“I never quite said what I wanted to say to you,” mumbles Robert Smith in the closing moments of Disintegration, and those words might as well be about my original post about this record.

Because I’ve been listening to a lot of the Cure lately. Actually, that’s probably an understatement. In the last two weeks, I’ve listened to almost nothing else. I’ve listened to each record in their discography at least once, purchased many, and revisited the ones already in my collection multiple times.

Part of this is because my wife is on vacation with our baby and there’s no better soundtrack for an empty house, but the much larger part is that there’s maybe no other band that has had such a far-reaching influence or massive impact without ever compromising or contradicting themselves.

And while I’ve reviewed the several new Cure records in my collection over the last week, I need to come back to their perennial classic, Disintegration. I wrote a post on this record when I got it six years ago, but I’m compelled to make another, because friends, I have a lot to say about this record. 

The story behind Disintegration is almost comically simple. Robert Smith turned 29, saw his third decade looming, and was suddenly overcome with anxiety that if he didn’t write an Important Record before he turned thirty, he never would.

Some might say that fear was unfounded—they’d already released Faith, Pornography, The Head on the Door, and Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, all almost instantly regarded as classics. But something about their flitting between brooding goth rock and pop perfection must have left him dissatisfied. He wanted to write the definitive Cure record.

So loaded up on hallucinogenics and fueled by mental turmoil, he did just that. Most of the talk about Disintegration describes it as an insular, monochromatic drama of gloom. And sure, you will find few darker moments than the darkest parts of this record. And yeah, its sonic palette is limited to a few choice colors. But those somber elements are wrapped up in the same pop sensibilities that Smith & Co. demonstrated on tracks like “Just Like Heaven” and “Close to Me.” This record is intense, yes. It’s positively heartbreaking at moments. But this is a pop record through and through—and it sold like one, even if Smith had some serious misgivings about being a pop superstar at the time.

The mood of the record is far more nuanced than it’s given credit for. It’s not the singular freefall into Smith’s depression that most critics and music historians often say it is. Each side of the record shifts the mood a bit. The A-side starts things with “Plainsong,” “Pictures of You,” and “Closedown,” three major key tracks that are majestic and inviting. On side B, “Lovesong” turns things down, combining some of the most gorgeous and intimate lyrics ever recorded to a minor key shuffle before leading to the moody “Last Dance,” the spooky and seductive “Lullaby” and the positively destructive “Fascination Street,” which might be the best rock song the Cure ever wrote. Side C is the most challenging and most brooding moment on the album, with “Prayers for Rain” (which has an incredible reverse piano line) and “The Same Deep Water as You” each dragging their somber moods to their breaking point. Side D works backward through the moods of the rest of the record: “Disintegration” mirrors “Fascination Street’s” manic thrum. “Homesick” feels like it could fit easily between “Last Dance” and “Lullaby,” and “Untitled” returns to the shimmering gossamer of “Plainsong” and “Pictures of You.”

Its reputation for darkness is likely due to its sonic palette. It uses a small number of colors to build its elaborate soundscapes: ARP Solina strings, modulated bass, shuffling hi-hats, and layered Bass VI lead lines build each song, and without much variation. It’s hardly the kaleidoscope of Head on the Door or the highlight reel of Kiss Me, but Disintegration proves that you can do a lot with a little, as those building blocks build a sonic world more stately and magnificent than has been done before or since. Some might criticize it as being “samey,” and there’s not a great defense against that—in fact, many of the layers of lead lines sound like they were workshopping different options and decided to use all of them. But somehow, that just makes it sound more focused.

All that said, and I haven’t even gotten into how groovy this record is. Despite its subdued dynamics and often plodding tempos, there’s some funk hidden beneath the surface. Most of the instrumental work is heavily syncopated. Even “The Same Deep Water As You” is drawn along by an almost dancey drum beat. In fact, it could almost be a dance song if you sped it up. At even the slowest tempos, Simon Gallup’s bass lines are dripping with a punk attitude, casting a wink at disco here and there.

Smith has often said that Disintegration was meant to be a sequel to Pornography, but those two records couldn’t sound more different to me. Pornography is riddled with manic drums and roaring guitars throughout its brief and intense runtime. Disintegration is almost sonically the opposite: it almost delights in delaying catharsis, with only “Fascination Street” and the title track letting the dam burst. Rather, this record feels far more like the gossamer dirge of Faith, which also built its enormous Victorian-era manor on deep keyboard texture. Perhaps Smith meant that this record was a return to that earlier period, returning to the proverbial fork in the road like they did with Head on the Door to once again take the gloomier path.

However, there is one clear antecedent to Pornography that’s subtle enough to be entirely missed. On “Lovesong,” which Smith wrote as a wedding gift to his wife, among the ways she affirms him, he says, “you make me feel like I am clean again.” Hardcore Cure fans in ’89 would have been reminded of the closing moments of “The Figurehead,” on which Smith repeats, “I will never be clean again,” despairing more a bit each time. “Lovesong” stands as a direct repudiation of that hopelessness, and even casts a more hopeful light on the despair of the rest of its own album.

And that’s some deep despair. Even the happier songs are bittersweet, with “Plainsong” meditating on death and the end of the world. For all of its romance, “Pictures of You” is among the more tragic breakup songs ever written. The title track is the lowest point of the album, with Smith’s lyrics unraveling out of control as the song goes on. Then after eleven songs of the most intimate soul-baring anyone’s ever put to tape, Smith sings on “Untitled,” “I never quite said what I wanted to say to you,” as if even now, at the end of this masterpiece, he still doesn’t feel like he’s able to bridge the expanse between his ambitions and his execution.

Whatever gap he might have felt between those two spots though, Disintegration ended up being the masterpiece he was worried he’d never write. Even today, with its production forever tied to its time, it is a timeless classic, the definitive creative and commercial peak of one of the most creative and successful acts to ever grace the world.

I worried once that I heard this record too late for it to have the impact it was meant to. This is the sort of record that seems best absorbed as a teenager, playing it on repeat in your headphones while trying to create some space from your parents. But even though I’m now a parent myself, I have finally succumbed to its candy-striped legs and spidery fingers, and I am constantly being devoured by it. It has supplanted itself near the very top of my list of favorite records, regardless of how late I came to it.