Immediately after the mid-70s, almost simultaneously in the United States and in England, the advent of punk rock was considered a sort of great cultural reset that freed popular music from the baroque and the intellectualism of so-called prog-rock, but also of certain psychedelia and AOR — genres that had dominated the scene at the turn of the 60s and 70s by imposing a virtuosic and visionary conception, and a magniloquent idea of musicians, singers and their live shows.
A reset not only from a strictly sonic perspective, but above all from a lyrical one, since the words abandoned what had become too cultured, and the cerebral turn gave way to society, politics, youth discontent and addiction, treated with a very direct, very anarchic approach, or a fully nihilistic one. Highly provocative and polemical, in any case.
In truth the 70s had not been characterised — until then — only by the elitist music of groups like Genesis, Yes, King Crimson, ELP and Pink Floyd. In Germany the krautrock of Faust, Neu! and Can had taken root, mixing electronics with sound experiments that would later partly define the industrial sound. Many cues from the two masterpiece albums by Neu! turn up again a few years later in the style of Joy Division and The Cure. Speaking of pure electronics, there was Kraftwerk, laying the foundations of what would become the synthpop of Depeche Mode and Human League. And in the same years in which punk knew its peak of planetary popularity, the White Duke — Bowie — produced together with Brian Eno, in the so-called Berlin period, a couple of albums that in some way already anticipated stylistic features of the real new wave.
The reset started by the Ramones in the USA and the Damned in the UK was certainly a cultural revolution, then, but not as clear-cut and uprooting as has often been said. In some ways it was a transition, a more nuanced transfer of roots that had already germinated in the early 70s.
And so all the music that came after the explosions of the Sex Pistols and Dead Boys assumed the new wave label, to define a real wave of new names and new faces that ran riot for a long time, giving new life to the most emotional and pulsing soul of rock culture — without betraying what had been left by the legacy of psychedelia, but also of traditional rock, disco and pop in general.
In this wave, various currents and sub-currents stood out, some strongly based on the power of the image as much as that of the music: new romantic, gothic punk, ska, to name a few. Often very different from each other, but all subsidiaries of that new approach, which saw a certain rejection of the past even in the more independent management of production and distribution. It was not only a flourishing of new artists: hundreds of new record labels were born, untied from the power of the majors, and a new generation of producers was formed, capable of reading the wind that was blowing and the needs of the public.
Punk as such, in the end, did not last long, and although the sonic seeds it had scattered continued to bear fruit in the sound of many artists, it was above all its breaking dynamics that were functional to the renewal. After all, new wave itself returned to an intellectual connotation that was certainly not fragile, in the words of many representative authors who literally set the template: Robert Smith of The Cure, Morrissey of The Smiths, Jaz Coleman of Killing Joke, Ian Curtis of Joy Division. Authors who remained influential for decades on thousands of other bands. But the distance between the angry spontaneity of the 80s and the long-winded refinements of the 70s was consolidated in a fairly marked way in this sense too.
Being the co-founder of an iconic rock band that defined an era and influenced, in many ways, at least two future generations of fans and musicians — this inevitably gives you a legendary halo. How could it not?
And yet Lawrence “Lol” Tolhurst (class of ’59), who co-founded The Cure in 1976 together with his friend Robert Smith, is a kind and peaceful man who has never abandoned his practical vision of his job, even though he is aware of the great relevance that creature represents to this day.
After the flaming divorce from the band in 1989, Tolhurst took stock, got sober, and began to build a new career without ever living off the fat of the land — getting involved in new projects with the same enthusiastic passion that saw him creating The Cure, continuing to grow the art of music with curiosity and intelligence.
After the beginning of the new millennium he formed the duo Levinhurst with his wife Cindy Levinson (met in Hollywood, married in 2002), living a different dimension of fame and returning to playing — especially on stage — the drums, as on The Cure’s first albums.
Recently he has been promoting a new podcast co-hosted with Budgie, legendary drummer of Siouxsie and the Banshees and The Creatures, entitled Curious Creatures. The project explores “the enduring legacy of post-punk and its contemporary relevance”. The podcast launched in October and is available on all streaming platforms, or on the official website, which is full of exclusive content. Tolhurst and Budgie answer questions sent in by the audience in the second half of each episode, and most episodes have a special guest.
Even if divided by an infinite number of miles, thanks to the precious intermediation of his press agent we got around the time zones and had a wide-ranging conversation about the past history of The Cure and his current vision of things.
Good evening Lol. Let’s start from the present. Just yesterday morning I was listening to some tracks by Levinhurst and my perception was this: a relevant and stratified baggage of artistic experience. I feel an elegant evolution of what you learned playing in The Cure — we can appreciate it, for example, listening to your new version of “All Cats Are Grey”. Then I think: Lol Tolhurst spent almost twelve years of his life playing with The Cure, but from 1989 to the present day he spent another thirty years making music. What are the most relevant elements in this evolution after The Cure? What kind of influences have you gathered to reach your current personal style?
I feel that the years after The Cure have been most important because they represent a growing up into real life. It’s pretty magical still, but it’s vastly different from the life I had in The Cure. I am still immensely proud of what we did with The Cure, but I feel this part of my life will be more helpful to people and is a more accurate distillation of my creative journey.
Influences? My life is the influence of everything. I don’t mean that in a flippant way, I mean sincerely that creation and my everyday existence are completely entwined.
You began as a drummer, in The Cure line-up. You were not a virtuoso like the drummers of the prog-rock scene usually were — but your drumming style was so distinctive, and I think that in the first albums of your discography your rhythm style was as fundamental as Robert’s voice and guitar. I’m talking about how you used the splash cymbal, for example. Minimal, precise sounds: perfect for those songs, for those atmospheres. A song like “A Forest” wouldn’t be the same without that rhythm structure.
Unlike many of our contemporaries, we did not seek to emulate our heroes. We strove to find our own style. We rejected a lot of the overblown histrionics of prog-rock but wanted to maintain — at its better points — the intensity and emotional content. A friend noted it’s the mistakes you make that become your sound. With us it was our limitations that became us.
“Pornography” has been a true turning point. Today this album is considered a milestone in the post-punk scene, and in the whole of rock culture after all. Its popularity has increased a lot over these 40 years. To keep talking about drums: in “Pornography” your drumming is heavier and dirtier. You used deep, low toms, a resonant snare, and the cymbals were so crashing. I adore your work in “The Figurehead” and “Cold”. There’s a mixture of sounds quite different from “Seventeen Seconds” and “Faith”. How was that sound born? Was it a spontaneous need inside a creative process, or did you decide it rationally?
We had thought to use a different collaborator for this album. Up until then it had been Mike Hedges. We talked to Conny Plank first, so there was a rational idea that we were going to change. In the end we chose Phil Thornalley, who was just 21 when we recorded this.
I think we gave each other permission to sound the way we did. We were all very young, so nothing was set in stone as regards the sounds we made. It was quite a difficult record to make, and yet at the same time it was — and still is to me — our freest, most natural record.
Incidentally, we were listening to the final playback of “Disintegration” in RAK Studio years later, in the same place where we made “Pornography”, so it has much personal symbolism to me as a place and time. The place where the best and the worst things happened to me! (laughing)
After “Pornography” the band lived through a transitional period, with a more electronic production, more synths, more drum machines. And a taste of jazz too. It was 1983, there were “The Walk” and “The Lovecats” in our cassette decks. Then, in 1984, when you became a full-fledged keyboard player, The Cure recorded a new album, “The Top”, that didn’t sound so electronic. Songs like “Shake Dog Shake” and “Give Me It” are full of distorted guitars. Do you think your fans, at that point, had different expectations? “The Top” is considered a transitional work too, a bridge from the dark disease of “Pornography” towards the oneiric mood of “The Head on the Door”. As far as I’m concerned, “The Top” is a great work — I see it as an essential step in your discography.
You are correct. “The Top” was an essential transition for us from the intensity of “Pornography” through the electric and jazz singles. It was a calm and tranquil album to make in many ways — just me and Robert with Andy, who was new to the band. I don’t recall much angst or trouble making it. It was necessary to our soul as a band.
It also has some of my favourite lyrics I ever wrote on it, for “The Caterpillar” and “Piggy in the Mirror”. I was thinking about this time recently, as one of the regular visitors to the studio was a record company guy who just passed away. It reminded me that time waits for no man.
Since I’m a pianist and a synth player, I’m very curious about the instruments you chose. Tell me something about your keyboards for studio recording sessions, and something about the way you organised your keyboard set on stage.
I liked all the early EMU keyboards, the Ensoniq Mirage samplers, and used the latest version of those plus Oberheim sample players live. In the studio we would bring all our collection of keys — the Arp Solina chief among them — and use the studio’s piano. In many ways we were also victims of the times: we used the ubiquitous DX7 and the Fairlight.
Most of my brief when in the studio at the start of sessions was to find exciting and unique sounds to use. I think I’m better at that than at being a virtuoso player. (laughing)
Life on stage. The Cure, after the middle of the 80s, started to play in bigger and bigger venues. I remember your gigs for The Head Tour and the Kissing Tour, with audiences of 5,000 to 10,000 here in Italy. Today your live performances are placed in a different dimension, more confidential, more intimate and cosy. That’s a very right dimension for a certain kind of music, because you can give something more to your audience, and you can manage the technical side of the sound perfectly. How do you feel about this? Coming back to the snug stages of your origins after a true feast of huge venues — coming back to playing drums, above all.
In the end, drums are my true love, as they are so visceral, and as you get older it feels good to be able to play them still. They are very abstract and emotional as an instrument.
Smaller places to play certainly allow more control and intimacy, but too small gets scary when people are very close. I feel best in 1,000 to 2,000 capacity venues. The places we played for Reflections were a little bigger, but that feels the correct size to me.
Talking about look and trend: The Cure determined a sort of standard in those years, an iconic reference point for all the dark generations. Feathered hair, creeper shoes, black eyeliner, black shirts — The Cure’s dress code was one of your trademarks. How do you think this look has influenced your artistic appeal? Was it an inevitable cultural element you couldn’t ignore? I’ve got a huge collection of pictures: in your early years your wardrobe was so varied, a mix of punk, dandy and rock’n’roll rebel.
Obviously our look became distilled into its core elements as time wore on. A way to identify who you were. Now it’s almost the uniform of a sub-section of society. I admit it feels good to have a hand in that.
At the start, you’re correct, it was more varied — experimenting with stuff, really. To see what would fit. No pun intended.
In 1983 you produced the debut album of a band I love so much: And Also the Trees. Great lead voice, great guitar sound, great atmospheres. These guys have been the most underrated protagonists of the British new wave scene. Tell me something about this experience, please. I know well what being a producer means: you work on a higher level of artistic sensibility, you are a sort of alchemist.
I have always been interested in how sound and music affect me emotionally. It’s not just an intellectual process for me. My favourite music and sounds always have those elements. As a producer I try to bring that out in the other artists I work with. And Also the Trees are very good for that — their music is very emotional to me.
You work with your wife Cindy today. So many years together and an excellent artistic journey. As Levinhurst you have published an interesting series of records. And I see you breathing and playing peacefully, isn’t it so? When I listen to a song like “Somewhere Sometime” I truly hope this project goes on — even if I don’t know what you’re scheming now. Disclose something new, please.
Well, there are many things on the horizon. Books, albums, films, TV.
But you are correct: I have a good existence now, peaceful, with my wife and son in my life, and mostly I get to do what I want to do. Do I have a regret? That I didn’t know some of what I know now as a younger man — but of course that’s impossible, so no regrets. Life is beautiful.