The latter-day history of the Cure is a peculiar thing. They ended the 90s in apparent disarray the disappointing Wild Mood Swings drew their peak commercial years to a close, and a series of festival shows degenerated into drunken farce. Yet the 21st century found them more revered than ever, with younger artists paying homage, reflecting a renaissance in their influence.
Last year, Simon Price's definitive book Curepedia opened its entry on a prospective new album with the not unreasonable question: Will it ever happen? Robert Smith's explanation of the 16 years since the last album involved a complex mass of abandoned recording sessions and personal upheaval, including the loss of family members.
In a way, these losses seem to have finally spurred Songs of a Lost World into existence. They certainly fuel it, anchoring and amplifying the existential angst that's hung around the Cure's oeuvre from the start.
Its songs variously find Smith mourning, staring down his own mortality -- my weary dance with age and resignation. A writer capable of transforming his fear of turning 30 now has something more emotionally potent than the end of his 20s to fret about.
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