THE WEIRDEST ART, AS WE’VE OFTEN

observed, flourishes in the most innocuous places. This month, MOJO returns to the suburban hinterlands of Southern England in the late 1970s, and to Crawley, a sprawl of roundabouts and housing estates next to Gatwick Airport. It’s here we find the nascent Cure, working on an outsider music as uncompromising as it is strangely accessible. There are fights at hospital dinner dances, ill-advised cover versions, disastrous record deals and, at first, a prevailing suspicion the band might never escape their hometown. “Deep in our psyche we knew,” the drummer Lol Tolhurst tells Keith Cameron, “If we don’t do something, we’re destined to live in this place until we die.” It would be foolish, though, to underestimate the stubbornness and will to succeed of genius. Robert Smith’s vision transcended their hometown, confounded the sceptics and led The Cure to become the cult band nonpareil of the next 40 years: one who could find room for both joyous pop hits and blasted, sepulchral epics in their unique aesthetic. In this issue, MOJO’s backcombed battalion of writers dig deep into that catalogue to select our 30 greatest Cure songs. Maybe we missed your favourite? If so, please let us know: mojoreaders@bauermedia.co.uk. We’re always extremely happy to hear from you.