Music and Recording Reviews

The Cure: Songs of a Lost World
Polydor 7503682 (2 LPs). 2024. Robert Smith, Paul Corkett, prods.; Miles Showell, eng.
Performance *****
Sonics ****

The Cure aren't a band most people turn to when the party needs to get swinging. With an opening track called "Alone" with the refrain "This is the end of every song that we sing," their latest, Songs of the Lost World, isn't likely to change that. The theme of ending appears on many tracks, lending the album a fatalistic tone. On "A Fragile Thing," Smith sings, "this love is a fragile thing, this love is my everything, but nothing you can do to change the end."

On Lost World, frontman Robert Smith reflects on life, years passed, and years, etc., soon to pass. That's not unusual for a Cure album, but, like so many late career albums, it could have been so dull, so boring: men past their prime bemoaning getting old.

But it isn't boring, because the songs are brilliant. Despite grim themes and some long instrumental passages, they are oddly catchy. Smith has never sounded so majestic—or, indeed, so ageless.

The sound is cinematic, epic, orchestral, sometimes muscular, sometimes delicate—clear, sharp, powerful without being overpowering. Is the half-speed master is an improvement on the standard release? It's debatable. Regardless of the mastering speed, the standard is high. On most systems, it will be negligible—but on yours?

Each track is wonderful, but not equally. One of my favorites is "I Can Never Say Goodbye." Starting gently, a simple piano riff suggests this will be an instrumental, until Smith starts singing poignantly about the death of his brother. The band joins in creating a crescendo of sound including Reeves Gabrels's stunning guitar work. Then it shrinks back down to the solo piano. It's an object lesson on how beauty can be both personal and universal. That's a persistent quality of the album. It's not the stuff of celebrations, but it is very much a celebration of emotion. Could this be The Cure's best album?—Phil Brett

Michael Kiwanuka: Small Changes
Polydor (auditioned as LP). 2024. Danger Mouse, Inflo, prods.; Todd Monfalcone, Kennie Takahashi, Richard Woodcraft, engs.
Performance *****
Sonics ****

When Michael Kiwanuka's single "Cold Little Heart" became the theme song of the HBO series Big Little Lies, his brand of neo-soul exploded. With each new episode over two seasons, it was a reminder for viewers to dig in deeper. Often compared to Curtis Mayfield and Bill Withers, Kiwanuka stands apart with music marked as much by his distinct guitar style as by his rich baritone voice.

Small Changes continues the delicate approach Kiwanuka pursued on his self-titled previous record. The music commits to an atmosphere that is spacey and often psychedelic. The opener, "Floating Parade," glides in effortlessly and finds a soft groove. Like most of the record's songs, it deals with broken promises and letdowns, though in a few moments it provides some hope. The message gains impact from the economy with which it is delivered: "People keep talking about how pots don't melt. Well, we don't belong in this hard luck hand we're dealt."

The entire record could be considered a single song, as each track slips into the next without hesitation or disruption.

The record was produced by Danger Mouse and Inflo, who also provides drums and keys. His approach to drums is reminiscent of Mitch Mitchell of Jimi Hendrix: heavy on the snare, open in sound. Each snap is made with intent but is really only there to guide things forward. This is particularly evident on the two "Lowdown" tracks, where drum rolls delicately nudge things along and help create a Pink Floyd–esque dreamscape.

What makes the songs soar is lush string arrangements and backing vocals that sound like a gospel chorus hanging in the distance; they give these songs dimension, grandeur. There's no obvious hit, but nothing is forced and everything fits. There's nothing "small" about that.—Ray Chelstowski

Father John Misty: Mahashmashana
Sub Pop SP-1666 (LP). 2024. Josh Erickson, Josh Tillman, Jonathan Wilson, prods.; Michael Harris, eng.
Performance ****½
Sonics ****

The character Father John Misty, one of Josh Tillman's several musical pursuits, has always made music that explores the human condition with wit, irony, and humor. It's done with a level of musicianship that gives his insights a special kind of sophistication, even (or especially) when his lyrics are silly or outlandish. Mahashmashana may be the finest blend of these elements yet. The music is grand, indulgent, and gorgeous; the lyrics are razor sharp, exploring spiritual, philosophic, introspective themes—themes of life and death.

The album title is an Anglicization of the Sanskrit word for cremation ground. While he was first struck by the melodic applications the word would allow him to explore in the song, its thematic implications help push the music along.

The album opens with the title track, which swooshes in with Phil Spector–like opulence, with what feels like a full symphony orchestra. Across nine-plus minutes, the song sways like a large boat tossed at sea, coming to a near-apocalyptic close with all those instruments breaking apart and following separate paths. It's an odd, jarring opening for a record that otherwise approaches perfection.

From there, Tillman settles into a groove that finds him moving from breathtaking ballads to funk, straight-out rock, and more.

For all of the record's special moments, the ones that stand out most for me are the sax parts on the title track (Dan Higgins) and "I Guess Time Just Makes Fools of Us All" (Tony Barba). They're big and brassy and give their songs stature and swagger. "I Guess Time Just Makes Fools of Us All" might be the best song on the record, borrowing elements from disco and a note or two from The Grateful Dead's "Shakedown Street." The song sums up why Tillman's work is so celebrated.—Ray Chelstowski