ONE OF THE more frustrating, kneejerk musical assumptions is that the Cure is strictly for sad-sacks—the lipstick- and mascara-smeared goths who wear black on the outside because it's how they feel on the inside.
I'm willing to cop to the fact that there's a sliver of truth here. 1982's Pornography, their 1989 classic Disintegration, and the 2000 album Bloodflowers are a trilogy of dark epics filled with odes to romantic yearning, disillusionment, and unyielding sadness. It's the kind of music that pairs well with Portland's gloomy fall and winter skies.
But for all their minor chord dirges, teased-up hair, and dour expressions, there's always been a thread of knavish glee running through the entirety of the Cure's 40-year existence. The second side of the group's debut, Three Imaginary Boys, is filled with tossed-off goofs like "Meathook" and their winking, angular take on Jimi Hendrix's "Foxy Lady." The band's best-received singles have always been their poppiest tunes, such as their sing-along romp "Hot Hot Hot!!!" or Smith's 1990 dalliance with acid house that resulted in "Never Enough."