Described in a recent NME article as one of the most miserable albums of all time (in a good way), Faith makes for an extremely bleak and unsettling listening experience, something akin to slivers of razor sharp ice gently piercing the head and ears.
Less atmospherically playful as earlier material such as Boys Don't Cry, Faith saw The Cure further developing the blueprint for goth, and whilst the music retains much of the compressed rythms and brittle, serated guitar sound of Robert Smith and cos earlier efforts, the overall atmosphere is much icier, sombre and echoey, like trudging through an empty graveyard in a snowstorm.
Where earlier tracks like 10:15 Saturday Night and A Forest burst forwards with a kind of skipping, if subdued, relentlessness, tracks like Holy Hour, All Cats are Grey and the stately, doom-laden masterpiece, The Funeral Party, take the form of slow and ponderous dirges, whilst remaining musically and lyrically expressive enough not to become tuneless, sluggish trash. By keeping the disc focused at a short eight tracks the album never wears even the most cheerful listener down, even at its blackest and most despairing.
All in all Faith ranks amongst The Cure's finest albums, if not THE finest (Pornography is the one). For those who enjoyed the Cure's more famous singles and want to move on to something heavier, for any fans of the dark stuff, and for those sickened by the doleful whining masquerading as poetic melancholy served up by privileged fakers such as Thom Yorke and the rest, this is well worth buying.