A song halfway through this self-titled effort from The Cure is titled (I Don’t Know What’s Going) On. That song, in title alone, summarises this album. It is not just the listener who has no clue what is happening, but the band, too. Their recording style shifted, their label changed, and with all these moving parts, the band lost what made them special. Robert Smith and the core unit, which comprises The Cure even today, would find that on Songs of a Lost World, but for a time, it seemed The Cure were well behind where they wanted to be. They were back in their experimental phase, a tiresome experience which often fell short of their ambitions. Bringing in eccentric Ross Robinson, who insisted the band record their playing all together, rather than individually, brings on a rough style which simply doesn’t suit the band.
The Cure at their best on here sound like hollow imitations of their sound on Pornography. There is still the sense of gothic wonder, of finding yourself in the stormy seas of life. But all of it sounds relatively contrived. Opener Lost is an unsteady song which works solely because it contrasts its title. A song about missing a part of yourself all about finding it. Daring stuff. Apart from some thumping, menacing percussion and an impassioned Smith, there is little to like about Lost. It sounds like a pastiche of The Cure. At least the last time Smith lost his way, he started listening to new wave albums. This just sounds a bit broken, tinged by tragedy for the sake of it. Smith deals faux anger on song after song, the true menace and rebellious nature lost long before he began recording this self-titled effort. The Cure suffers from a problem modern-day Pixies are only just overcoming. The band are affected by giving an audience what they want. But no listener truly knows what they want until they have a fresh experience.
Clumsy songs like Labyrinth rely not on a message of worth but the distortion and confusing, distant-sounding drumming from Jason Cooper. It is not a mix which complements the band. This is The Cure using Robinson to launch a harsher sound, and it backfires massively because the Smith-fronted band had already managed a dark tone without having to rely on forced instrumental angst or repetitive, low-hanging lyrics. Their hearts are just not in it. The Cure remains stunningly short of expectation. Time has not been kind to the production of this album, a borderline mockery of their genuine tensions, which fed the punk and goth tone of their first albums. The Cure sold out, or at least tried to. That implies their self-titled effort sold well. It did not. Robinson manages to tame The Cure, and that is exactly what the band did not need.
Songs like Us or Them maintain the anger heard in the first few songs, and it sounds tiresome more than anything. There is no doubting the energy and dedication Smith still has to these burning emotions, but to extinguish the fire is sometimes more enlightening than kindling it. The Cure realised this earlier in their career, but seem content with piling every hangup on the bonfire. Taking Off and Never sound unlike anything The Cure had ever done at the time. It provides very little for The Cure here, a band which sounds unconvinced of their new direction but pursues it regardless of their rightful reservations. Robinson turns The Cure away from their blur of gothic rock and catchy charms, focusing them instead on instrumental works which fail to stand out, a vicious album which tires itself out by repeating the same few points of rage.
