Stories
Reports, reviews, interviews, essays, and opinions about music and its connection to business and society.
Songs Of A Lost World, Indeed
The Cure’s new album, «Songs Of A Lost World», resonates around the world. Let’s take a closer look.
What else can I write that hasn’t been put down on paper? Yes, Songs Of A Lost World, the new album by The Cure, the first in 16 years, is a masterpiece. And one wonders what diabolical pact this Robert Smith must have made to still sound 25 at 65.
The album has since climbed to number one in the album charts in both the USA and the UK. Comparisons were drawn with the band's undisputed opus magnum: Disintegration from 1989. As ever, The Cure sounded dripping with melancholy and full of world-weariness. And in general, no one disagrees with this conclusion.
Transience is a constant companion throughout the album. In I Can Never Say Goodbye, Smith heartbreakingly deals with the death of his brother. «As a memory of the first time, in the stillness of a teardrop / As you hold me for the last time in the dying of the light,» laments Smith in And Nothing Is Forever.
Songs Of A Lost World is a desperate beacon, written by an ageing man in an ever faster-changing world. What is actually the perfect template for something cringeworthy works because Smith laments but doesn’t point fingers. It has always been that way with The Cure: profoundly personal but with a way of finding yourself in the songs.
When I asked on the Threads platform why the album resonates with people, Alex Storer replied: «I’ve experienced a lot of loss, so the lyrics speak to me personally on that level, but it seems to go further than that; it’s about the passing of time, the sudden feeling of being old(er) and the realisation that the world you've grown up in and been shaped by has changed for the worse.»
And Chris Jakins added: «The message may be bleak, but there's hope in the fact that they’re still saying it and sounding so good.»
And my personal favourites among the answers were provided by these two users:
I remember walking the streets of Zurich at the age of 18 with the album Bloodflowers playing on endless repeat. The soul bathed in adolescent despair, accompanied by The Cure.
Even more than Disintegration, I see a direct kinship between Songs Of A Lost World and 2000’s Bloodflowers. Both have this meandering quality; both take their time in the sprawling compositions and celebrate a warming sadness.
The success of Songs Of A Lost World is both surprising and natural. The Cure have almost prophetically chosen the perfect time for the release: at the turn of an era, while dreams and hopes were shattered in the US elections and a shock wave of bewilderment was sent to Europe. Instead of anger, discouragement and disorientation are on the agenda today. And this album is the perfect soundtrack to the question: What is happening to us right now?
At the same time, The Cure deliver the perfect anachronism, at least musically. In a music industry in which algorithms increasingly influence songwriting, the band creates a bastion of escapist, writhing anthems. It often takes minutes for Smith’s voice to ring out. Hooks in the first three seconds? Not a chance!
The ultimate pinnacle of despair and escapade remains the overwhelming Endsong, the album’s closing track.
It’s all gone, it’s all gone
Nothing left of all I loved
It all feels wrong
It’s all gone, it’s all gone, it’s all gone
No hopes, no dreams, no world
No, I, I don’t belong
No, I don't belong here
Songs Of A Lost World is unwieldy, wants you to take your time. It’s a stew album: the longer it simmers, the more often you stir it, the tastier it becomes.
This is anything but a matter of course today, especially for younger generations. And yet, the album also resonates with them. Characterised by a drastic pandemic and fears about the future, a new wave of melancholy and thoughtfulness has emerged in music, inspired by post-punk and dark wave.
Society and young people today are too fragmented to make generalised statements. And generalisations are always dangerous. But the days of escaping into hedonism seem to be over. Hangover mood. The challenges are too great to simply ignore.
The Cure and their Songs Of A Lost World create catharsis not through ignorance of the world but through empathy. Robert Smith knows how to say with his songs: I see you and feel your pain. It’s okay to feel desperate.
The Numbers Game
Stop paying attention on monthly listeners. It means nothing.
Numbers, numbers, numbers. They are all around us, making the world quantifiable and things comparable. They influence our perception of value and quality.
The soap for $20 must be better than the $2 one, right? And items priced at $3,99 sell way better compared to $4. It’s called psychological pricing.
Numbers can be used to manipulate our behaviour and our decision-making.
Okay, why do I talk about soap and pricing and numbers? At the start of this year, I left Spotify for Apple Music. But it was only a couple of days ago that I realised how free of any numbers Apple’s streaming service is. No monthly listeners, no plays, no likes—nothing.
And I also felt how liberating it is—consciously and unconsciously.
The Measurement of Music
Numbers have always played a significant role in the music industry. Charts were compiled through record sales and radio plays. In the end, for better or worse, it’s a business like any other.
I didn‘t want to write this, and I didn‘t plan it. In fact, there was a post scheduled about the role of metrics in today’s music industry.
But today, it feels insignificant to write about some niche music subject.
The USA voted a fascist into their highest office despite everything we know. While sitting here, as a privileged individual in privileged Switzerland, I find myself between disbelief and despair.
But now is the time for vigilance, for conviction, for compassion. Not just in the USA but worldwide, as this election will make antidemocratic forces everywhere bolder and more aggressive.
We need to stand firm. We need not normalise this current development.
Whatever you might feel right now, we also need to remember the power of music.
I saw many people finding solace in The Cure’s Songs Of A Lost World, a sonic representation of their emotional state. Music can also energise us, give us strength and hope, and that’s what we need more than ever in this seemingly darkest of timelines.
Let’s find and share our encouraging songs, let’s continue to nurture our empathy through this unique art. Send a song to a friend in need or share it on our Discord.
I know I’ll be right here and share the music that impacts me and keeps me hopeful in the face of everything.
Best,
Janosch Troehler, founder & editor
The Scariest Song I Know
This track always lets an icy chill run down my spine.
I usually don’t care about the «spooky season» at all. I’m neither a fan of horror movies nor have I ever dressed up for a Halloween party.
However, I wondered: What’s the scariest song I know?
A song that really and utterly lets a chill run down my spine because it sounds so haunting.
So, I started to dig around in my library, going straight to the darkest stuff I could think of. I was convinced some black metal artist would have an answer ready. Behemoth’s Blow Your Trumpets Gabrial, maybe? Or Den Vrede Makt by Whoredome Rife?
Not really; black metal’s shock value is entirely performative, aimed at Christian conservatives. Something that’s obviously designed to be artificially scary and violent can’t be the answer. It’s like a slasher movie: The more blood, the funnier.
My next station—goth music—often has a similar problem. When it tries to be scary, it becomes obvious. And anyway, goth music is more melancholic, more sad than scary.
But then I remembered being at this goth party years ago. There was this song that first seemed out of place, sounding rather unsuspecting.
Comprehending Nick Cave
Musical icons and rockstars are usually out of reach. Nick Cave, however, is close and intimate. And he defies simplicity. At his concert in Zurich, I begin to understand the fascination.
Nick Cave has always been an enigma to me. Ever-present in my subconsciousness, yet never fully in focus. A living legend, a phenomenon I knew was around but one I never found access to in a meaningful way. And I also know there are many who would consider all of this some sort of blasphemy.
But how does one, in 2024, start to understand the vast wealth of a creative career that has lasted over half a decade by now? It seems like a futile exercise to recapitulate without doing the 67-year-old Australian gross injustice.
There are the broad, well-known, and certainly tragic stages: a long Heroine addiction, the loss of two of his children. But it feels voyeuristic and wrong to reduce an artist to only these moments.
Multi-Dimensional
There are other intrigues about Nick Cave worth exploring. His long-standing obsession with the Old and New Testament, his relationship with religion or God, or the fact that he has opened up his mind since 2018 in «The Red Hand Files», a blog/newsletter where Cave personally answers fan’s questions. Or as he describes it:
«The Red Hand Files has burst the boundaries of its original concept to become a strange exercise in communal vulnerability and transparency.»
These files are a treasure trove of insight into a contemplative and complex man: Cave describes himself as a minor-c conservative, voiced disdain for organised religion and atheism, radical bi-partisan politics and woke culture and supported the Masha Amini protests in Iran, as well as trans rights.
Now, I know, even simply listing these keywords defies the purpose, stripping away the thoughts and arguments that led to those convictions, and are therefore pretty useless. Empty shells, meaningless, ready to be attributed by our own biases definitions.
But it ultimately raises the question of whether «The Red Hand Files» may even be Cave’s boldest artistic work today. An antidote to simple answers in populistic times—in defiance of one-dimensionality.
Stubborn Complexity
However, all of this fades away into the background on October 22nd. On this particular evening, all attention flows towards the most recognised art of the multi-disciplinarian: music.
Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds are inviting to a show at Zurich’s «Hallenstadion»—in their bags not only decades worth of material but also Wild God, the 18th (sic!) album released in August. Ten new songs—universally acclaimed. Andrew Trendell summarised for the «NME» that «once the godfather of goth, now a freewheelin' preacher of joy, Cave elevates above the grief on this colourful 18th album.»
I don’t dare to make a profound statement about the album—too unfamiliar am I with the heavy-bearing catalogue.
Yet, one notion I can’t shake, what I always stumbled upon, is a stubborn complexity. The compositions demand full commitment and attention, yet the signature is always clearly audible: from Where The Wild Roses Grow, the popular duet with Kylie Minogue, to Red Right Hand, becoming widely popular as the theme song to the series Peaky Blinders, and even the sinister, rambling epos that is The Mercy Seat.
For what it‘s worth, the decision is simple: Either you like the slight detachment of Cave‘s often more spoken than sung lyrics from the instruments… or you don‘t.
The Intimate Icon
Now I‘m sitting in Hallenstadion‘s sector G1, where the media has their spots, sitting left seen from the stage, with small tables to put down laptops, pens and paper. It‘s been years since I‘ve last sat here.
As I sip on my beer, glad I‘ll be (almost) comfortably seated for the following hours, I watch the stadium fill with people and a sliver of anticipation. But the gratitude wouldn’t last that long.
Into this still-settling scene drop The Murder Capital, a young post-punk band from Dublin, Ireland. Sometimes sad but often loud, raw, and angry, they fought an uphill battle against an ageing audience. Polite applause but few excited shouts.
At this point, you might be wondering: Where are the photos?
Unfortunately, our photographer, Evelyn Kutschera, came down with the flu, and we couldn‘t find a substitute on such short notice. But here‘s a visual break from the last concert in Zurich in 2017:
Coming back from grabbing another drink, my seat was taken by an elderly gentleman. We started talking, and he—like me—never had seen Nick Cave live before. He was convinced by a fan to come. We debated the downfall of journalism, especially in culture reporting, and about Thomas Wydler, the Swiss drummer of The Bad Seeds.
And then, for the next two and a half hours, I wished I didn‘t have a seat at all. I watched with envy down onto the crowd in front of the stage—closer to this explosion of energy and presence.
With nonchalance and verve, Cave moves up and down the stage, getting close to his fans while pleading and shouting and crying and screaming and singing. His music demands attention, undivided, and it gets it—one way or another. Throwing himself into some action poses for photos, Cave then said: «Now, put these fucking things away.»
The hall exploded with Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds. They played through every phase of their oeuvre, from the archaic, brutal post-punk beginnings like 1984‘s From Her to Eternity or the hellish performance of Tupelo to the more experimental, genre-bending songs like Conversation, which morphs from brooding spoken-word to this almighty gospel.
And when Cave and his Bad Seeds got quiet, as in Bright Horses, the thousands of people became so silent one could hear a needle drop. Such deep was the emotion.
It‘s hard to do it all justice, and it‘s harder to make sense of it all. There is this rockstar somehow out of reach on that stage but at the same time as intimate and raw as a friend. A musical icon that isn‘t beyond us mere mortals but suffers and celebrates publicly.
Experiencing the absolute wildness of this show, I begin to understand people‘s fascination for Nick Cave. And that the «Red Hand Files» aren‘t some performative stunt but results from an inevitable need for connection. A need for authenticity, a desire to let things be complicated and hard and painful, and without an easy answer or cure.
But also a need to be seen, to be recognised as a human with all our difficulties and struggles. And a need for love. Nick Cave ended the concert alone at the piano, serenaded by the audience, with an Into My Arms.
But I believe in love
And I know that you do too
And I believe in some kind of path
That we can walk down, me and you
The Story Behind «Pool Song»
A song embodying Lea Porcelain’s strive for eternal sound and how it came to life.
All of a sudden, there is this unexpected drumbeat, soon merging with the bass into a rhythm and reverberating in the void. At the same time, the synthesiser emerges from the shadows, two alternating tones like a drawn-out siren. The sound swells, humming, a flood that sweeps you away and drowns you.
Pool Song is infinity cast in music. It is the crowning achievement of the German duo Lea Porcelain’s previous—if not already completed—work. In this piece, their search for eternity manifests itself and is perhaps the moment they come closest to this goal.
They were an unlikely pairing: Markus Nikolaus, an indie musician and singer-songwriter, and Julien Bracht, an up-and-coming techno producer. Two straying planets that unexpectedly found themselves in the same orbit.
In 2016, they released the first singles as Lea Porcelain, including Warsaw Street. There was this post-punk sound, the almost depressive mood of a Joy Division song, combined with the fading synthesiser pads.
Lea Porcelain created two albums: Hymns To The Night (2017) and Choirs to Heave* (2021). Both offered outstanding songs. In between, they released the EP Love Is Not An Empire, which featured I Am OK, a surprisingly light, ukulele-driven song that became their biggest hit.
After a crowning tour finale at the Funkhaus Berlin, the creative headquarters of Lea Porcelain, the band went silent. Markus Nikolaus pursues his label «Porzellan Bar» and various other projects, and Julien Bracht is working as EMPIRICAL towards his goal of performing at «Coachella».
For the time being, centrifugal force seems to have overcome gravity; the future of Lea Porcelain is written in the stars.
Exhaustion in Rio de Janeiro
Pool Song was created on the other side of the globe, far from Lea Porcelain’s home, in Rio de Janeiro. In a villa in the hills, owned by Uwe Fabich, the ex-banker and owner of Funkhaus. Their stay there was his way of saying thank you for their work in the artist community.
Baptism of Fire for the «Songs of Homecoming»
The Beauty of Gemina started the tour in Zurich and performed every song on their new album «Songs of Homecoming». How did they hold up?
It’s a dreary Thursday evening. Rain has been pouring down all day, yet it seems fitting for the occasion. «It rains a lot in Gemina-land,» Stephen Kennedy wrote in 2014. The rain remains a recurring image in The Beauty of Gemina’s songs—most prominent in Dark Rain or the new track Vail of Rain.
I’m on my way to their concert, trying to count the times I’ve seen this band on stage, but I fail. It should be close to 20 times by now. A ridiculous number. From a writer’s perspective, there’s no justifiable reason to see a band so many times live. But, to be fair, the bulk of those shows lay far in the past.
In all those years, however, I never experienced a bad show. Yes, there were problem-riddled ones, mediocre ones. But never a terrible one. Maybe I got lucky?
I’ll tempt my luck again this night for two particular reasons:
- They play the songs from their new album, Songs of Homecoming. How will they hold up?
- As Michael Sele proclaimed in our interview, the current line-up is the best band in their history. Can they live up to the praise?
The only caveat worth mentioning here: It’s the first show of the tour. An evening that puts The Beauty of Gemina truly to the test on multiple fronts.
With the jacket zipped up to the very top and the hat drawn deep into my face, I walk through the nightly rain towards the venue, «Bogen F». This small concert room is nestled in one of the arches of a train viaduct has a special ambience. There’s a notion of a basement club within these mighty brick walls. But also a lofty feel thanks to its height.
People rush by on the shimmering asphalt, desperate to get to their warm, dry homes. This weather is a concert killer. Venues and concert promoters struggle. Usually, pre-sales are horrible, the rising number of no-shows puts a dent in bar revenue, and people generally decide spontaneously whether to attend a show or not.
Negative WhiteJanosch Troehler
But The Beauty of Gemina have been around for 17 years now. Although they never fully broke through into the mainstream, they have cultivated a dedicated fan base over the span of ten studio albums and hundreds of concerts. It’s one of the bands that will remain sort of a secret tip, recommended by the initiated, and successful in its own regard.
The concert wasn’t sold out, but despite the weather, the room was packed. The audience aged with the band; only a few visibly young individuals were in the crowd. And, noticeably, ambassadors of the wave and gothic scene, where the band originated, were definitely in the minority.
Shattering bass drones introduced Dreams of the Vagabonds, and the show began. But not without some technical problems. Electrical feedback from the guitar, paired with concerned glances by the musicians.
The second song, Whispers of the Seasons, didn’t inspire confidence either. Frailing, as if the band was disconnected, it also felt awfully noisy, and the contrast between the vulnerable verses and the hopeful chorus drowned.
But then, the band found its stride. With End and Crossroads, they celebrated the 2016 album Minor Sun, played vigorously and with confidence. Followed by Veil of Rain, where they lowered the full weight of this slow and heavy dark wave track with clarity and precision on the collective souls.
Everything the audience could hear that evening was played live, thanks to keyboarder Daniel Manhart, the most recent addition to the line-up, and Mac Vinzens hitting a hybrid drum. Combined with the musical development, The Beauty of Gemina can play liberated as never before.
Most apparent became this freedom with One Step to Heaven, a song from their debut album which received a rework last year. The song became lighter and gained space, which the band used to deliver an extraordinarily excellent performance which only enforced its psychedelic, trance-provoking nature.
The Beauty of Gemina made bold choices for the tour. Not only did they waive to add the band’s hit, Suicide Landscape, to the setlist, but they played every single song from the new album live. Interlaced with reliable classics from their repertoire like Rumours or the haunting River, the new songs—with the exception of Whispers of the Seasons—worked perfectly on stage.
Now, it’s worth taking a breath and thinking about the significance of this feat. No other album in the band’s oeuvre has this all-around live quality. And few bands will ever release an album that works on stage as well as it does on the record.
Regardless of the technical challenges and the few occasions Sele struggled with his lyrics on King’s Men Come and Endless Time to See, the band’s performance was professional throughout and, at times, extraordinary.
It’s not a wild and exuberant rock show. Instead of gimmicky visuals and an extrovert attitude, you’ll find restraint, nuance and sophistication with small outbursts of sparks and brilliance. Especially when they pull into a longer instrumental part.
Negative WhiteJanosch Troehler
So, back to my questions. Did the Songs of Homecoming pass the test of live performance? Definitely, almost to incredible perfection.
And is it the best live band ever to call themselves The Beauty of Gemina? Well, that’s hard to say from one single show. It certainly wasn’t their best-ever gig; they had a bumpy start—coupled with the nervousness incumbent of a tour start. And yet, throughout the 90 minutes, they only gained confidence and energy. That’s a promise.
«It was awesome,» a woman tells her friend. The rain stopped, and the ship came in. A fire crackles in the metal pit outside, drowning everything in its proximity into a golden glow. The baptism of fire for The Beauty of Gemina and Songs of Homecoming is accomplished.
«Never before has an album been as self-contained as ‹Songs of Homecoming›»
The Beauty of Gemina’s Michael Sele about the new album, closing a circle, and how illness and the pandemic fuelled his confidence as an artist.
With Songs of Homecoming, The Beauty of Gemina are about to release their 10th studio album. It is an intimate record featuring well-rounded compositions that bridge the band’s early dark, electronically driven gestures and the playful acoustic nuances from recent years.
Negative White sat down with the band’s creative mind, Michael Sele, at «Altes Kino Mels», his musical home base, for an extensive conversation. Across from us sat a man who found his confidence as an artist rather than a part of a band.
Michael, we last spoke officially eight years ago, before the release of Minor Sun. Looking back, what was the most influential moment for The Beauty of Gemina?
It’s difficult to pinpoint the most formative moment. Shortly before Minor Sun, there was another big personnel change in the band. These changes have followed me throughout the years of the band’s history. Minor Sun was the moment that led me to where I am today: I gained more self-confidence and put myself at the centre. The romantic notion of the band at the centre disappeared. It’s easy to say you’re the bandleader now, but it was a long process with many small steps.
Another critical moment was our first visit to South America in 2018. An autograph session was organised in Mexico; many came with things for us to sign. Printed fan artwork and flyers from all phases of the band, and I realised that the musicians constantly change; only one thing is the same: me and, of course, Mac Vinzens.
That’s when I realised that it’s all about this person. Clearly, music plays an important role, but it is immediately associated with me as an artist.
It’s interesting that you saw The Beauty of Gemina more as a band until Minor Sun. From an outside perspective, I would argue that it was always the artist Michael Sele and a changing cast of musicians around him. At the same time, my impression is that The Beauty of Gemina is more of a band today.
Yes, emotionally, I’m absolutely with you. The live band is undoubtedly the strongest formation I’ve ever had.
However, you must differentiate between two aspects: The musicians on stage are not the same as in the studio. For the production, I often worked with people in the studio who were never mentioned afterwards.
This was often not realised and is also the fault of digitalisation. On streaming platforms, there is hardly any information about the people behind the music. It’s madness that this is being lost today.
In any case, I created the last three albums mainly with my long-time companion, Philipp Küng. He was also involved earlier, but I only really mentioned this for the first time in my book.
What makes today’s live band the strongest formation in The Beauty of Gemina’s history?
I feel that, for the first time, everyone involved is purely about the music. That certainly has to do with age and maturity. It’s less about the side effects: the tours, the limelight, the autograph sessions. I’ve always been fascinated by creating. The encounters with the music. Who can I touch? What happens afterwards? That’s my driving force.
Now, I have people in the band interested in the same thing. We were recently back in Chile for the first time since 2018. At all the concerts, I felt that the band was all about the music and the encounters with the fans. That’s an excellent feeling.
It sounds so simple, but you must never forget: Applause is dangerous, especially when you’re younger. You can lose yourself in it. Suddenly, things become possible, but you forget yourself.
As the artist Michael Sele moved more into focus, so did his private life. And in 2019, a drastic event would further change Sele’s self-perception and perspective: heart surgery.
