The Cure

When it comes to depression, there are two typical responses: apathy and anger. The Cure’s recent output, especially 2000’s midnight-hued Bloodflowers, felt bogged down and listless. But with nü-metal instigator Ross Robinson coproducing with moptopped singer Robert Smith, The Cure comes out fighting; it’s the band’s most vibrant, emotionally charged release in years. Psychedelic swirls and hints of gray-scale piano augment the sinister catchiness of “Alt.end,” and “Anniversary,” filled with free-floating keyboards and clanking beats, disintegrates into industrial dankness. Smith spits, I don’t want you anywhere near me on “Us or Them” over grimy guitars that burn with the despondent intensity of 1982’s Pornography. His yowling couplets on the equally shadowy “Labyrinth” (The blood is thick — the head is burst/The taste is dry — the kiss is thirst) are deliciously macabre. Even the synth-lightened love song (“I Don’t Know What’s Going) On” and head-spinning pop of “Taking Off” avoid degenerating into the overmedicated, happy jams the Cure favored in the ’90s. By now, it’s a cliché to call every new Cure record a return to form, but this time it’s absolutely true.