Joe (What? No Moniker?--Ed.) Fernbacher, Creem, 10/87
The Cure are a squirrelly, schizofrantic experiment that, for the most part, hits the nail right on the forehead with the release of this double LP set that’ll no doubt raise, as well as shave, a few eyebrows amongst the legions out there in cynically-hip land.
While everyone else is cloistered around their CDs listening to the likes of Sgt. Pepper in a ritualistic fit of waxing 60s nostalgic (this sorta thing happens every 20 years whether we like it or not--just imagine what it’s gonna be like when we reach the 90s revival of KC & The Sunshine Band’s entire catalog; kinda bunches up the underwear, don’t it?), and missing the whole point all over again, the Cure have taken it upon themselves to create Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me--two records that just might become the fodder for the waxing 80s nostalgic we’ll all experience in the year 2000.
A 70-minute psycho-techno-delic symphony, Kiss Me... goes from the hysterical to the lyrical to the borderline hideous all in a single squeal of Robert Smith’s admittedly singular voice. This merry mix of sonic sutures stitches up all the inherent optimism, confusion, brutality, contradiction and (on rare occasions) contrition of the present incarnation of the blank generation.
This opus in surly begins rhapsodically with “The Kiss,” starting out as a portentous collection of guitar sounds that instantaneously translate the death screams of individual brain cells undergoing the suicidal pangs of love, then shifting gears into a brutal, plaintive rant against those contemptible feelings of hate that go hand in hand with said pangs of love. A good tune to put on if you wanna have an extremely vocal and physical fight with your mate--and not actually even have to be present. Obsession with the love of hate, the hate of love and all its aftermaths are the predominant themes coursing through this cranky cantata, and all that can be said is “caveat emptor.”
If you don’t like having your secret fears and desires tossed and stomped upon on the living room rug, then you should confine yourself strictly to the--ahem--“lighter” side of the Cure. Curetoons such as the hauntingly lyrical “Like Cockatoos” or the wispily romantic and simple “The Perfect Girl” fit perfectly with the soon to be amazingly popular “Why Can’t I Be You,” which--especially if you’ve seen the video of Robert Smith with his furry suit and totally zoned-out eyes--will immediately make you understand why he’d rather be you. There’s also “Hot, Hot, Hot,” an eventually popular pure dance epic. Finally, “One More Time” and “Just Like Heaven” are purring little ditties of cuddly romance that should put that faraway look in your lover’s eyes and begin the humidities of lust.
Naturally, where there’s light, there’s darkness--and the darkness descends like a guillotine on Curetoons like “The Snake Pit,” which could be easily misconstrued as a nuclear-mutated Harlequin romance, and the equally horrifying “If Only Tonight We Could Sleep.” Underscoring this side of the Cure is a massive, chopping, fragmentarily sonic sound that soothes and grinds at the same time. It’s a sound that can be best described as, well, simply the Cure.
“All I Want,” “Shiver In Shake” and “Torture” could be classified dangerous, and should only be listened to when accompanied by either a consenting adult or a certifiably insane C.H.U.D. (for those unaware of the reference, it means Cannibalistic Humanoid Underground Dweller) on acid. These three songs are what would happen if you tried to distill the Children of the Corn.
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