The Cure - Push

This melody means a lot to me. Released on August 30, 1985, I was 19 years old. The moment I heard it, it clung to my soul and never let go. It’s been woven into the fabric of my life for forty years.

The song begins not with words, but with an instrumental preamble that feels like a sunrise over a desolate moor - a long, glittering hallway of sound where Gallup’s bass acts as a steady, subterranean pulse. The guitars, layered in chorus and reverb, spin like silver webs catching the light, suspending the listener for two minutes in the musical equivalent of holding one’s breath until the lungs burn. We wait for the push, or perhaps the fall, until Robert Smith’s voice finally breaks through. It isn’t a whisper; it’s a desperate, melodic cry painting a portrait of fractured intimacy.

"Push" lingers as a quintessential anthem because it finds beauty in the breaking—it is the electric, terrifying thrill of the moment just before the end, the sound of a heart beating too fast in a room that’s far too quiet.

It's not just about romantic relationships. Everyone interprets it in their own way. 

For me, it healed the loss of my first love. Also, when someone (a friend) is no longer with me, or the death of a friendship, or the physical separation from an animal, or when I did everything in my power to prevent the senseless slaughter of our native woods or our urban trees, I return to this hymn because it eases my pain.