The Cure's Pornography: "It doesn't matter if we all die..."
Some albums don't just exist in time; they warp it. Pornography, The Cure's 1982 masterwork, is one of those records. The first words Robert Smith utters - "It doesn't matter if we all die" - aren't just an opening statement; they're a warning. This is a record that doesn't let up, doesn't let you breathe, and doesn't care if you feel good at the end. It drags you down, and yet, somehow, you keep pressing play.
The Cure were no strangers to gloom by this point. Seventeen Seconds (1980) and Faith (1981) had already taken them deep into icy post-punk landscapes, but Pornography was something else entirely. It was suffocating, heavier - not in a distorted, guitar-crunching way, but in mood, in atmosphere, in sheer emotional weight. This wasn't just a record about sadness; it was a record made at the very limits of human endurance. Smith, reportedly lost in a haze of depression, exhaustion, and psychedelic drugs, was at a breaking point. And it shows.
Drenched in echo, swallowed by shadows
The production on Pornography is claustrophobic. Everything sounds like it's drowning in reverb, like the band is playing from the bottom of a well. The drums - courtesy of Lol Tolhurst - are cavernous, often treated with a relentless flanging effect that makes them feel both massive and unreal. Simon Gallup's basslines slither underneath it all, thick and hypnotic, providing the only real sense of movement in an otherwise suffocating mix.
And then there's Smith. His vocals are desperate, sometimes barely singing, sometimes outright howling. He isn't telling stories here; he's exorcising demons. The lyrics? Cryptic, surreal, bleak. Lines like "A hand in my mouth, a life spills into the flowers" (The Figurehead) or "Dull sunrise, broken heads, tired lives" (Cold) don't so much paint a picture as smear one across a black canvas.
Yet, for all its despair, there's an undeniable beauty here. Pornography isn't nihilism for the sake of it - it's a desperate attempt to find something meaningful in the abyss. And in that, it succeeds.
The sound of a band falling apart
The legend of Pornography is almost as important as the music itself. The Cure were imploding while making this album. Fights between Smith and Gallup got so bad that Gallup quit shortly after its release. Tolhurst was drinking himself into oblivion. Smith? He was teetering on the edge. There was a real sense that this might have been the last Cure album.
And in some ways, it was. The Cure that emerged after Pornography - the one that embraced poppier sounds on Japanese Whispers and The Head on the Door - was a different band. They hadn't abandoned the darkness, but they'd learned how to balance it. This record was the end of something, the final, unfiltered scream before the reinvention.
Standout tracks (if you can call them that)
Pornography isn't an album of singles. There's no Just Like Heaven or Boys Don't Cry here - just an unrelenting, crushing atmosphere. But some moments do stand out:
One Hundred Years - Possibly the most accessible track, but that's a relative term. The relentless drum machine, the stabbing guitars, and Smith's haunted delivery make it a post-punk masterpiece.
The Figurehead - If gothic rock had an anthem, this might be it. Gallup's bass drives the song forward, while Smith weaves one of his most chilling vocal performances.
A Strange Day - The closest thing to a moment of clarity on the album. There's a sense of drift, like floating aimlessly in a grey sky.
Pornography - The closing title track is a nightmare collapsing in on itself. "I must fight this sickness, find a cure" - it's the sound of a man clawing at the walls, trying to escape.
Why it still matters
Decades later, Pornography remains one of The Cure's most revered albums, but also one of their most difficult. It's not a record you casually put on. It demands something from the listener. You don't enjoy Pornography so much as you experience it.
But that's exactly why it's so powerful. It's an album that understands despair, but also refuses to romanticize it. It doesn't wallow - it rages, it fights, it howls into the void. And for anyone who's ever been at the edge, that can be oddly comforting.
Final Thoughts
Pornography isn't The Cure's best album, but it might be their most important. It's the record that solidified their status as one of the defining bands of the post-punk and gothic movements. More than that, it's a testament to the power of music to capture the most difficult emotions imaginable.
So, should you listen to it? That depends. If you're looking for something light, something catchy, something to play at a party - absolutely not. But if you're ready to feel something, to let yourself sink into the sound and see where it takes you - then, yes. Just be prepared. This one stays with you.
FINAL SCORE: 9/10