How did he do that? 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.
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. He should be happy, but as we know, happy ain't his style. Previous reissues in this series have included home demos that felt more like curiosities than anything useful. 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. Such is the power of these dozen songs — slow, dark, sensual ruminations on losing love and feeling washed up. Was it the way a sideways glance could hint at humour?
If you want to be crushingly depressed with Disintegration, or frustrated, or self-loathing, it’ll embrace you right back. On the plus side, there’s the rest of the package.
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. Disintegration a great album? © 2020 Billboard.
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.
The trick, I think, is how well it serves as a soundtrack to that feeling that everything around you is meaningful, whether it’s beautiful or horrible or sublime: This is an album for capital-R Romantics, not sulkers. Was it his compelling solidity among the spinning lights and hyperactive Gallup? He's still crying out for love, only this time, he doesn't want safety or security: "Cling to me so just one more / just one more go / inspire in me the desire in me to never go home.". Here in the States, it managed only no. 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. Such was his motivation for going off and writing much of "Disintegration" on his own. Or at least whole wardrobes, decoration schemes, and notebook scribbles. 2, but "Disintegration" remains the Cure's best-selling LP, as well as the one people still talk about.
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.
“I will always love you,” it keeps promising—not the way you sing that in a giddy love song, but like it’s a grave, solemn, bloody commitment. 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.) Disintegration a classic album? 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.
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. 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. If I’m remembering correctly, the first pressings of Disintegration actually said, in the liner notes, “this album was mixed to be played loud, so turn it up.” It was intentionally created with headroom to spare, and designed to be full of space—every instrument surrounded by air, every echo trail clear and audible, an album that was above all comfortable to listen to. The guitars danced like they were having their last chance, the bass came high and buoyant, the drums stayed mechanically insistent. 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.
And yet Disintegration is not a very teenagey album. Not so fast. One of my first big memories of listening to Disintegration involves wandering around the Colorado State Fair, from the agriculture show to the gang fights by the midway. It’s not entirely unearned. 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 Cure: Disintegration review – album set flatters to deceive, and then prolongs the pain. 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. It was around this time that a friend elsewhere in the room messaged me to declare Smith “an amazing performer”, an incongruous description given his minimal expression and movement generally. 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. 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. Last Dance and Lullaby (which even involved Smith dancing) shook lightness from potential sludge and Fascination Street balanced a metallic edge, a receding melody and a throw forward to hard rock, with an energy that was still outward and never less than danceable. "Disintegration": The eight-minute title track leaves Smith with plenty of time to pack in lyrics, and that's just what he does. As this night showed, its peaks are impressive but its flaws are not easily wished away, or distracted from. The follow-up, 1992's "Wish," reached even higher, peaking at no. All rights reserved. No. This is a kind of reach I doubt Robert Smith ever imagined. For that is what underpins this run of five shows playing the 1989 Cure album from soup to nuts (with extras). When he finally gets around to singing, he quotes a girl who compares the weather to death and complains about feeling old. Disintegration does not “scatter.” It’s a single, grand, dense, continual, epic trip into core stuff the Cure did well. Smith is working his way through a big old stack of photos and an even bigger pile of emotions, and as he lingers on each image, he savors the sweet, sweet sadness. And that, to be honest, is the one drawback of this reissue. "Homesick": Eleven songs in, you know the drill: super lengthy intro, layers of lovely instrumental melody, and an utterly distraught lyric. "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.
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. 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. Yet it was nonetheless true. Despite its best efforts, the band cannot mask the fact that the original record has its fair share of flaws, Sat 25 May 2019 04.46 BST The late 1980s and early 90s were the Cure’s heyday—from an American perspective. The group's previous album, 1987's "Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me," had reached a respectable no. No one needs to hear this while driving a car. 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 1989 album, released during what was arguably the band’s peak period, receives a lavish reissue with some terrific bonus material. 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. And yet there they were. He claims to want this girl back, but given the way those guitars tangle and glisten, it's possible he prefers the pining. What makes "Homesick" different is the presence of piano and the nature of Smith's plea. "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.
"Lovesong": Simple and concise, this hit No.
There was Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me, a 1987 double album that scatters in a lot of different directions. A daily briefing on what matters in the music industry, Red Velvet's Irene Apologizes After Verbally Attacking Fashion Editor | Billboard News, Aaliyah Book 'Baby Girl: Better Known As Aaliyah' Dropping Next Year | Billboard News, How to Watch Billie Eilish's 'Where Do We Go?' When Smith sings "songs about happiness murmured in dreams," you'd swear he's reviewing his own album. That's kind of like saying it's the wettest raindrop. As always, though, the guitars chime gorgeously, and the lyrics reveal Smith to be a livelier, less despondent guy than he'd have us believe. And where are these “crushingly depressive” ghouls playing them?
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. But it’ll embrace other things, too.
"The Same Deep Water As You": On an album lousy with epics, this has the distinction of being "the long one." It's among the most maudlin expressions of head-over-heels love you'll ever hear. Indeed, for a while it looked like they might just pull off the miracle of making the original record’s second side if not brilliant then at least kinetic enough to pull us through. 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. 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. 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.
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