I’ve been a Cure fan for as long as I can remember. I jumped aboard the train around the time Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me appeared. It was the mid-’80s, and I was 14 years old, stuck in a small town. I’d just discovered eyeliner and giant hair. Anyway, the Cure had been at it since the late 1970s. It’s quite an achievement for a band to last a decade, let alone two. It’s even stranger for one that’s considered sort of uncool to have such longevity. Usually a band will break up, adapt their sound to a pop trend, or just suck until no one listens to them anymore. The Cure keep at it. For over 20 years, skinny, confused kids who have only three colors in their wardrobe (black, dark, and dim) have worshiped at Robert Smith’s altar of pain and desperation (“Friday I’m In Love” notwithstanding). A lot of these fans have grown up and expanded their wardrobes to include various shades of brown and dark gray, while new generations of confused children rely on Smith to get them through troubled times. One can sense that the Cure’s end is near, however. I don’t know if I read that somewhere or if I can just sense that the fire is starting to flicker. The critics are gathering around their latest effort, Bloodflowers, like a pack of goth-eating dogs. They note a lack of strong songs. They say it’s not dynamic enough. But I think what’s really happening is that the critics are taking a day off and going after the Cure because they’re such an easy target. As convenient as it was to attack them when they first started making nonconformist records, we have come full circle, and the Cure once again face criticism about why they sound the way they do. I may be alone, but I’m still a sucker for their sound, and if they do break up, I’m going to miss them.

You can relive your favorite Cure memory weekday mornings with John on KCMU 90.3 FM from 6-10am and online at www.kcmu.org