The album begins with The Figurehead from "Pornography". It immediately immerses you in the atmosphere (you know what I'm talking about) of that night at the Zenith. Robert Smith intones the first verses with that voice that always seems on the verge of breaking under the blows of a furious cry. The cry of someone who, however, refuses to surrender to tears.
You feel chills as soon as the shrieks of the guitar in One Hundred Years fill the air and the rhythms of Play For Today pound in your stomach, and when the delicate arrangement of Lovesong (the best of the album, in my opinion) rocks you in the lack of affection. Passing through A Letter To Elise and the tempestuous Charlotte Sometimes (which features one of Smith's best lyrics), you reach the very sad Close To Me, a kind of bitter laugh, because beneath the lively beat of the drums and the reassuring tones of the keyboards, Robert's voice seems to stifle yet another sob.
An album not essential in the career of The Cure, but one that effectively represents the atmosphere of a concert by the most famous dark band in the world.
Decadent, romantic, ghostly, gloomy, merciless. But always with that glimmer of light that by contrast makes the darkness even darker.
In 'Paris' more than ever we find the essence, the best concentration of what the Smith-thought has been able to express to be adored.
'The Figurehead', 'One Hundred Years', and 'At Night' unleash their dark solemnity in this live setting, bringing gothic magnificence to life.