The Plainest Song Is Not Plain At All
Every time I hear “Plainsong,” with the twinkling chimes, I am transported to a place that is so hot, it’s freezing cold. I have frostbite of the soul, and even now The Cure is the cure that will thaw my heart. My limbs are numb and alive at the same time. Robert Smith’s voice echoes over his own voice, like my words echo over themselves. There are six seconds of silence before the chimes start, blowing in an artificial wind.
"I think it's dark and it looks like rain, " you said
"And the wind is blowing
Like it's the end of the world, " you said
"And it's so cold, it's like the cold if you were dead"
Then you smiled for a second"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"
Then you smiled for a secondSometimes you make me feel
Like I'm living at the edge of the world
Like I'm living at the edge of the world
"It's just the way I smile, " you said
It’s April and it’s cold. I sit on the edge of my desk chair, body springing into motion into the keyboard as I type this. Writing is a form of erasure, a friend of mine recently said. The permanence of my handwriting in my old journals from twenty years ago solidifies my emotions in ice. Frozen in time. I listened to Disintegration so much back then, back when you had to press buttons on the tape player in your car and physically stretch the skinny black tape back to the beginning, threatening to snap with it’s fragility. Over and over, like I’m stretching myself now.
Back to the beginning. Brace yourselves.
Like The Cure, I am experiencing my own disintegration. I am in a snow globe that I am shaking until it cracks. I feel cold all the time. How can I get warm? I have been cold for twenty years. Ever since that morning when I woke up after not sleeping and the tiny white Christmas lights were still burning, even in late January. I was burning. When I hear “Plainsong” I feel swirls of pain and sadness and exhilaration and wonder. The tundra is still there, buried underneath the fresh soil that I’ve shoveled upon it after all this time. I just have to dig for it.
In July 2019, Andrew and I went to the E Street Cinema downtown to see The Cure’s 40th Anniversary concert on the big screen. In Hyde Park, with the sun going down, the band played the Glastonbury Festival on July 7, 2018. In the theatre, I felt like I was in London on the stage with Robert Smith. I could feel the tension in the arms of the drummer driving the beat. I felt the melting of Smith’s makeup as he poured his energy into the music. They opened with the distinctive chimes of “Plainsong.”
A review of the concert by Kory Grow of Rolling Stone Magazine:
Even Robert Smith himself was astonished that he didn’t evaporate immediately the second he stepped onto the surprisingly hot stage at London’s Hyde Park Saturday evening. It was about a quarter past 8 and the sun was still bearing down in full force – about 83 degrees Fahrenheit – and beaming right at the Cure frontman. “I honestly can’t talk until the sun goes down,” said the singer, who was covered entirely in black, save for his head and hands. “It’s taking all my energy not to dissolve into a pile of dust.” And he wasn’t kidding.
I made a new memory that night, dancing along to the music with waves of nostalgia, but newly transposed feelings of strength and resilience. Did I erase and replace how I felt when I used to listen to “Plainsong” on repeat? I’m listen to it on repeat now, on Spotify. What can I wear out but my heart? Can the invisible tape tying the fragments of my soul break? Will I dissolve into a pile of dust?
I go back further. Are you still with me?
I was in junior high when I first saw my friend Karina’s older sister’s poster of The Cure on her bedroom walls, and I was terrified. I was incredibly sheltered and knowing my friend’s sister’s rebellious ways, I attributed it to this dark music. I have never painted my nails with black polish. What was I afraid of? What did I think would happen if I listened to the music?
When Andrew bought us tickets to see The Cure in the summer of 2004 at Merriweather Post Pavilion, we were very much out of place with the goth kids surrounding us, in our preppy summer outfits. We were the misfits. The band opened with “Plainsong” that hot day in August. I remember a girl wearing a Beetlejuice-esque black and white striped dress, carrying a parasol to shade her pale white skin from the blistering sun. Her red-lipsticked mouth unsmiling at the preppy couple as we sat on our blanket on the lawn, her black eyeliner stinging her eyes as she melted, channeling Robert Smith. I was probably wearing a cotton J. Crew sundress and summer sandals.
I was the same in college. I wore bright or pastel colors, and tried to hide my depression under a sunny disposition, the turmoil threatening to break the surface of the rainbow colors and seep out in dark clouds. I was just texting with a friend from college, and she said, “You were so sad.” This stuns me. I remember dancing late into the night, and often breaking into tears after the euphoria had passed through my system. I was a tidal wave that you could see in the distance, and my friends watched as I was crushed by the weight of my own waves and drowned myself in bottle after bottle of orange hooch. I’m surprised my tears weren’t bright orange, glowing on my face. I was profoundly sad, yes.
I read those journal entries and something arises from deep within. I forget that angst. I forget those all consuming crests and those devastating lows. I have them now, but on a much lesser scale. The tidal waves have made me stronger against the pull of the tide. Writing is a form of erasure. Each word that I type erodes those memories because I see things from above, looking down at the person I once was. Yet, I will always associate this music with the vast empty landscape, the cold snowfall in late January. The dark night illuminated only by the strings of Christmas lights glowing white even as the sun rose and did not thaw the chill I felt in my bones.
I’ve never watched the official music video for “Plainsong.” Until just now. I didn’t grow up with cable, and by the time I had it in my college dorm room, they weren’t exactly playing old videos from the late 80s. I am struck by the opening scene. A woman wearing all black (no surprise there!), carrying an umbrella in a graveyard (still no surprise) reaches down to the ground with a gloved hand and scoops up some dirt from a pile and throws it onto a grave marker (I’m intrigued). Suddenly, the name etched into stone appears on the screen. Rachel Dalton. I’m taken aback. The symbolism floods over me. I just wrote the words about the tundra and digging. I am digging up my own grave as I listen to the music. No, I am unearthing my twenty-year-old body. Has she disintegrated? Can I revive her? Should I even try? Why do I feel a sense of dark delight on this sunny spring day?
What happens now?
I don’t drink anymore. I hardly ever cry. But I do play the same music I used to listen to because it’s painful and it’s good to feel something despite the flatness from my meds. I fall asleep to artificial ocean sounds every night. I need that white noise. The gentle waves are nothing compared to the roaring avalanche of water I survived twenty years ago. They are remnants. The songs are not merely songs. They are an immersive experience. They are a time machine. Like Robert Smith sings the simple lyrics, “I think I’m old and I’m feeling pain.” But it’s not the cold of feeling dead, it’s the coldness of feeling alive. Coming back to life after winter. These are complicated feelings I am allowing myself to relive. There is nothing plain about them. I am melting in the cold April wind. There are six seconds, and then the wind chimes begin again. I stand my ground.
Plainsong music video by The Cure