Happy 40th Anniversary to The Cure’s second studio album Seventeen Seconds, originally released April 22, 1980.
In some ways, Seventeen Seconds is the first real record by The Cure. It’s certainly the first that turned out the way frontman Robert Smith wanted.
Technically, the British rock group, hailing from the shadows of Gatwick, had issued their debut Three Imaginary Boys (1979) a year earlier. But, the outcome wasn’t what Smith intended. The product of manager Chris Parry’s commercially motivated decisions, the first Cure album features what would become career-defining tracks and perennial fan favorites, but taken as a whole, the package was lacking. Smith viewed it more like a compilation—too brash and haphazard to create a distinct mood.
Eager to push forward, The Cure joined London-based Siouxsie and the Banshees on tour that summer. They didn’t get far winding their way up the UK when the Banshees’ drummer and guitarist abruptly left the band, causing Smith to not only open shows with his band, but also fill in on guitar for the headlining act. The demanding schedule, exacerbated by growing tension with bassist Michael Dempsey and increasing strain in his relationship with girlfriend Mary Poole, took a mental toll on the then 20-year-old songwriter. By the time the trio returned home in mid-October, they were ripe for revision.
Within days, Smith reshuffled The Cure lineup, replacing Dempsey with Simon Gallup and adding keyboardist Matthieu Hartley. Lol Tolhurst stayed on as the drummer. The move was an effort to reinvigorate the band and expand their repertoire of instruments, after falling into a mechanical routine with Dempsey.
The third issue of the band’s official newsletter summarized the changes, “The new four piece CURE takes all the strengths of the old trio—space, invention, melody, understatement—and combines these strengths with others that were previously conspicuous by their absence—texture, mood, experimentation, consistency, enjoyment, and depth. THE CURE is developing, but not to order: it was never intended to be a cosy outfit aiming for (careful) ‘pop’ notoriety, and it will never become one.”
Indeed, Smith had a specific sound in mind for the new record. He also had most of the words, having penned them after the Newcastle show with the Banshees. In the album reissue (2005) liner notes, Smith recalls the harrowing evening, “A lot of awful, weird stuff came to a head that night … A lot of anger and anguish. I felt overcome, overwhelmed…and very alone.”
Seventeen Seconds first took to tape in Crawley, mere days after the lyrics were crafted. Using a basic setup in his parents’ house, Smith recorded demos for half the album, including the bewitching “Play for Today” and world-weary title track. The remaining songs came together with the group, highlighting from the earliest days the easy congruence between Smith and Gallup. As much as Seventeen Seconds delivers on Smith’s aesthetic vision, it would not embody the quintessential Cure sound were it not for the melodic basslines of Gallup.
“Every song we did,” Smith confides in the aforementioned liner notes, “I was like, ‘Ah, this is it.’ I remember doing ‘Play for Today’ and ‘A Forest’ and thinking, ‘Yes, this is the music we should be making.’”
In January 1980, The Cure recorded Seventeen Seconds at Morgan Studios in London, where they’d sired their debut. To save money, the four-piece lived in the two-room studio, coalescing in tight quarters and drinking heavily until they were ready to go to work with Mike Hedges, who had engineered the previous album. Only this time, having learned his lesson with the less-than-ideal Three Imaginary Boys, Smith essentially told Parry to stay away and insisted on co-producing with Hedges. Taking a week to record and a week to mix, the process was quick—testament to its inevitable destiny.
On April 22nd, the day after his 21st birthday, the once-disillusioned Smith finally released the album he’d dreamt of making.
“I wanted it to be inspired by Nick Drake with the clear, finished sound of Bowie’s Low,” Smith has remarked. “I imagined it sounding rather accoustic (sic). I’d been listening to a lot of cello music and I thought it would be good to have drums, bass and guitar with a huge hole in the middle.”
Managing to feel immediate and elusive, Seventeen Seconds draws us in, but keeps us at a tantalizing distance, tickling the mind with murky suspense. It’s a nuanced ride through a cinematic world swirling with uncertainties, secrets and the wicked thoughts we chase in the witching hour.
For fans, the album holds special significance, marking our first entrance into the rich textures and atmospheric realm that only The Cure can create. It flickers with lonely despair that would grow ever darker over the course of the impending trilogy, with successors Faith (1981) and Pornography (1982) pulling us deeper and deeper into the pits of despondence.
But, Seventeen Seconds was just the beginning of the introspective odyssey and merely sensed the abyss rather than fully inhabiting it. Despite its nocturnal aura and cloak of foreboding, it also clings to romantic notions, even when that means grasping at figments and ghosts of what once was.
The ominous instrumental “A Reflection” opens the album, with pensive piano and sparse guitar creating a spooky space that would easily suit a black-and-white horror film. Its restrained pacing is the perfect setup for dark wave standout “Play for Today.” Amidst crashing cymbals, all the instruments come alive and Smith’s voice rings out for the first time on Seventeen Seconds, impassioned despite the tedium of which he sings.
Conceived during a rough period in his relationship, “Play for Today” was one of the first songs Smith wrote for the album, capturing the defeatist ambivalence that arises from arguments which don’t seem to end. Its layered brilliance lures new fans and enthralls old ones. It’s among the top five songs The Cure play live, and I still go crazy every time I see it.
The poignant longing which imbues Smith’s poetics emerged in Three Imaginary Boys and ripples through Seventeen Seconds, too. The third track, “Secrets,” obliquely hints at a reason for the discord driving “Play for Today,” referring to “another girl,” but also pines for another time when the couple were closer (“I catch your eyes in the dark / One look relives the memory / Remember me / The way I used to be”). Smith’s vocals here are faraway-sounding, enshrouding the tune with enigmatic wistfulness.
Getting deeper into Seventeen Seconds, we enter “In Your House,” a disquieting track that exemplifies the growing distance. The song’s working title, “Two People,” emphasizes the discrete individuality we bring to relationships. But, the final version underscores the personal struggle. Detaching from his own needs, Smith is “pretending to swim” in someone else’s world. And the time ticks on, every moment bleeding into eternity. The somber song ends with fading drums that trail away like a disappearing heartbeat.
The mounting dread is given space to meander in “Three.” The improvised, barely there vocals warp under the surface, underscoring the inner tension of trying to balance the needs of the other with those of the self. The number three itself is revealing, especially given the lyrical focus on duality. The gravity of that which goes unsaid is so powerful, it takes on its own presence, forming a fuzzy, yet undeniable third. Interestingly, both the figure and concept of three show up recurringly in The Cure canon.
Clocking in under a minute, “The Final Sound” is the second instrumental track on the record, brooding in the same apprehensive vein as “A Reflection.” The band intended for the song to last much longer than its 52 seconds, but the tape ran out while they were recording and they didn’t have the budget to do another take. Based on the title alone, the fact that The Cure couldn’t complete “The Final Sound” is actually quite a relief.
Fittingly perhaps, the sole single, “A Forest,” follows. While the occult treasures of Seventeen Seconds have gone somewhat unnoticed by the music community at large, “A Forest” commands universal reverence—an unequivocal masterpiece in its own right. For 40 years straight, listeners have happily taken the dare (“Come closer and see / See into the trees / Find the girl / While you can / Come closer and see / See into the dark / Just follow your eyes / Just follow your eyes”), willfully running “into the trees,” into the existential nightmare alongside Smith. Spanning nearly 1,100 shows over the past four decades, “A Forest” is the song The Cure have performed the most, and I’ve never seen one instance where the crowd didn’t devour it alive.
For all its desperate searching, “A Forest” ends on a characteristically nihilistic note (“The girl was never there / It’s always the same / I’m running towards nothing / Again and again and again”). The sentiment reappears repeatedly through Smith’s lyrical landscape, and it’s almost comforting in its consistency—yet another reason I love The Cure. They acknowledge life’s futility, but don’t relinquish the fight.
Ambient and cohesive, Seventeen Seconds was a clear departure from their debut, and it’s “A Forest” that makes the bold statement best, artfully conjuring a cryptic world of furtive fantasy and shivering solitude. Looking back on the life-changing song, Smith recalls, “The archetypal Cure sound, it was probably the turning point when people started listening to the group and thinking we could achieve something, including me.”
While the record reaches it dramatic crescendo with “A Forest,” the slow denouement is also adequately arresting. The mysteriously devious “M” glints in the blackness behind “A Forest.” Exuding both sweetness and anxiety, the song was one of the first Smith wrote for Seventeen Seconds, undoubtedly inspired by his love for girlfriend Mary. Although the lyrics don’t necessarily paint the rosiest of pictures, it’s a grounding force in an otherwise opaque realm.
From here, we approach the looming void. The penultimate track steals its name from the Franz Kafka short story, “At Night,” an homage to the palpable emptiness of the vespertine hour (“I hear the darkness breathe”). It’s a theme explored throughout the album, but as we near its conclusion, the earlier indifference, if feigned, now seems less a choice than an inevitable truth.
And so, as we meet the closing title track, we are left with no trickery to taunt, no prospect of illusion to bait (“Time slips away / And the light begins to fade / And everything is quiet now / Feeling is gone / And the picture disappears / Everything is cold now / The dream had to end / The wish never came true”). Instead, we must face the ceaseless ennui, alone. Seventeen seconds, a thousand hours, one hundred years, an eternity—does time signify anything when nothing has meaning?
A twilit resignation sinks in, setting the stage for Faith, the next album in the trilogy. But, before we surrender ourselves to the endless hollow, it’s worth taking a moment to pause and appreciate how far The Cure had already come. In just one year, Smith had overcome the production missteps of their scattered debut and reclaimed control, delivering an alluring invitation to an intriguing, new world.
Thankfully, for Smith and fans alike, it’s one wish that failed to vanish.
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