Timestamps in ‘Disintegration’: The Cure songs that tell stories
Just over 35 years ago, The Cure released a tour de force that would forever change the realm of dark wave goth music, gifting the scene a visceral emblem of musical greatness that traversed the very hands of time. Disintegration wasn’t just an album; it was a lullaby, a glam rock abyss, and a seductive whirlwind of black hole macabre wrapped into one.
While writing the album, Robert Smith led himself down an effervescent path filled with darkness, longing, trauma, love, and confusion. He trapped himself in the very confines of his own mind and bled out corruption and despair through the delicate notes of music. He opened the doors to his endearingly kitsch world while holding up a mirror to anyone out there, urging them to realise their own inner morbidity.
Throughout all of the crooked lines of love, loss, marriage, childhood, and self-discovery, Disintegration never steers away from its gorgeously crafted presentation, each note beating around your senses like lost time and the promise of eternal hauntings of past, present, and future. As it taps at your toes like crashing waves, instead of leaving you to ponder, it takes you into its soft, blissful arms, allowing you the comfort of rock bottom.
Disintegration might trickle its featherlight fingertips down the walls of consciousness, but within such effortless beauty lies layers of stories, narratives reserved for the minds of those who search, the darkness that beckons, only to reveal more truths previously left undiscovered. Here, I look to piece together these stories. The timestamps below are based on real anecdotes, lightly embellished to explore Smith’s unique and extraordinary mind.
Each story draws from Smith’s world, incorporating real quotes and lyrics with a touch of make-believe to highlight the most defining aspects of this masterpiece. While the stories below have been almost entirely fictionalised, hopefully, they provide an insight into the types of atmospheres Smith wanted to evoke while shedding new light on the various elements of darkness that permeated his unique world.
The Cure songs that tell stories:
1967: ‘Lullaby’
Kids and animals know. I was in the store with my father the other day when I picked up a book off the shelf—any old book, I just like the smell—and there in block capitals were the words: “Kids and animals know”. I don’t know what the context was, nor did I catch what it is that kids and animals are supposedly in higher knowledge about, but it’s a phrase that has stuck in my mind since that day two weeks ago.
I’ve been struggling to get off to sleep recently. At first, it started with trying to work out what that sentence meant: I vaguely remember there being some words about the meaning of our dreams, but the rest is black and grey haze, and when I try to think harder about its meaning, it all just becomes more convoluted. In my efforts to fall asleep with ease, it only became harder, and soon, my mind was no longer swimming with the meaning of children obtaining knowledge but instead turned to a strange, terrifying concoction of scary faces and ghostly images.
A couple of nights ago, my father started singing lullabies to me to help me relax at night. They seemed unusual at first, but somehow they did the trick. But then the nightmares began. The worst one happened last night when, as if I hadn’t fallen asleep at all and my mind was alert as if in the shadow of the evening sun, I noticed a movement in the corner of my room.
I became frozen, realising in my stark immortality that I could do nothing. The slight pools of light revealed the strange presence to be a giant spider, and I knew, more than anything else I knew to be true, that he wanted to eat me for dinner that night. Fear turned into sheer horror when he began to laugh as he crept closer, instilling a fear in me I never knew was possible.
“Be still, be calm, be quiet now, my precious boy,” the entity crooned, “don’t struggle like that, or I will only love you more.” After warning me against turning on the light, I suddenly felt like I was being eaten by a thousand furry holes, but I knew that, in the morning, I would wake up in the shivering cold. And I do—I always do—but every time, the realisation of impending doom and all-encompassing acceptance settles in. Maybe that’s what kids and animals know: the joy of not knowing or fearing.
1973: ‘Pictures of You’
Her dark hair and pale features drew me in like a moth to a flame the first time I saw her. I opened my mouth to speak, but nothing came out. Or so I thought: a second later, she was answering something I hadn’t known I’d asked: “Of course! I would love to be your drama class partner”.
This person was unlike anyone I had seen before, and her voice sounded so sweet but sharp, like taking your first-ever sip of lemonade. I look back at these moments now and wonder why I can remember the warmth of the sun beaming through the windows, why every detail touches my skin like it’s happening in that very moment, the gaze of her stare blessing me with the promise of love and hope.
I look at pictures of you, of us, like it’s all real, and it was—it was real, until it wasn’t. Until the sun shining through the glass was replaced by the darkness of the night, and the soft surface of the pane was filled with the webs of overnight spiders. In those moments, I almost believed it was real because it was beautiful, but it was also real because it wasn’t. Still, the ghost of you warms my face almost as if I deserve it to be anything but imaginary.
As I remember you standing quietly in the rain, I hear my feet patter along the ground, running and splashing to be near you, to share a kiss with you as the sky fell in while I held you close and shielded you from fear. The pictures I stare at guide me to a moment you ran softly through the night. You looked bigger and brighter and wider than snow. We screamed at the sky, letting go of it all. At that moment, I knew you had finally found all your courage to let go, and so did I.
I held you as you cried, mourning the death of your heart, stone white and delicate in the dark. Remembering you and how you used to be makes me wonder if any of it happened at all. I close my eyes to try to hold on to the details, to imagine your existence into reality, but I never see anything, so I open my eyes again. If only I had thought of the right words, I could have held on to your heart, and I wouldn’t be breaking apart all my pictures of you.
1980: ‘Fascination Street’
Sometimes, I almost let myself believe that Bourbon Street in New Orleans holds the secret to discovering the perfect moment. And when I do—almost let myself believe, that is—the pull of its charm is irresistible, and once again, I am wandering down its familiar paths, falling for it even though I promised myself I wouldn’t.
Even though I feel it all fading and paling, it still has a hold on me, especially when I threaten to see it for what it really is. I try, I beg, to let it feel alive, let it feel real, but I end up dragging others with me instead, enjoying the sounds of distorted screams until I feel a little bit less numb. If it comes from the mouths of others, I cannot be held responsible, I tell myself, and so it all unfolds exactly as it did last time.
We’re dancing to the beat we’ve heard a thousand times before, pulling on hair, pulling on pouts, moving our bodies like we know that it’s over. If they fall behind, I help them back up again, despite never promising my shoulder as a wall to balance on. Opening time down on Fascination Street might be more enticing if it actually felt real, but in this moment, the incredulity gets the better of me until tomorrow, when I question it all once again.
1988: ‘Lovesong’
My heart soars when I remember the moment I first laid eyes on you and you agreed to be my partner for a school project. You made me feel at home even all those years ago, and that feeling has only grown stronger over the years. Whenever we are alone together, I feel whole—I always have, ever since we were just 14-year-olds trying to figure out what it all meant.
We dance around the circles of morning light as if we have all the time in the world. And we do; we have time, and that’s a gift. It’s more than just the documentation of eternal promise; you make me feel like I am fun again, and I will forever dedicate my life to making you feel the exact same way. “I will always love you,” I whisper up on the altar as a single tear slips down your cheek, painting the path there a slightly lighter hue than the makeup you applied just an hour earlier.
“However long I stay,” I continue, my eyes threatening to do the same. “I will always love you.” She smiles through her tears, and I know that she knows this is forever.
1989: ‘Disintegration’
It might already be over, but isn’t it beautiful to look back at the pain, rehash those wounds and wallow in the pity of feeling it all over again? I miss it all, every single kiss of treachery and vanity, but I let my eyes and heart bleed, running in thickening streams of greed, letting it all pour out just one more time before I promise myself it’s in the past.
I miss it all. I know it’s already over, but the kisses of treachery and vanity threaten to haunt me again, even though I secretly yearn for their harsh edges to get a hold of me once more. I know I never said I would stay to the end, but the pain of leaving fills an insatiable desire for self-destruction, even as I remember my own promises, the babies I left wondering what’s there in place of secrecy.
The songs might have been about happiness, of love whispered in the warmth of daylight dreams, but the scene speaks differently. Its carpet stains remind me of harsh words, raised voices, and cruelness spoken in a way to incite guilt. We both knew it was forever, just as we knew how the ending would be: thick with broken promises and disappointment, love replaced with resentment, a bond broken by the thistled stems of time.
It is over, but I go back to every traumatic moment as it floods out of me like a secret hideaway, the decision to stay here in the depths a reminder of how easier it is for me to get closer to Heaven than to ever feel whole again.
