Having been fan of The Cure for most of the Eighties, I lost interest in The Cure a year or so after Wish came out. I can't explain it any more precisely than by saying that their work since then has always seemed to me to be too deliberate - formulaic, even, and smacking of a band that were just going through the motions, because they didn't know what else to do. Up until then, The Cure's music had been pretty much a way of life for me and every album from "Three Imaginary Boys" through to "Wish" would accompany me on my desert island, if I had to choose. So I was excited by this, their touted return-to-form and (alleged) epitaph. After a number of listens, I am left unexpectedly indifferent. None of the lush textures, intricate melodies or exquisite production that I love about their earlier work is to be found here. In fact, after repeated listens I still can't remember any of the tunes. Instead I heard the tired affectations of a forty-something who's lost his way and sacked most of his friends, strumming away on an acoustic, overlaid with periodic, savagely under-produced squalls of electric guitar. Perhaps they released the demo's by mistake and the real, polished master tape is locked away in a studio? Who knows, but I'm disappointed, frankly. If you, like me, were transfixed by both The Cure's glory years and the streamlined mechanical precision of The Sisters Of Mercy of the Eighties, you'll find more joy in the the deep trancy house of Sasha and John Digweed than "Bloodflowers".
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