In the late 1980s, Robert Smith did something most frontmen only pretend to do: he took complete artistic control and somehow made it commercially lethal. The Cure didn’t “cross over” so much as they expanded their borders until pop radio, stadium stages, and goth clubs all fit inside the same black-lipsticked frame.
This era is often summarized with one word – Disintegration – but the real story is bigger: Smith turned mood into a business model, made indulgence sound disciplined, and proved you could be both weird and massively popular without sanding off the edges.
Setting the stage: Smith enters the late ’80s with momentum
By 1987, Smith had already pulled off an identity trick that should have broken the band in half: The Cure could be bright and hooky, then devastatingly bleak, sometimes within the same set. That flexibility was crucial because the late ’80s were crowded with big hair, bigger drums, and a constant demand to “lighten up.”
Instead, Smith sharpened the contrast. The Cure’s official discography shows a band releasing major statements with different emotional temperatures, and Smith was the through-line as singer, guitarist, and principal writer.
1987: Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me – maximalism with a knife edge
Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me (1987) is where Robert Smith’s ambition becomes impossible to miss. It’s sprawling, flirtatious, violent, romantic, goofy, and occasionally unhinged – like Smith was trying to prove The Cure could swallow any genre and still sound like themselves.
What makes it “late-’80s Smith” isn’t just the size of the album; it’s the control. The arrangements are busy but deliberate, with guitars and keyboards weaving around Smith’s voice rather than simply backing it. If the band’s earlier gloom felt like a bleak landscape, Kiss Me feels like neon reflecting off wet pavement: colorful, but still cold.
Why it mattered
- It expanded The Cure’s audience without forcing Smith to “be normal.”
- It proved mood could be theatrical and still emotionally convincing.
- It set up the pivot to something much more focused and punishing.
1989: Disintegration – when the sadness went widescreen
Two years later, Smith released the album that became a permanent reference point for alternative music: Disintegration. The Cure’s album history and context help confirm its place in the catalog and why it’s become so canonical.
Here’s the provocative claim that holds up: Smith didn’t just make a sad record; he weaponized atmosphere. The songs don’t rush. The production lets reverb, bass, and synth textures do psychological work. Even the “big” moments feel like they’re arriving from far away, like headlights through fog.
In later reflection, Smith has been blunt about the emotional weight and intent behind the project; his reflections on Disintegration at 30 frame the approach as purposeful, not accidental despair.
“It’s the most Cure-ish Cure album.”
Robert Smith, quoted in The Fader.
Even if you’ve heard that line a hundred times, it matters because it’s a statement of authorship. Smith isn’t apologizing for melodrama; he’s claiming the band’s essence as something deep, immersive, and unafraid of intensity.
The late-’80s paradox: mainstream scale, anti-mainstream mood
Disintegration succeeded at a moment when “alternative” still felt like a parallel universe to Top 40. That’s why the album’s endurance is so striking: it didn’t win by sounding trendy. It won by sounding like it had its own weather system.
The BBC Music artist profile helps place The Cure as a major, long-running act whose identity remains distinct from typical pop cycles, which is exactly what Smith was consolidating in 1989.
Robert Smith as bandleader: control, curation, and the refusal to dilute
The late ’80s are when Robert Smith’s role becomes less “frontman” and more director. He’s shaping tone, pacing, track order, and the band’s public silhouette. The hair, makeup, and looming stage presence weren’t just aesthetics; they were a brand language that matched the music’s drama.
The Cure’s presence among the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame inductees underscores what the era ultimately locked in: The Cure as a defining alternative act, not a cult footnote.
Why Smith’s leadership worked
- He made consistency feel like evolution – the core mood stayed, the colors changed.
- He treated “pop” as technique, not as a moral compromise.
- He committed to extremes – long songs, huge emotion, no winking irony required.
1989-1990: the live Cure becomes a proving ground
If Disintegration was the studio cathedral, the tour era was the stress test. The Cure had to translate layered production and long, slow-burning songs into something that could hold thousands of people. They did – and it’s a key reason the album didn’t remain just a critic’s darling.
Independent fan-archivist resources can be surprisingly rigorous here: the setlist-and-date touring archive documents concerts in granular detail, illustrating just how extensive the band’s live activity was around the album cycle.
1990: Mixed Up – remix culture, Cure-style
By 1990, Smith made another move that looks obvious now but wasn’t guaranteed then: he embraced remix culture without pretending it was “lesser.” Mixed Up isn’t merely a cash-in; it’s The Cure acknowledging the dancefloor as a legitimate afterlife for their songs.
This is also where Smith’s late-’80s strategy becomes clearer in hindsight: he wasn’t just protecting The Cure from pop trends. He was selectively using them – taking what worked (12-inch mixes, bigger sound) and filtering it through the band’s identity until it felt inevitable.
How Smith’s songwriting changed in the late ’80s
One of the biggest shifts is structural. Smith leans into longer forms and delayed payoff: intros that feel like opening credits, choruses that arrive after you’ve already surrendered to the mood, endings that don’t resolve so much as dissolve.
That approach has influenced decades of artists who wanted to write emotional music without treating emotion as a punchline. The Cure became a blueprint for “serious” alternative pop – and Smith’s late-’80s choices are the reason.
Signature late-’80s Smith techniques (listening guide)
- Melody over brute force: even the darkest songs are hummable.
- Bass-forward mixes: the low end carries emotion, not just rhythm.
- Chorus guitars as texture: shimmer replaces riffing.
- Lyrics that widen the lens: personal feelings presented like big weather.
Was it indulgent? Yes. That’s the point.
Critics sometimes treat late-’80s The Cure as “overproduced” or “too long,” as if restraint is automatically more authentic. But Smith’s gamble was the opposite: he made excess feel honest. The songs are big because the feelings are big, and he refused to pretend otherwise.
That’s also why Disintegration still lands with listeners who don’t care about 1989 at all. It doesn’t sound like a retro vibe; it sounds like a committed emotional worldview.
Quick timeline: Robert Smith’s late-’80s arc
| Year | Career move | Why it mattered |
|---|---|---|
| 1987 | Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me | Maximal range: pop hooks plus darkness |
| 1989 | Disintegration | Definitive statement: atmosphere as main instrument |
| 1989-1990 | Major touring era | Proved the layered sound could dominate live |
| 1990 | Mixed Up | Remix culture embraced without losing identity |
Conclusion: the late-’80s are when Robert Smith becomes inevitable
Plenty of artists survive the late 1980s. Robert Smith used them. He turned The Cure into a band that could sell big without sounding safe, could be romantic without becoming soft, and could be theatrical without becoming fake.
That’s the real career achievement of the era: Smith didn’t just write great songs. He built a world so complete that listeners still step into it decades later and feel, for a while, like it’s the only weather outside.
