The Cure
Really, The Cure must be the ultimate indie success story. After crawling down a doomy post-punk gutter ending in the apocalyptic ‘Pornography’ (1982/Year Zero for goths), Robert Smith began spinning his dark visions into pop, with singles...
The Cure : The Cure
Cure have been together longer than most NME readers have been alive. Robert Smith, his hair, his lipstick, his band, his songs about claustrophobia, love, loneliness, love, huge spiders and love, they've always been there. Twenty-five years since...
The Cure : Join The Dots – B Sides & Rarities
There probably has never been a band so recognisably helped and hindered by their image as The Cure. Robert Smith’s fingers-in-some-fucking-big-sockets hair and lazy slash of lipstick are among the most easily identifiable brandings in the...
The Cure : Devore Glen Helen Hyundai Pavilion
Let’s get one thing straight here. California’s Inland Empire is not LA. It’s part of the ‘909’, a phone code prefix that’s become slang for SoCal's druggy version of the Black Country. So when a reunited Duran Duran step on stage...
London Wembley Arena
He ambles to the lip of the stage, still on the cusp between drag Bagpuss and unfortunate botanical experiment, ruffles his hair like a fractious child, smiles into the darkness. And immediately, like monks across a misty pasture, all your...
Bloodflowers
There it is, that familiar sound. A voice both pinched and distended, that never sings so much as yelps, sticking the words with voodoo pins before every bleated enunciation. There's the distressed guitar, squirming in tense arpeggios over an...
