Reviews of two new releases The Cure Bloodflowers Fiction/Elektra Of related interest: Wish, sloppy lipstick, fingernail polish, hair spray and high school By now, anyone who's been paying attention has heard the unanimous squawking from the hype-happy media parrots: Bloodflowers is the culmination of a gloom trilogy that includes Pornography and Disintegration; Bloodflowers is pure, vintage Cure; Bloodflowers is an all-time classic. Sad to say, the rumors aren't true. We'd all rejoice if they were--especially if the album really is the long-threatened final report from Robert Smith's 20-year scream therapy session--but in actuality Bloodflowers is just a shrewdly constructed Cure record. Smith's not stupid. He knows what his cultish flock feeds on. Songs like "Fascination Street," not "Friday I'm in Love," are his band's lasting sacraments, so he scrabbled together this collection of deliberately angst-ridden atmo-pop. What prevents it from ascending to the sainted status of Pornography or Disintegration is exactly this sense of intention: Whereas those two melancholic magnum opera were oppressive transmissions from a desolate headspace, Bloodflowers sounds like Smith's merely visiting for old time's sake. Despite this, however, Bloodflowers contains enough wondrous moments of self-conscious musical martyrdom to convert a new generation of teenage Eeyores. "Watching Me Fall" twists the chord progression of Cream's "White Room" into new convolutions of clawed guitar, shrouded keyboards and Smith's famous caterwaul. "The Loudest Sound" is a characteristically grandiose oceanside lamentation on love's fading grandeur. "39" catches Smith sitting on the cliff's edge, admitting his "fire's almost out...there's nothing left to burn," while bassist Simon Gallup spelunks beneath windblown synths. And the title-track finale is--I must admit--a classic, vintage Cure song that stands proudly alongside anything they've ever done: Flanged guitars sweep like a dank fog through a forest full of serpentine basslines, circling drums and claustrophobic synthesizer. If the rest of Bloodflowers doesn't quite reach such glorious heights (or is it depths?), so be it. After Smith's drab '90s output, even a partial return to form is more welcome than a Xanax-and-chocolate milkshake on a suicidal day. The Class of '00 finally has a solid Cure album to call its own. Crank it. John Graham Denny Zeitlin and David Friesen Live at the Jazz Bakery Intuition Of related interest: Charlie Haden, Bill Evans, Keith Jarrett's Standards Trio Glen Moore Nude Bass Ascending Intuition Of related interest: Carla Bley, Steve Swallow Local jazzheads know that Portland has its share of great players, but we're especially lucky to have two of the world's great four-string phenoms in Glen Moore and David Friesen. A pair of new discs on Intuition show the two rhythm masters taking very different paths. Friesen teams up with a long-time comrade, pianist-psychologist Denny Zeitlin, for a sweet live set. From Coltrane's opening "Equinox" through Wayne Shorter's "Nefertiti" and Ray Noble's "Touch of Your Lips," we get standard treatment of a high order. But the originals surprise most: from the labyrinthine rhythms of Zeitlin's "Triptych" to the subtle grace of Friesen's "Other Times, Other Places," the two interact with a complex chemistry, two rare elements setting off a quiet blaze. Whereas Friesen's disc explores the art of the duo, Moore's celebrates groupthink. Like Friesen, Moore surrounds himself with past friends and collaborators in electric bassist Steve Swallow, oud alchemist Rabih Abou-Khalil and Carla Bley on organ. There's nothing rhythm-heavy about the approach, though, and both Moore and Swallow carry their share of melody. The surprises are Abou-Khalil and the frenetic soul of his Arabic mandolin, and Bley, who brings the organ back to church after its long tenure in the chicken shack. Moore's pieces combine world-music exotica with jazz harmonics and the wit and freedom that these long-term musical relationships allow. Bill Smith   - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Willamette Week | originally published March 15, 2000