses a mix of emotions – tears, catchy tunes, and bittersweet sentiments – offering listeners a box of lipstick-flavored chocolates filled with both sweetness and sourness.
In 2022, Smith announced the impending arrival of Songs Of A Lost World, The Cure’s latest album. Finally released, this marks their first new studio album in 16 years. As Victoria Segal of MOJO astutely observes in her detailed review, this record, deeply influenced by themes of grief and decay (and echoing the somber tones of their 1989 masterpiece Disintegration), embarks on an audaciously bleak yet beautiful exploration of the unknown. It stands as a worthy addition to The Cure’s exceptional body of work, a collection already overflowing with musical wonders. Sometimes, to truly appreciate them, all you need to do is close your eyes and listen…
30. The Hanging Garden
(from Pornography, 1982)
A primal, almost sinister track, “The Hanging Garden” embodies a dark allure.
During a period when Robert Smith was deeply fascinated by Siouxsie & The Banshees, he not only toured as their guitarist and collaborated with Steve Severin as The Glove, but also mirrored Siouxsie’s iconic rag-doll aesthetic in his own image. This influence is palpable in the song’s driving, almost frantic tom-tom rhythm, propelling a sonic journey into a hallucinatory bad trip. The lyrics paint a vivid, unsettling picture of animals (or perhaps people masked as animals) engaged in chaotic interactions – kissing, screaming, and perishing – within a setting that evokes execution rather than idyllic horticulture. “The Hanging Garden” is a visceral exploration of darker themes, amplified by a sense of disorientation and unease, truly capturing the intense, experimental sound of Pornography.
29. Alone
(from Songs Of A Lost World, 2024)
After a lengthy hiatus, “Alone” marked The Cure’s highly anticipated return, signaling a new chapter in their storied career.
Following a 16-year wait, “Alone” emerged with an icy grandeur and profound melancholy, heralding the arrival of The Cure’s fourteenth studio album, Songs Of A Lost World. While not entirely unfamiliar to dedicated fans—having debuted at Arena Riga in Latvia on October 6, 2022—the track’s official release carried a striking audacity. Robert Smith’s opening line, “this is the end of every song that we sing,” immediately sets a tone of finality and reflection. “Alone” serves as both a comeback statement and a poignant acknowledgment of endings, suggesting that even as The Cure returns, the specter of a final curtain looms, adding layers of depth to their enduring narrative.
28. Three Imaginary Boys
(from Three Imaginary Boys, 1979)
“Three Imaginary Boys” is charmingly whimsical, capturing a youthful and inventive spirit.
A foundational track in The Cure’s early discography, “Three Imaginary Boys” feels like a sonic sketch, rapidly materializing the core elements of what would become their signature sound. The song’s chorused guitars and intentionally disoriented lyrics outline the band’s nascent identity. Hints of The Beatles’ “I Am The Walrus” can be detected in its boom-bap beat and the staccato vocal delivery. Lyrically, Smith portrays himself as a spectral presence, an outsider or intruder (or perhaps both), while the chorus reveals a vulnerability, depicting someone hiding under bedclothes, anxious about facing daylight and the mundane realities of depression. This track encapsulates the band’s early post-punk explorations with a touch of playful eccentricity.
27. The End Of The World
(from The Cure, 2004)
“The End Of The World” reveals that despite their somber image, The Cure understands that boys do cry, and it’s okay.
Despite its seemingly apocalyptic title, “The End Of The World” deviates from Robert Smith’s typical world-weary lament and surprisingly unfolds as a love song, albeit from a self-aware drama queen’s perspective. The lyric “Not just a boy and a girl / It’s just the end of the world” encapsulates this melodramatic yet heartfelt sentiment. Smith’s lyrics are filled with classic romantic tropes—tears, kisses, sighs, and lies—set against a backdrop of The Cure shifting into a more streamlined, hook-driven beat-group mode. While it might not possess the immediate iconic status of “Boys Don’t Cry,” “The End Of The World” clearly shares a lineage with those earlier, emotionally resonant singles, proving that even amidst sonic evolution, The Cure’s capacity for poignant pop remains.
26. Friday I’m In Love
(from Wish, 1992)
“Friday I’m In Love” is pure, unadulterated joy, a track that even Bob Smith admitted was “really out there in Happyland”.
Echoing the upbeat anticipation of The Easybeats’ classic in its diary-like build-up to weekend euphoria, “Friday I’m In Love” emerges as a polished, jangling earworm. It feels almost like a commercially mandated single, yet remarkably, the lead vocal doesn’t appear until thirty seconds into the track. Smith himself humorously acknowledged the song’s broad appeal, noting, “To taxi drivers, I’m that bloke that sings Friday I’m In Love,” highlighting its crossover success. A significant hit on both sides of the Atlantic, the song is built upon a chord progression so undeniably perfect that Smith initially worried he might have inadvertently plagiarized it. Its infectious cheerfulness and simple, universal theme of weekend anticipation cemented its place as one of The Cure’s most widely loved songs.
25. Killing An Arab
(Small Wonder single, 1978)
“Killing An Arab” is steeped in controversy but remains a compelling and existential early track for The Cure.
The Cure’s debut single, “Killing An Arab,” immediately established their unique sound but also became a focal point of controversy. The song’s use of so-called “Gypsy scales” instantly evokes an exotic, souk-like atmosphere, drawing listeners into its sonic landscape. However, it is the lyrical content, depicting a scene from Albert Camus’s The Outsider, specifically a murder, that has proven deeply contentious. The title itself is prone to jingoistic misinterpretation, overshadowing the narrator’s introspective perspective of seeing himself reflected in the eyes of the deceased Arab—a portrayal arguably more sympathetic than Camus’s anti-hero. Despite the intended literary reference, “Killing An Arab” remains a complex and often misunderstood piece, becoming both a compelling existential signature tune and, for some, an albatross around the band’s neck due to its charged title.
24. I Never Can Say Goodbye
(from Songs Of A Lost World, 2024)
“I Never Can Say Goodbye” is Robert Smith’s poignant and personal expression of profound grief.
Existential dread has long been a central theme in The Cure’s music, but “I Never Can Say Goodbye” from Songs Of A Lost World confronts the stark reality of death with raw emotion. Robert Smith penned this track as a tribute to his late brother, Richard, making it a deeply personal exploration of loss. Eschewing cryptic metaphors, the song offers a direct, heartfelt portrayal of grief, vividly recreating a waking nightmare. While the lyrics evoke Shakespearian tragedy with imagery of lightning-slashed skies and the ominous refrain “something wicked this way comes / to steal away my brother’s life,” it’s the delicate keyboard melody that infuses the song with a fragile humanity. This musical tenderness mirrors the grief-stricken tremor in Smith’s voice, capturing a sense of holding on, yet struggling to let go.
23. Lullaby
(from Disintegration, 1989)
“Lullaby” is a chillingly effective track, conjuring nightmares with a sinister, spider-like narrative, far removed from any Marvel superhero.
Robert Smith recounted to NME how his uncle’s grim bedside stories and the resulting arachnid nightmares inspired “Lullaby.” The song brings these terrors to life, with Smith’s whispered vocals escalating a sense of dread over a stifling, claustrophobic beat, interwoven with Roger O’Donnell’s eerie synth-strings. “Lullaby” represents a quintessential moment where The Cure’s pop sensibilities and dark undertones coalesce, particularly within the soul-purging context of Disintegration. Tim Pope’s visually arresting, Polanski-esque music video, featuring Smith being devoured by a spider, further cemented the song’s impact, propelling it into the UK Top 5 and embedding its Freudian nightmare imagery into popular culture.
22. Fire In Cairo
(from Three Imaginary Boys, 1979)
“Fire In Cairo” definitively signaled that The Cure was destined to be different, setting them apart from their contemporaries.
“Fire In Cairo” remains shrouded in mystery, its lyrical content and inspiration deliberately vague. What exactly is the fire in Cairo? Why does Smith’s imagination drift to North Africa? This ambiguity contributes to the song’s unsettling mystique. The fleeting, perhaps imagined, lovers’ tryst at its core only deepens the enigma. An Eastern-sounding chord change in the bridge and sparse guitar stabs paint an evocative, desert-like soundscape, while the clever, tongue-twisting spelling out of the title in the chorus showcases Smith’s early, uncommon gift for prosody in songwriting. “Fire In Cairo” is an early example of The Cure’s ability to create atmosphere and intrigue, even when the narrative threads are deliberately elusive.
21. Charlotte Sometimes
(single, 1981)
“Charlotte Sometimes” is a nostalgic gateway, looking to the past to shape the future sound of The Cure.
Inspired by Penelope Farmer’s 1969 children’s fantasy novel of the same name, “Charlotte Sometimes” captures a mood of drizzly-grey despondency, underscored by Lol Tolhurst’s steady, icy electronic pulse. Yet, within this somber atmosphere, the song radiates a subtle warmth. Smith once described Farmer’s book as “very romantic,” and this track reflects that sentiment through his flanged guitar and choral harmonies, enveloped in a wraparound ambient hum. Released before The Cure ventured into their bleakest album, Faith, “Charlotte Sometimes” provided a poignant refuge. It speaks to those moments when unwelcome thoughts or feelings intrude, offering a sonic solace in its melancholic beauty and gentle melodicism.
20. The Walk
(Fiction single, 1983)
“The Walk” marked a pivotal instant, unexpectedly changing the trajectory of The Cure’s sound and broadening their appeal.
Following the temporary departure of bassist Simon Gallup, The Cure briefly transformed into a streamlined synth-pop duo. “The Walk,” with its bright, pulsing energy, might lead listeners to believe Peter Hook had stepped in on bass. This dance-duo phase was short-lived, but this track became a commercial breakthrough, characterized by its playful wolf-whistling vocals, whimsical lyrics, and Lol Tolhurst’s chirping, circus-like keyboard riff. While it could have been perceived as a quirky one-off in their otherwise doomy discography, “The Walk” unexpectedly established the happy/sad aesthetic that would define many of their subsequent hit singles. It broadened their appeal and demonstrated their versatility, proving The Cure could effortlessly navigate between darkness and light.
19. A Strange Day
(from Pornography, 1982)
“A Strange Day”, amidst the darkness of Pornography, offers a solitary, almost beatific vision of the apocalypse.
Amidst the churning, nightmarish soundscapes of Pornography, “A Strange Day” strikes a uniquely lonely yet beautiful note. It paints a picture of world’s end not with chaos, but with quiet resignation. The song unfolds with a spiraling guitar lament, tectonic basslines, and fading beats (Lol Tolhurst used a 10-inch deep snare drum borrowed from The Specials’ John Bradbury). Robert Smith’s vocals seem to float into this apocalypse as the sun hums, the sea swells, “and the sky and the impossible explode.” In an era where nuclear dread permeated post-punk sensibilities, The Cure reimagines Armageddon as the ultimate heartbreak, transforming collective fear into personal desolation with poignant and poetic intensity.
18. Let’s Go To Bed
(Fiction single, 1982)
“Let’s Go To Bed” humorously explores the pros and cons, and often absurdities, of casual encounters.
In the aftermath of Pornography‘s intense recording sessions, Robert Smith sought creative detox in the Lake District. Refreshed, he revisited “Temptation,” an outtake previously deemed too lightweight. He transformed it into “Let’s Go To Bed,” a deliberately extroverted alt-disco track, complete with Lol Tolhurst’s whip-cracking syndrums and an irresistibly catchy “doo doo-doo doo” chorus. Amidst Edward Lear-esque surreal imagery (“perfect like cats,” “shaking like milk,” etc.), Smith seems to playfully satirize the ennui of promiscuity (“I don’t care if you don’t”; “It’s just the same, a stupid game”). Paradoxically, despite its lyrical cynicism, the silky synth-pop groove is undeniably sexy, creating a fascinating tension between lyrical content and musical delivery.
17. Catch
(from Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, 1987)
“Catch” saw The Cure unexpectedly gaining traction in the US, showcasing their ability to create gorgeously soft and accessible tracks.
Unexpectedly poised to “SLAY STATES” (as music weeklies then speculated), The Cure found mainstream US success with Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me. This album, a diverse collection of 18 tracks, yielded several singles, including “Catch,” a dreamily strummed, deeply soothing ditty. Inspired by the childbirth/coma scene in Rocky 2 (surprisingly), and romantically visualized in a French Riviera-set promo, “Catch” marked a sacrilegious turn in the sunshine for the goth-coiffed band. Emily Dickinson verses were pinned around the Manor studio as lyrical reference, adding a layer of poetic depth to this seemingly lighthearted track. “Catch” demonstrated The Cure’s evolving sound and their growing appeal to a wider audience.
16. Primary
(from Faith, 1981)
“Primary” marks the point where adolescent angst begins to mature and curdle into something darker and more complex for The Cure.
As the first track recorded for Faith and the album’s sole single, “Primary” encapsulates The Cure’s thematic preoccupations during this period: the loss of innocence and a search for emotional substitutes in the wake of their childhood Catholicism. Both Smith and Tolhurst experienced grief for the first time during the album’s prolonged creation, deeply influencing its tone. The song features unsettling imagery of sleeping children dressed in white and a worrying fixation on suicide. Notably, “Primary” lacks guitars, with Smith playing a six-string bass instead. The track’s high-speed, helicoptering ominousness, offset by Simon Gallup’s incredibly energetic bassline (famously causing his blusher to visibly slide off in the music video), prevents it from becoming overly pompous, maintaining a raw, vital energy.
15. Lovesong
(from Disintegration, 1989)
“Lovesong” is a pessimist’s rare and sincere concession to true romance, a straightforward declaration of love.
Robert Smith began dating Mary Poole at 14, but it took 15 years before he married her. “Lovesong” was written as a wedding gift for Mary, a remarkably direct love song devoid of his usual metaphors and whimsy (“She would have preferred diamonds,” he quipped). Uniquely on Disintegration, “Lovesong” is refreshingly straightforward. Gallup’s dynamic bassline ignites a chain reaction of hooks, while Smith expresses unqualified gratitude and unwavering fidelity. It concludes as crisply as it begins, offering a moment of pure, unadorned emotion within an album known for its complex layers of gloom and introspection. Ultimately, “Lovesong” proved to be more enduring and valuable than diamonds.
14. Play For Today
(from Seventeen Seconds, 1980)
“Play For Today” is a chilly, kitchen-sink drama in song form, capturing the sound of a band undergoing metamorphosis.
“Play For Today” marks a significant moment of transformation for The Cure. As the first song Robert Smith wrote for their second album, it was also his last composition that retained the angst-pop dynamics of their debut. Frosty drum effects effectively bridged the gap between the band’s past sound and their evolving direction. Named after the long-running BBC drama anthology, Smith succinctly described his three-minute tragedy as addressing “the fraudulent aspects of an insincere relationship.” This theme of relational insincerity and emotional deception, explored within a concise, evocative musical framework, is a timeless and universal story.
13. The Love Cats
(Fiction single, 1983)
“The Love Cats” began as a playful joke but morphed into purrfect pop, showcasing The Cure’s lighter, whimsical side.
Robert Smith jokingly described “The Love Cats” as “a joke composed drunk,” yet its playful elements—alleycat meows, purrs, ‘milk-bottle’ percussion, and giant moggie costumes in the video—only amplified its charm and appeal. Part affectionate love song, part quirky Cure excursion into skiffle-ish jazz, the track is anchored by Phil Thornalley’s robust double bass, along with Smith’s slinky piano and his newly revealed talent for bouncy, Django Reinhardt-style guitar chords. Lol Tolhurst’s contribution? Vibraphone. “The Love Cats” became their first UK Top Ten single, proving that even at their most whimsical and seemingly un-gothic, The Cure could achieve significant mainstream success.
12. A Night Like This
(from The Head On The Door, 1985)
“A Night Like This” represents perfect Curepop, tinged with scowling romantic regret, and hints at their early school band origins.
“A Night Like This” is quintessential Curepop, brimming with brooding, romantic regret. Smith mentioned the lyrics were penned in the rain (“I was upset”), while the Roxy Music-esque chord structure evolved from a slowed-down version of “Plastic Passion” from Three Imaginary Boys. Its origins stretch back even further to December 1976, when Malice—the school band featuring Smith, Porl Thompson, Lol Tolhurst, and Michael Dempsey—performed an early version of “Plastic Passion” titled “A Night Like This” at St Wilfrid’s School Hall in Crawley. This track not only encapsulates The Cure’s pop sensibility but also echoes their formative musical roots.
11. Pictures Of You
(from Disintegration, 1989)
“Pictures Of You” is a frosty and glacial exploration of love and loss, marking a high point of emotional frazzled numbness in Smith’s songwriting.
In the autumn of 1988, a fire devastated Robert Smith’s Sussex home. Newly married that summer to his childhood sweetheart, Mary Poole, Smith sifted through the wreckage and discovered a wallet filled with photographs from their decade-plus together. One photo had previously graced the cover of 1981’s “Charlotte Sometimes,” distorted and reversed, but would be presented in full clarity on the sleeve of “Pictures Of You.” This discovery inspired the elegantly poised, seven-minute masterpiece, released as the fourth single from Disintegration in March 1990. Despite being conceived in the aftermath of his wedding, “Pictures Of You” is anything but euphoric. A funereal beat establishes a slow-motion groove, overlaid with icy synth chords and gentle, flanged strumming. Smith recounts memories of a lost love evoked by these photos, ultimately tearing them to pieces in despair. As an anthem for the lovelorn, it remains unparalleled in its melancholic grandeur and emotional depth.
10. The Caterpillar
(from The Top, 1984)
“The Caterpillar” emerges as a neo-psychedelic campfire song, revealing the influence of perhaps more than just mushroom tea in its creation.
“The Caterpillar” evolved from a much darker, Pornography-esque demo, which featured heavy tom-toms and lyrical spiders. The final version revels in flamenco-infused pop, incorporating castanets, congas, scratchy violin, and madhouse piano. Smith’s vocal delivery is laden with anguished emotion, confessing later he worried he had gone “too far” in his performance. The song playfully explores themes of romantic deception and potential guilt—when the narrator stops concealing his “lemon lies,” the girl will metaphorically fly away. This track showcases The Cure’s experimental and eclectic approach during The Top era, blending diverse musical elements into a uniquely whimsical yet emotionally charged song.
9. All Cats Are Grey
(from Faith, 1981)
“All Cats Are Grey” is inspired by gothic literature and personal loss, yet it’s one of The Cure’s most ambient and soothingly psychedelic pieces.
Inspired by a cave-dweller character from Mervyn Peake’s gothic Gormenghast books, as well as the death of Robert Smith’s grandmother, “All Cats Are Grey” stands out as one of The Cure’s most beautifully ambient and psychedelic works. Warm, soft synths unfold as Smith croons distantly about the proverb “when all candles be out all cattes be gray,” popularized by Benjamin Franklin, who used it to justify his promiscuity—a somewhat ironic connection to the song’s somber mood. “All Cats Are Grey” found renewed appreciation during the rave era as a chill-out room staple. Soft Cell’s Marc Almond famously recounted hearing it for the first time while on ecstasy in New York, highlighting its unexpected appeal beyond its gothic origins.
8. Close To Me
(from The Head On The Door, 1985)
“Close To Me” uses childhood imagery to explore claustrophobia and dread, marking The Cure’s pop renaissance and a journey through the wardrobe of the mind.
While one might expect Robert Smith to retreat into childhood themes following the intense gloom trilogy, “Close To Me” offers only a superficial sense of comfort with its handclaps and xylophone scales. Smith paired the music with pre-existing lyrics that vividly relived the dread and hallucinatory confusion he experienced during a childhood bout of chickenpox—these same “nightmare visions” inspired the album’s title, The Head On The Door. Tim Pope’s iconic music video brilliantly visualizes the track’s claustrophobia by trapping The Cure in a wardrobe and pushing it off Beachy Head. “Close To Me” effectively juxtaposes playful musical elements with darker lyrical themes, creating a signature Cure blend of pop accessibility and underlying unease.
7. Jumping Someone Else’s Train
(Fiction single, 1979)
“Jumping Someone Else’s Train” is bassist Michael Dempsey’s last stand with The Cure, a sharp critique of musical bandwagoning.
Written after a June ’79 show with the Merton Parkas, “Jumping Someone Else’s Train” is Robert Smith’s pointed critique of the mod/ska revivals of the time. This standalone third single is a careening, smartpop track that feels perpetually on the verge of derailing. The disdain for trend-following is palpable throughout, from the cynical lyrics (“If you pick up on it quick/ you can say you were there”) and detached vocal delivery to the “sub Townshend” opening guitar chord, accelerating rhythm, and Lol Tolhurst’s onomatopoeic drum coda mimicking a speeding train. “Jumping Someone Else’s Train” is a sharp, witty, and musically dynamic statement against inauthenticity and trend-chasing in music.
6. One Hundred Years
(from Pornography, 1982)
“One Hundred Years” embodies the creeping dread of Crawley, plumbing the depths of nihilism and despair with unsettling intensity.
Emerging from a chaotic period of drugs, excess, and internal band turmoil, The Cure’s make-or-break fourth album, Pornography, groans with the weight of its creation. “One Hundred Years,” a central track, captures this sense of strain with its death-rattle electronic beat and caterwauling guitar. Smith cuts directly to the core of existential despair: “It doesn’t matter if we all die.” Poe-esque imagery dances macabrely alongside bunking-off nihilism: “Something small falls out of your mouth… the death of her father pushing her.” Wickedly addictive, squalling, desperate, and terrifying, “One Hundred Years” anchored what became their first Top 10 album. In the aftermath, Smith sought respite on a camping holiday, while critics, prematurely satisfied, seemed to dance on The Cure’s supposed grave, unaware of their enduring resilience.
5. 10:15 On A Saturday Night
(from Three Imaginary Boys, 1979)
“10:15 On A Saturday Night” is suburban alienation distilled into a theme tune, capturing the mundane despair of waiting for something that never comes.
The deluxe edition of The Cure’s debut album includes an illuminating home demo of “10:15 On A Saturday Night.” Played slowly on his sister Janet’s Hammond organ, it reveals Robert Smith’s Bowie influence, specifically echoing the guitar part from “Be My Wife.” The album version, however, is a metronomic race through suburban isolation imagery—strip lighting, dripping taps, a silent telephone—reflecting its hasty creation. The Cure reportedly smuggled themselves into the studio at night while The Jam were recording All Mod Cons. “10:15 On A Saturday Night” perfectly encapsulates the feeling of suburban ennui and the quiet desperation of waiting for connection in a world that feels isolating and indifferent.
4. Just Like Heaven
(from Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, 1987)
“Just Like Heaven” is so sublime that even Dinosaur Jr. was compelled to get out of bed to cover it, a testament to its infectious greatness.
The instrumental prelude of “Just Like Heaven” alone is sufficient to establish its greatness. The auspicious Gallup-Williams rhythm intro, yearning synth melodies, and giddy, descendent lead guitar create an entire narrative arc in just 49 seconds. Robert Smith’s vocal entry simply rides this euphoric wave towards an eternal blue horizon. The lyric, “Why are you so far away?” posed by the girl, highlights the narrator’s self-absorption, lost in his own world even in moments of apparent connection. “Just Like Heaven” perfectly exemplifies the muscular mid-’80s Cure’s ability to channel Smith’s inner light and project it powerfully into the world, creating a song that is both intensely personal and universally uplifting.
3. Boys Don’t Cry
(Fiction single, 1979)
“Boys Don’t Cry” debunked stiff-upper-lip English emotional repression, becoming an anthem for expressing vulnerability.
Featured on the demo that secured The Cure’s deal with Fiction Records and later explored in a BBC Radio 4’s Soul Music episode, “Boys Don’t Cry” liberated the repressed emotions of late ‘70s Crawley and resonated with young men everywhere, validating their feelings. Conceived in the party-room extension of Robert Smith’s parents’ house, it extracts singular magic from Lol Tolhurst’s ritardando drum hook and Smith’s simple, ascending guitar chords. The faux-naif mood cleverly masks a profound emotional intelligence. “Boys Don’t Cry” remains an enduring anthem for emotional honesty and vulnerability, proving that expressing sadness is not a weakness but a fundamental human experience.
2. In Between Days
(from The Head On The Door, 1985)
“In Between Days” represents The Caterpillar’s transformation into a butterfly, a glorious pop song about the bittersweet space of unresolved yearning.
“In Between Days” became The Cure’s fourth consecutive Top 20 hit in the UK. Unlike its predecessor, “The Caterpillar,” with its hothouse exoticism and eccentric embellishments, “In Between Days” felt less concerned with subverting the hit-writing process. From Boris Williams’s opening drum burst to its final forlorn fade, it is unmistakably a glorious pop song, encapsulating a broken relationship within two verses and three minutes. It feels generous and abundant, with an intro that rapidly layers drums, bass, and acoustic guitar before a synth riff lifts the entire song skyward. “In Between Days” perfectly captures unresolved yearning, oscillating between joy and sadness, love and hate, pop and melancholy. “Just walk away,” Smith sings, “Come back to me,” encapsulating the song’s central tension and its timeless appeal.
1. A Forest
(Fiction single, 1980)
“A Forest” is The Cure’s ultimate ghost story, enveloping listeners in its haunting atmosphere and standing as their most performed and compelling song.
“It’s always the same” is such an archetypal Cure sentiment that it predates “A Forest,” first appearing in “10:15 Saturday Night.” In both songs, Robert Smith embodies a sense of perpetual waiting and searching for something or someone perpetually out of reach. While Smith’s real life was marked by prolific creativity and ambition, his songs often suggested that action and inaction lead to the same existential void, a concept he crystallized most brilliantly in “A Forest.” This track is the sound of The Cure fully realizing their identity, even as they would continue to evolve.
In late 1979, dissatisfied with the scratchy, primitive sound of Three Imaginary Boys, Smith had a clear vision for The Cure’s second album. Writing demos on a Woolworths guitar, a drum machine, and his sister’s Hammond organ, his touchstones included David Bowie’s Low, Nick Drake’s Fruit Tree, Van Morrison’s Madame George, Jimi Hendrix’s Isle of Wight performance of “All Along The Watchtower,” and the Adagio from Aram Khachaturian’s ballet Gayane. While Seventeen Seconds doesn’t directly mirror these diverse influences, they guided him towards his desired sound—particularly the clean, modern, and emptied-out aesthetic of the second side of Low.
Compared to the arduous seven-month creation of Faith, the Seventeen Seconds sessions with producer Mike Hedges at Morgan Studios in Willesden in January 1980 were almost celebratory. Smith, drummer Lol Tolhurst, and new recruits Simon Gallup (bass) and Matthieu Hartley (keyboards) recorded the album in just eight days and mixed it in seven, even sleeping on the studio floor to save time and money. Minimalism was the guiding principle. “Anyone who wanted to play more than one piano note could go and do it somewhere else,” Smith quipped.
A Forest turns depression into ecstasy and straitened solitude into communal motion.
This stripped-down approach extended to the lyrics. Most songs feature sparse or barely audible words, with two tracks being entirely instrumental. The album’s imagery is monochrome: empty rooms, nighttime, cold, silence, the slow passage of time. It’s an album about absence and futility, where the only choices seem to be going through meaningless motions or complete inaction. Still only 20, Smith was already articulating a profound sense of weariness. “I felt really old,” he recalled. “I felt life was pointless. I had no faith in anything.” The last song recorded during these sessions, and the most time-consuming, was “A Forest.”
“A Forest” transcends being merely a song; it is an atmosphere. Smith described it as stemming from a dream about being lost in the woods, capturing the dreamlike quality of pursuing something just beyond reach, coupled with the depressive’s feeling of being trapped without hope of change. The lyrics are self-negating. In the first verse, a siren call lures the narrator into the trees: “Find the girl, if you can.” He follows, only to find himself lost and alone. “The girl was never there/ It’s always the same/ I’m running towards nothing.” Sameness, nothingness, neverness—these are the anti-qualities that the young Robert Smith mastered. Action leads to stasis; change is worse than staying put. The effect is purgatorial. Like its protagonist, the song loops in cold, grey circles, “again and again and again and again…”
Robert Smith of The Cure performing live on stage, silhouetted against bright stage lights, showcasing his iconic hairstyle and makeup.
One key difference between “A Forest” and a purely bleak track like “All Cats Are Grey” is its pace. Propelled by Gallup’s unforgettable four-note bassline and Tolhurst’s clipped, motorik beat—”simultaneously rushing forward and standing still,” as the drummer described it—”A Forest” moves with a compelling urgency. It may go nowhere, but it goes nowhere fast. Various remixes and covers have highlighted its effectiveness as dance music, its repetition creating a trance-like, addictive quality. Even though the song has a proper ending, it gives the impression of endlessness, as if the listener has simply tuned in for a six-minute segment of an ongoing sonic loop. Even in the studio, Gallup was unsure when the song actually ended. “The drums would stop, Robert would carry on playing guitar and I was never sure when he was going to stop so I’d just carry on after him,” he remembered.
“A Forest” also feels too expansive to be truly claustrophobic. Using every effect available—flangers, reverb, chorus pedals, reggae-inspired tape delay—Smith and Hedges crafted an illusion of three-dimensional space, where music and lyrics constantly reflected each other. “A Forest” feels like a forest: the rhythm section grounds it, the synths hover at the treeline, and the guitar circles like birds. The literalness of the music video and sleeve art is no surprise. As novelist Ian Rankin noted, “It sounds like a film waiting to be made, almost certainly in black and white.” Perhaps something akin to The Blair Witch Project. After all, “A Forest” is, in essence, a ghost story.
“A Forest” gave The Cure their first Top 40 hit, but its true life is on stage, where it remains their most frequently performed song. Its psychedelic-jam quality allows for indefinite extensions, yet it always feels too short, transforming depression into ecstasy and solitary confinement into collective movement. While Smith has penned songs with stronger melodies and sharper lyrics, nothing else in The Cure’s catalog is as inexhaustibly compelling, nothing insists so forcefully on being heard again and again and again and again, solidifying “A Forest” as their quintessential track and a cornerstone of The Cure Songs legacy.
Picture: Rob Merino/Getty
