The Cure’s 40 Greatest Songs Ranked

This spring, the Cure will celebrate the 40th anniversary of their fifth studio album, The Top. Formed in 1978 by Robert Smith, Michael Dempsey and Lol Tolhurst, the Cure have endured as one of the most crucial alt-rock bands of all time—as they’ve become definitive torchbearers of post-punk, new wave, gothic and, at times, synth- and jangle-pop. Across 45 years, they’ve put out 13 records (none since 2008) and have remained steadfast in touring, with various lineup changes over the years—save for Smith and Simon Gallup, the latter of whom has been with the band since 1979.

Over their history together, the Cure have released three of the greatest alt-rock albums of all time—Pornography, The Head on the Door and Disintegration—and have left a mark on five decades of music. From their debut LP Three Imaginary Boys through their 2008 (for now) finale 4:13 Dream, the Cure have cemented their legacy as one of the greatest bands to ever make music together—so, it’s high time Paste looks at the best of what the West Sussex goth heroes have to offer. Without further ado, here are the Cure’s 40 greatest songs, ranked. —Matt Mitchell & Olivia Abercrombie, Music Editors

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40. “Killing An Arab” (1978)

Despite its “controversial” past, “Killing An Arab” is integral to the Cure’s history. Not only was it the A-side of their very first single, but they performed the song on their TV debut. Smith wrote “Killing An Arab” at only 16, detailing the plot of Albert Camus’s novel The Stranger, which follows its protagonist before and after he kills an Arab man. The Cure’s sonic retelling of the book contemplates the same philosophical questions and existential quandaries that the apathetic main character goes through in that pivotal moment on the beach. “I can turn and walk away or I can fire the gun / Staring at the sky, staring at the sun / Whichever I choose, it amounts to the same / Absolutely nothing,” Smith ponders in the second chorus about the meaninglessness of decisions of free will. The track is centered around a shrill guitar scale, evoking an image of a faraway eastern land where this plot could take place. With their first single, the Cure established their legendary style featuring rich, pounding basslines, Smith’s distinctive vocals and poignant lyricism. —Olivia Abercrombie

39. “The Only One” (4:13 Dream, 2008)

It’s difficult to compare the Cure’s work from the 21st century with that of the previous, but only because their 1980s album run is one of the greatest in all of rock history. The Cure haven’t made a record together since 4:13 Dream in 2008, but it boasts one of the band’s most enjoyable tracks since Wish: “The Only One.” Robert Smith’s voice sounds particularly great here, as he sings some of the most sensual, romantic lines of his entire career (“I love what you do to my bones” is immaculate phrasing). “Yeah, it gets wetter every day I stay / With you, it’s like a dream,” Smith lets out as the band revel in a good measure of yearning pop bliss, solidifying “The Only One” as a Cure all-timer. —Matt Mitchell

38. “Burn” (The Crow Original Motion Picture Soundtrack, 1994)

Love and death. Both the Cure and The Crow exemplify those themes in their art. “Burn” finds these two goth dynasties crashing together for one of the best movie soundtrack collaborations ever. Before the film was even set into motion, The Crow’s creator was referencing their lyrics—even quoting “The Hanging Garden” in its entirety—in the comics. Originally, the song was meant to be “The Hanging Garden,” but Smith loved the comics so much that he wanted to write an original song for the soundtrack. “Burn” sits in the pocket between the brash drumlines of “The Hanging Garden” and the thumping basslines of “Fascination Street.” “Burn” is a self-referential gothic gem that is the perfect theme for the supernatural cult classic. —OA

37. “Maybe Someday” (Bloodflowers, 2000)

So much of Bloodflowers mixes melancholia with the looming threat of the Cure officially disbanding—which we can now happily say didn’t come to fruition in totality. It gave a certain bittersweet melody to many of the tracks, particularly “Maybe Someday,” one of only two promotional singles released from the album before it dropped. Upon release, the album was met with mixed reviews, but all with the consensus that it didn’t stand up to the Cure’s previous work. However, almost 25 years later, amongst the noise, “Maybe Someday” stands out as a transitional triumph into the band’s later alt-rock 2000s work while delivering some incredibly self-aware lyricism: “If it can’t be like before, I’ve got to let it end.” —OA

36. “Let’s Go To Bed” (Japanese Whispers, 1983)

“Let’s Go To Bed” is easily the most ‘80s pop the Cure ever put out—yet even with the whimsical pop beat, Smith’s somber drone still keeps it true to their unmistakable style. After taking time off for mental health reasons following their Pornography-era, Smith returned with the least “Cure” song yet—made as a “fuck you” to their record label, who said Smith couldn’t write a hit. Although “Let’s Go To Bed” was Smith’s best attempt to destroy the Cure and alienate their fanbase, it backfired and charted. The chorus and upbeat dance melody align them with new wave heavy hitters like New Order and the Pet Shop Boys. The track has aged as a Cure classic, even leading Smith to warm up to it. —OA

35. “Friday I’m in Love” (Wish, 1992)

The last Cure song to hit #1 on the alternative charts, “Friday I’m in Love” remains their most commercially successful single after receiving a 2x platinum certification in 1992. It’s Robert Smith’s self-proclaimed “throw your hands in the air, let’s get happy” track on Wish, and it’s one of the poppiest avenues the band went down in the 1990s. With a jangly, easy-going melody and a shiny guitar riff to boot, the song is a masterclass in songwriting from Smith. 32 years on and it’s nearly impossible to say something new about “Friday I’m in Love.” A really great anecdote is that the chord progression was so brilliant that Robert feared he hawked it from someplace else. To his elation (and ours), it was perfectly his. —MM

34. “The Perfect Girl” (Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, 1987)

A deeper cut on the backside of the imbalanced Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, “The Perfect Girl” is gothic, proto-slacker rock ‘n’ roll done absolutely right. Smith’s vocals are particularly entrancing, and only he can make a line like “I think I’m falling in love with you”—which has been sung over and over for 70 years—sound so original. The Cure take the post-punk drones of their first few albums and merge it with the buoyant pop instrumentation that would define albums like Wish, and “The Perfect Girl”—though overshadowed by the universal belovedness of “Just Like Heaven” is remarkable, refined and worth revisiting. —MM

33. “Dressing Up” (The Top, 1984)

The Top was the Cure’s bridge between their post-punk beginnings and the art-pop of their most commercial years, and “Dressing Up” is the unsung superstar of the tracklist—existing as an odd, psychedelic baseline of ambition. The instrumentation on “Dressing Up” sounds like an ‘80s pop-chart success story submerged in water, and it’s wholly sublime because of it. Smith sounds like he’s crawling on all fours and wailing in prayer. It’s accessible, colorful, woozy and timeless with vibrancy, and Lol Tolhurst’s keyboard-playing sounds especially perfect here. —MM

32. “The Drowning Man” (Faith, 1981)

I contend that Faith is the most underrated entry in the Cure’s catalog, and its initial divisiveness between critics in 1981 hammers that point home even further. Lead single “Primary” ran up a towering cloud of doom, but “The Drowning Man” is one of the most terror-inducing post-punk tracks of the 1980s. But no matter how gothic the Cure go, they always plug in touches of beauty, and “The Drowning Man” is an impressive moment of haunted, downtempo rock ‘n’ roll. The track features some of Smith’s most poetic language, and lines like “I would have left the world all bleeding, could I only help you love / The fleeting shapes so many years ago, so young and beautiful and brave” still cut to the bone 43 years on. —MM

31. “Untitled” (Disintegration, 1989)

Going into making this list, I tried to be conscious of spreading the wealth and not put all 12 Disintegration songs in the ranking—but, it’s hard to ignore doing just that, because it’s a perfect album. The record’s closing track—the ominous “Untitled”—is one of the greatest finales in all of rock ‘n’ roll, as the Cure let the melancholia become even more tragic. “Feeling the monster climb deeper inside of me, feeling him gnawing my heart away hungrily,” Smith sings at the song’s end. “I’ll never lose this pain, never dream of you again.” A devastating conclusion to the greatest goth album ever made, “Untitled” doesn’t need a name—the rapture is in the funereal, dreamy, six-minute guitar work from Smith and Porl Thompson. —MM

30. “The Baby Screams” (The Head on the Door, 1985)

I have no idea what kind of infectious energy Robert put into the intro of “The Baby Screams,” but I will always get an indescribable thrill whenever I hear it. Simon Gallup left the Cure for a few years following Pornography, but he made his return to the band for The Head on the Door—giving us more of his killer basslines, one of which grounds the pleasure and pain of “The Baby Screams” perfectly. This album also introduced us to Boris Williams’s phenomenal work behind the drum kit, adding another layer of vibrancy to the Cure’s already-rich sonic palette. Smith composed this entire album solo, really leaning into the pop ethos of the ’80s while maintaining the intrinsically unnerving lyricism the band does best. The lines “Heaven, give me a sign” and “Strike me dead” repeated throughout the song frantically chase after Williams’s fast-paced drums, mirroring the story’s desperation with striking emotion. —OA

29. “Cut” (Wish, 1992)

It’s not too often that the Cure made an explosive jam, but when they did, they were always ready to blow you over with it. Nestled in-between the melodic pop of “A Letter To Elise” and the somber ooze of “To Wish Impossible Things,” “Cut” absolutely rips through you. The relentless combination of Porl Thompson and Smith’s joint guitar-playing work together as a two-part star of the show here—not to mention Perry Bamonte’s studio contributions, as well. Smith brings his classic devastation to the lyrics, detailing a dissolving friendship (“I feel hopeless hands helplessly / Pulling you back close to me”). But, without the psychedelia the trio channeled, “Cut” would fail to stand up to the other lyrical giants on the album. If only they made more of these shredders—I need to add a dash of color to my crushingly solemn Cure playlist. —OA

28. “The Snakepit” (Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, 1987)

If there is one thing that doesn’t get talked about enough in conversations about the Cure, it’s how sexy their music is. “The Snakepit” is the epitome of that energy—the sultry bassline and the slow pounding drums existing as erotic extensions of a narrative surrounding a dangerous secret romance. “And no one knows, and no one sees us / Because they’re drinking themselves senseless…And I’m writhing in the snake pit,” Smith echoes, lamenting the perils of a forbidden love. While I’m sure Smith’s acid habit influenced the psychedelic nature of the track, Porl Thompson and Boris Williams were actually the ones who initially brought the track to the band. “The Snakepit” illustrates the best of the Cure’s dark romances through its haunting melody and hypnotic riffs. I mean, “And I’m kissing you hard / Like I’ve got very important business”—what a fucking line. —OA

27. “Six Different Ways” (The Head on the Door, 1985)

I really do think The Head on the Door is the most fun the Cure ever had on a record—though that’s not a hard thing to accomplish, considering the emotional heft of their catalog. The ‘80s were chock-full of funky dance hits and, when making the album, it seems like they added every little extra quirk they could on “Six Different Ways.” The piano tune of the song was ripped from Smith’s time playing with Siouxsie and the Banshees; their use of it for The Head on the Door track added flute, strings and fairy-like flourishes, giving it a much brighter sound than the heavy atmospheric soundscapes on Seventeen Seconds, Faith and Pornography. “This is stranger than I ever thought / Six different ways inside my heart,” Smith sings as a call back to the band’s conversation about how to skin a cat that inspired the song’s title. Dark even for you, Robert. —OA

26. “The Funeral Party” (Faith, 1981)

Few songs give me a visceral physical reaction like when I hear “The Funeral Party,” a haunting waltz of heartache, grief and bereavement. Faith itself often conjures feelings of funereal emotions and pulls you into its embrace, like meeting a dearly departed loved one in the afterlife. “The Funeral Party” stands out for its ability to take you to a place of utter desolation, and Smith wrote the track about the death of his grandparents—as if their ghosts are drifting between each line when he sings, “Two pale figures ache in silence / Timeless in the quiet ground / Side by side in age and sadness.” The atmospheric sting of “The Funeral Party” feels like your body is slowly drifting away into a cool fog of nothingness. It’s the Cure at their most ornate. —OA

25. “In Your House” (Seventeen Seconds, 1980)

My favorite track from Seventeen Seconds, “In Your House” begins with 50 minutes of distant-yet-sublime guitar-playing from Robert Smith before he tumbles into a reclusive vocal melody. There’s only 12 lines in the song, yet Smith makes good use of every word—singing out “I change the time in your house, the hours I take go so slow” as the instrumentation crawls through cold, cracked bleakness. While much of Seventeen Seconds is a fragmented array of goth-tinged new wave and sketches of pop, “In Your House” is empty by intention and fascinatingly so. —MM

24. “Disintegration” (Disintegration, 1989)

Simply put, “Disintegration” is one of the greatest title tracks ever. At eight minutes in length, it’s an epic tragedy of near-cosmic proportions. Even as the instrumentation climbs into this pseudo-shiny vignette of dream-pop, Smith sounds like he’s, quite literally, on the verge of disintegrating. “Through the glass of the roof, through the roof of your mouth, through the mouth of your eye, through the eye of the needle, it’s easier for me to get closer to Heaven than ever feel whole again,” he sings out, his voice stretching thin in real-time. The color is in the tragedy, and Smith’s language isn’t just vamping—it’s full-on corpse-cold abandonment. —MM

23. “Fire in Cairo” (Three Imaginary Boys, 1979)

“Fire in Cairo” is a unique part of the Cure’s legacy, primarily because it’s one instance where they so ambitiously dip their toes in power-pop—but not without employing their time-honored gloss of marooned post-punk. The guitars jangle, a 20-year-old Robert Smith sounds lighter than ever and the melody flutters like the primitive English shredding made stylish by Elvis Costello and Nick Lowe. The Cure wouldn’t stick around in this realm of disarming catchiness for too long, but “Fire in Cairo” (and Three Imaginary Boys) remains a lush, silvery standout. —MM

22. “Three Imaginary Boys” (Three Imaginary Boys, 1979)

The guitar solo on “Three Imaginary Boys” creeps up my spine and gives me chills every time. Although this album leaned post-punk, its title-track was the first hint at where the Cure would end up: unsettled and unhurried and moody dark wave. The whole album holds a sort of subtle brilliance with pops of disquieting vibrance, particularly with the groaning basslines and Smith’s poetic genius: “Close my eyes and hold so tightly / Scared of what the morning brings / Waiting for tomorrow, never comes / Deep inside the empty feeling” he sings on the chorus giving us that sweet misery we love so much from the Cure. Throughout the album, his songwriting evolves from the in-your-face punk of songs like “Fire In Cairo” to the reflective nightmare fuel of “Three Imaginary Boys.” —OA

21. “The Same Deep Water As You” (Disintegration, 1989)

I am a sucker for any Cure song longer than six minutes, and “The Same Deep Water As You” plays up to its own title—as the sprawling, stunning instrumental crawls through a well-paced chord progression and atmospheric synths that never grow too claustrophobic. The song features one of Robert Smith’s greatest vocal performances, as he—just like on the title track—sacrifices his penchant for vamping in favor of a close-hearted proximity of tortured color. “I will kiss you forever on nights like this,” he sings. “I will kiss you, I will kiss you, and we shall be together.” “The Same Deep Water As You” is not epic so much as it is swaying and brilliant and moody, never quite coming to a stop but never exploding into something massive or out-of-place. What makes Disintegration so good is that even its longest chapters serve the beauty of the whole project, and “The Same Deep Water As You” never tries to be the album’s focal point—just a startling, stirring mid-section. Few bands can pull off such a marvel. —MM

20. “The Caterpillar” (The Top, 1984)

The only single from The Top, “The Caterpillar” is unabashedly kooky. Beginning with screeching violin (played by Smith) and featuring some desert-dry percussion from Andy Anderson, “The Caterpillar” is one of the uniquest entries in the Cure’s catalog altogether—and one that comes across like a sonic embodiment of the stress it was recorded under. And yet, it shines with ambition and the kind of weird wonder that only Robert Smith and his band could truly pull off. “Oh I dust my lemon lies with powder pink and sweet,” he sings. “The day I stop is the day you change and fly away from me.” Combining a slick fit of ornateness with neurotic abstraction, “The Caterpillar” is the most un-Cure Cure song we’ve got—and it’s dashingly charming from start to end. —MM

19. “Fascination Street” (Disintegration, 1989)

I like to think “Fascination Street” is Robert Smith’s interpretation of the phrase “Last night was a movie,” diving into the cynicism of looking for the perfect moment on a night out. “So let’s cut the conversation and get out for a bit / Because I feel it all fading and paling, and I’m begging / To drag you down with me to kick the last nail in,” he cries, ready to capture what the night has in store. Inspired by a night on Bourbon Street, “Fascination Street” features yet another pulsating bassline from Simon Gallup and was the first Cure song to land #1 on the then-newly created Billboard Modern Rock Tracks chart. Interestingly enough, this was released as Disintegration’s first single in the US—because of its appearance in the film Lost Angels—but “Lullaby” in the UK, which is what the band preferred as the first teaser track. Both of them kick ass, but so does every track on Disintegration, to be fair. —OA

18. “Play For Today” (Seventeen Seconds, 1980)

For all intents and purposes, Seventeen Seconds is the first “real” Cure record—because they honed in on their signature sound after the playful amalgamation of Three Imaginary Boys and finally found complete artistic freedom. “Play For Today” is one of the brighter gloomscapes on the album, as the band embraces jangly guitar work and a pummeling bassline drive, delivering a beguiling mixture of mystery and intrigue. It often feels like the less murky sibling of “A Forest,” with both tracks being propelled through the haze by their stomping basslines. “It’s not a case of telling the truth / Some lines just fit the situation” is just the thing I tell people when I lie to stay engaged in a conversation. No one gets me like you, Robert. —OA

17. “Cold” (Pornography, 1982)

“Cold” lures you in with those menacing cello groans just to punch you in the gut with its tragic portrait of drug use. “A shallow grave, a monument to the ruined age” candidly considers the finite toll that substance abuse takes on people and often leads them to premature deaths. Smith doubles down, singing “Everything as cold as life (Can no one save you?) / Everything as cold as silence (And you will never say a word)” and really crafting an image of how drugs can hollow you out and leave you utterly numb. As much as Robert loves to claim that the Cure isn’t a goth band, those brooding organ swells gliding under the synth in “Cold” beg to differ. This album was written during a very tumultuous time for the band—they were on the brink of collapse because of artistic disagreements and heavy drug use, all fueling Smith’s sinking mental health, which he poured into these tracks. All of it shows. —OA

16. “Mint Car” (Wild Mood Swings, 1996)

Most of what the Cure has done since Wish has failed to match the same highs, but “Mint Car”—the best song from Wild Mood Swings—could have had a place on The Head on the Door or Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me with all of its pop goodness or the Cure’s desire to sound like different bands on the same album. “Mint Car” is, no doubt, a standout on one of the least-favorable records the band ever put out, what with its glittery guitars and pastoral-bright vocals. The late ‘90s weren’t very kind to our beloved goth heroes, but “Mint Car” is so vibrant and simple that it offered Smith and his bandmates the space to really capitalize on perfection. Not to mention, these are some of the happiest lyrics Smith ever wrote. I mean, how can you hear “And there’s nowhere in the world I’d rather be than here with you / It’s perfect, it’s all I ever wanted, oh / I almost can’t believe that it’s for real, so pinch me quick” and not fall over with joy? —MM

15. “Charlotte Sometimes” (1981)

Though it appears on the deluxe-edition of Faith, “Charlotte Sometimes” was initially a non-album single in 1981—arriving on the heels of the Cure’s third studio album. Smith based the track on Penelope Farmer’s children’s novel of the same name, illustrating lines that are direct references to Farmer’s own language. The result is one of the moodiest and metallic post-punk singles of all time—with a deluge of tortured splendor. Few Cure songs are this colorful and doomed, but it’s an immediate reference point for where Smith’s songwriting would move on subsequent records. Disintegration is likely not as emotionally potent without “Charlotte Sometimes.” —MM

14. “High” (Wish, 1992)

In a perfect world, the acclaim and commercial success “Friday I’m in Love” got is actually bestowed upon “High,” the best alt-pop song the Cure have ever made together. Few songs in the band’s catalogue are as immediately lovable and whimsical. This is the Cure at their most infectious and catchy, as Smith experiments with wordplay but, instead, offers us a darling measure of head-over-heels fumbling that just works. “When I see you sky as a kite, as high as I might, I can’t get that high,” he sings. “The how you move, the way you burst the clouds, it makes me want to try.” With a startlingly beautiful six-string bass riff from Smith and a lush mini-solo from Porl Thompson, “High” is, without a doubt, one of the most charming and melodic triumphs the Cure ever put to wax. —MM

13. “Plainsong” (Disintegration, 1989)

If you’re going to be the opening track on one of the greatest records of all time, you better be great—and “Plainsong” begins, quite literally, with a bang of synthesizers that immediately makes a statement of beauty. Tasked with preceding “Pictures of You,” “Plainsong” is massive and elegant, as Smith sings out some of his most gut-wrenching verses ever—including “I think I’m old and I’m feeling pain, you said / And it’s all running out like it’s the end of the world, you said / And it’s so cold, it’s like the cold if you were dead / And then you smiled for a second.” When I think of Disintegration, I very often think of “Plainsong” first, as few songs are so breathtakingly sad and unafraid of expressing such gloom. Disintegration was Smith’s opus, and “Plainsong” is the doorway into its genius. —MM

12. “Close to Me” (The Head on the Door, 1985)

Few songs bring me as much joy on my re-listens than “Close to Me,” the proto-bedroom-pop made certain that the Cure were shuffling away from the atmospheric post-punk they cut their teeth on. “Close to Me” arrived like nothing the band had ever done before, and you could argue they never experimented with such a bright, eclectic style again after. Even with its spriteness, the Cure’s most 1980s song is still bound to their own trademark—despite critics calling it a “disco thing.” The dueting keys from Lol Tolhurst and Porl Thompson are razor thin and lush like candy, and Rent Party’s horn parts are so sublime and low-key that they sound like a measure of breath more than a brass section. The Head on the Door is such an impressive part of the Cure’s discography that it’s a shame “Close to Me” wasn’t a bigger hit when it came out—as the song reached the Top 25 on the UK charts but failed to make any noise beyond the Dance Club Songs chart in the States. —MM

11. “Lullaby” (Disintegration, 1989)

“And there is nothing I can do when I realize with fright / That the spider-man is having me for dinner tonight.” With that haunting line, Robert Smith cursed me with a monstrous nightmare that still crawls in the corners of my mind sometimes. The string section in this song is to die for; the symphonic sway of the strings behind the chorus, and the delicate plucks mimicking a creature creeping along paired with Smith’s hushed vocals, are such a gorgeously grotesque soundscape for this horror to thrive in. With the line “His arms are all around me and his tongue in my eyes / Be still, be calm, be quiet now, my precious boy / Don’t struggle like that or I will only love you more,” “Lullaby” tells a story of abuse, or a battle with addiction—both ideas keeping you snared in their webs. —OA

10. “From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea” (Wish, 1992)

The background feedback and guitar detuning at the beginning of this song throw you right into the belly of the Cure’s alt-rock era. “From the Edge of the Deep Green Sea” takes you through the ultimate demise of a toxic relationship, and it feels like the natural sequel to the honeymoon phase described on Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me’s “Just Like Heaven. The chords accompanying “I wish I could just stop / I know another moment will break my heart / Too many tears, too many times / Too many years I’ve cried over you” are probably as close to flying as I’ll ever get, as they build up the song’s tension so perfectly. I always find these cataclysmic love songs so ironic coming from Smith, who has been with his wife Mary since they were teenagers. Where does all this sorrow come from? I’ll never be sure, but I’m so grateful he can channel that kind of pain into a container I can cry along with. —OA

9. “Last Dance” (Disintegration, 1989)

“Last Dance” is the first Cure song I ever fell in love with. For someone who spent a lot of time alone growing up, the verse “I’m so glad you came, I’m so glad you remembered / To see how we’re ending our last dance together / Reluctantly, cautiously, but prettier than ever / I really believe that this time it’s forever” really captured how I felt when I’d have those fleeting moments of bliss with my friends. The effortless guitar slide paired with the airy synth in the intro is so gorgeously done. It creates a nostalgic ache in my chest whenever I hear it. Another reason I love this song is for its hidden connection to “Cold,” another track I adore. Before the last verse, Smith quietly whispers, “Your name like ice into my heart”—a lyric cribbed straight from the Pornography standout. “Last Dance” really captures the sting of connections that leave you at a loss when they are no longer around. —OA

8. “Boys Don’t Cry” (1979)

Honestly, where would we be without “Boys Don’t Cry”—whether Robert likes it or not, this is an essential Cure track. When it was written in the late-1970s, it didn’t fit with the punk motif, but it slowly gained traction as a pop hit in the underground scene—only to finally explode when the band released a music video for it in 1986. “Boys Don’t Cry” is an enduring classic—I even have a “Boys Don’t Cry” poster on my wall. True to Smith’s often rebellious track record, he wrote this song about how, as a boy, he was told to keep his emotions in check—which led to the catchiest Cure chorus ever: “I tried to laugh about it / Cover it all up with lies / I tried to laugh about it / Hiding the tears in my eyes / ’Cause boys don’t cry.” There has always been a pop element, even in the darkest parts of the Cure songbook, and it all leads back to “Boys Don’t Cry.” —OA

7. “A Letter To Elise” (Wish, 1992)

While “Friday I’m in Love” might be the commercial choice on Wish, the people’s choice—and the Paste choice—is “A Letter To Elise,” the greatest ballad the Cure ever released. It’s a song so good and melancholic and pensive that I wouldn’t fault you for thinking it’s from Disintegration. I’ve always considered it a spiritual companion to “Pictures of You,” and it certainly features some of the Cure’s grandest instrumentation—a band ensemble that, despite just featuring the five-piece, sounds borderline orchestral. We get Robert Smith brandishing tortured poetry, and it’s some of his finest work. “With aching looks and breaking hearts and all the prayers your hands can make, oh I just take as much as you can throw and then throw it all away, like throwing faces at the sky,” he sings, before the band kick it up a notch and veil the song with a climbing, laser-bright guitar breakdown. From sunken heart verses to ornate scoring, “A Letter To Elise” is the kind of once-in-a-lifetime song most bands dream of making—and the Cure, to no one’s surprise, made it look so easy. —MM

6. “Lovesong” (Disintegration, 1989)

“Lovesong” lives up to its title as, easily, one of the greatest love songs ever written. To make it even more romantic, Smith wrote this as a wedding present to his wife. How disgustingly beautiful is that? Even though Disintegration was a return to the heavy gothic energy of its predecessors Seventeen Seconds, Faith and Pornography, “Lovesong” can’t help but cut through the sorrow like a beacon of light in the midst of profound, dreary noise. It’s so genuinely passionate and honest. “Whenever I’m alone with you / You make me feel like I am home again / Whenever I’m alone with you / You make me feel like I am whole again” are some of the most straightforward lyrics about love Smith has written, and it’s a gorgeous declaration at that. —OA

5. “Just Like Heaven” (Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me, 1987)

Quite possibly the one song that tops more best Cure songs lists than any other, “Just Like Heaven” will always be as perfect and brilliant as everyone says it is. I mean, few songs in the English language have ever been constructed so beautifully. It’s pop-rock with a timeless attitude—penetrating the zeitgeist of its era with a melody that anyone, anywhere, anytime can fall in love with. The wistful finesse of “Just Like Heaven” is the balm that makes Kiss Me, Kiss Me, Kiss Me a good album, and it was the band’s first Top 40 hit in America. But, more than any commercial success it garnered, “Just Like Heaven” makes good on turning Robert Smith’s forlorn energy into a skyscraping earworm. “Spinning on that dizzy edge, kissed her face and kissed her head,” Smith sings. “Dreamed of all the different ways I had to make her glow.” Daylight licked “Just Like Heaven” into one of the prettiest goth songs ever. It’s the kind of track that can convince a novice fan to buy into the Cure’s limitless magic, and it’s the kind of track that can make longtime disciples fall to their knees and sob-sing along. —MM

4. “Pictures of You” (Disintegration, 1989)

Picking a best song off of Disintegration is no small task (and probably impossible, if we’re being honest here) and, while the consensus is often “Lovesong,” I can’t look away from the epic beauty of “Pictures of You.” Seven minutes in language and a perfect convergence of goth and synth-pop, “Pictures of You” floats in A major and sparkles in the echo of Roger O’Donnell and Robert Smith’s keyboards. But even the prettiest flutters of synthesizer cannot overshadow the duet of Smith’s Bass VI and Porl Thompson’s chords. Strip “Pictures of You” down layer-by-layer and what will be revealed is one of the soundest instrumentals in all of the Cure’s history. Though it’s track two on Disintegration, it serves more like a centerpiece than an first act and, when the bridge kicks in and Smith sings “If only I’d thought of the right words, I could have held on to your heart,” there is, quite possibly, no transition in alt-rock that is more handsome, tortured and densely elegant. —MM

3. “A Forest” (Seventeen Seconds, 1980)

I’ll say what we are all thinking: “A Forest” is the greatest duet of bass and synthesizers to ever exist. It might be bold, but I’m sticking to it. This “new” sound was due in part to the introduction of Simon Gallup on bass, who gave the Cure that pounding energy they’re now known for. “A Forest” marked a turning point for the band, as it was their first single to chart in the UK and its heart-racing energy and ominous lyrics became synonymous with the band. The song’s success allowed them to delve deeper into these themes and, though this feels slightly darker than what would become their signature sound (I blame the Siouxsie and the Banshees’ influence), “A Forest” is a work of art. The lyrics are sparsely overlaid on a haunting landscape, and “It’s always the same / I’m running towards nothing” is sonic poetry at its best. —OA

2. “In Between Days” (The Head On the Door, 1985)

There’s never been a band better at writing side one-track ones than the Cure, who made such an exercise their calling-card in the 1980s (see #1). Not only is “In Between Days” my favorite Cure song, it’s one of my favorite songs by any artist ever. I would even go as far as to wager that this one song does jangle pop better than any Smiths song ever. If you want proof that Robert Smith was the greatest songwriter of his era, “In Between Days” should be example number-one. The song is eccentric and poppy, so buoyant and colorful that lyrics like “And I know I was wrong when I said it was true, that it couldn’t be me and be her in-between without you” are nearly immune to their own despair. This is where the Cure became The Cure, and “In Between Days” is a monumental part of not just alt-rock in the 1980s, but rock ‘n’ roll’s penchant for candy-coated melancholy altogether. Told through flamenco picking and dance-driven catchiness, the song is not massive, nor is it some feat of acute heartache. “In Between Days” is, quite simply, hard-nosed in its own sublime energy. —MM

1. “One Hundred Years” (Pornography, 1982)

“It doesn’t matter if we all die.” All the tension built up during the recording of Pornography bleeds out into “One Hundred Years.” The band was in disarray—loaded on drugs, fighting with each other and on the verge of breaking up for good. Smith himself was fighting an internal battle so painful that he has gone on record explaining how writing Pornography kept him from ending his own life. This had to be #1. The stories in “One Hundred Years” act as a metaphor for Smith’s feelings of a monotonous and unfulfilled life, and you can hear the frustrations seeping through even in his vocal performance—the more pronounced strain and desperation on full display. The repetition of the lines “Waiting for the death blow,” “Just like the old days,” “One after the other” and “A hundred years” echo the sentiment of feeling trapped and are amplified by the hopelessness and futility of the line “The ribbon tightens round my throat”—which also speaks to Smith’s suicidal ideations.

Pornography is as dark as it gets, but “One Hundred Years” is the deepest pit of despair—and it’s etched right there at the record’s genesis. Although the album received mixed reviews from critics upon its release 42 years ago, it has aged as the Cure’s most intimate expression, as they pulled back the curtain and let us sit deeper within their world. This shameless look into the band’s collective psyche allowed for further exploration on their subsequent revered projects, specifically Disintegration. “One Hundred Years” remains as integral to the Cure’s legacy as their chart-toppers, but for vastly different yet emotionally massive reasons. —OA

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Listen to a playlist of these 40 songs below.