Sopravvivere a tutto ed essere un genere a parte.


In un articolo che traccia una sorta di improbabile parallelismo tra i Cure e Frank Ocean (!), dopo che quest’ultimo ha annunciato il titolo del suo nuovo lavoro (Boys don’t cry), Anwen Crawford sul New Yorker dà un paio di definizioni piuttosto efficaci sul gruppo che, da sempre, è la mia più grande ossessione musicale:

The Cure has outlived post-punk, new wave, goth, grunge, rave, and many genres in between. They are their own genre: melodic, melancholic, and just a little bit whimsical. They have never been cool, not even as the youthful trio who released a seven-inch single, their second, called ‘Boys Don’t Cry,’ in 1979. Right from the start, the British music press treated the Cure as something of an embarrassment—they were not as political as the Clash, too nice to be the Jam, and their moody despondency did not have the same touch of authentic despair as Joy Division, whose lead singer, Ian Curtis, committed suicide in 1980. Despite critical mockery, the Cure has been commercially successful and intensely adored. The devotion they attract has made them easy to dismiss as the quintessential band of adolescent woe, Pied Pipers for the world’s ever-replenishing supply of tearful suburban teen-agers. I want to say that their best songs are their most heartfelt ones, but their worst songs are that, too, while some of their most perfect songs—like ‘Boys Don’t Cry,’ or ‘The Love Cats,’ or ‘Friday I’m In Love’–are absolutely throwaway.