Review Summary: Anything but an ordinary debut…
For casual onlookers, the general consensus about English post-punk outfit The Cure, is that they’re a bunch of moping goths - miserable and one dimensional. That assumption is unfair, glib, and more than anything else, wrong. If evidence of The Cure’s diversity is required, then look no further than the groups debut LP, ‘Three Imaginary Boys’. Hailing from 1979; the album has a surprising eye for catchiness and pop-hookery - surprising for the closed-minded observers, anyway, as Cure fans were always well aware that their beloved Robert Smith and gang had more to offer than the murky, doom of ‘Pornography’ (their 5th LP; not the masturbatory aid) and adolescent, gothic posturing.
Sure, the album opens with the crawling grind of ‘10.15 Saturday Night’ and continues in similar vein, with track number two plodding along at a steady pace - a sparse rumble and repetitive vocal call of “Acc-u-ra-cy” characterising the loveable tune; but by the time track 3 rolls around, the assumption that The Cure can only do dark tunes begins to fall flat on its ignorant face, somewhat. ‘Grinding Halt’ is simply a lovely slice of post-punk catchiness - Smith’s shrieking, southern English accent ringing out the infectious chorus, “Everything’s coming to a grinding halt” whilst the rhythm section bounces away jovially, tempered by the jagged guitar chords and distinctive, halting ending, as the audio belches out in rapid stop-start succession, closing one of the highlights of the record.
It’s important to point out at this juncture, that Smith would later hold some disdain over the record’s 'lightweightness', and the fact he didn’t have much creative control at this point; but despite that, this is still a Cure album, so some of the aforementioned perceptions about the band’s style are present here, as they are on any other LP by the group. The difference is, is that whilst ‘Three Imaginary Boys’ contains its fair share of sulkiness (which, whilst we’re on the subject, The Cure do better than most), none of it is quite as gloomy or despair-ridden as some of the lads later work, and the album has more lighter, sprightly moments to cushion the blow of the darker material with something less emotionally taxing than perhaps the average Cure record; and that really makes the album stronger in its own way - not better, just different, and likeable for alternate reasons.
Take ‘Object’, for example, which fires along with a punky riff and reverberated hook “you’re just an object in my eyes” slating the deceptive desire of the songs antagonist, making for a belting tune; or ‘Subway Song’, suiting the sparse demeanour of the boys sound, with a simple bass chord, harmonica, and finger clicks carrying the miniscule number to its s**t-pants conclusion (I won’t spoil it for those who’ve yet to hear it, or those who can’t recall the end of the track; all that I will say is turn up the volume on your headphones and get ready to momentarily jump out of your skin, as the track reaches it‘s final 10 seconds).
More deviation from the miserable perception of the band is achieved as the album moves on - ‘Foxy Lady’ is more of a studio outtake than actual song, with the band talking to one another and jamming before the tune gets going for about a minute and a half until its skimpy runtime draws to a close, whereupon ‘Meathook’ begins - a silly little number where a bizarrely placed funky bass line and a chorus that consists of Smith repeating the song’s title, feature. The album has a pair of early Cure gems towards the tail end of the tracklist; with the wafer thin guitars and infectious chorus of ‘Fire in Cairo’, and the archetypal, greyness of the title track closing the album on a high. Speaking of highs - the album has quite a few when the listener takes the time to spin the record a few times, and quite diverse, they are, at that.
The album marks itself out as one of the most distinctive Cure LP’s, regardless (and most probably, because) of any creative tensions present during recording, with as many (almost) jolly post-punk outings as it has gloomy ones; and a youthful exuberance and seemingly carefree buzz (see: the 54 second closer, ‘The Weedy Burton’, or the studio chatter of ‘Foxy Lady’) that makes the album a sheer delight to listen to - adding balance to the more moody tracks and making it all easier to digest, in the process. It may seem a little different than most Cure albums, but, crucially, it’s a pleasant difference. With that in mind; to those closed-minded onlookers I mentioned at the start of this review, I say: give this a chance, and see just how off your opinion was - and that goes for those only versed in the bands later output, too, because ‘Three Imaginary Boys’ is a fantastic and influential slice of post-punk that sits comfortably as a nice parallel to the Cure’s darker albums, of which, would soon arrive after this surprisingly, non-gothic, (sometimes) happy, and wholly underappreciated debut.
