Burswood Theatre, Perth. 23rd May 2005.
According to Plato, you are a prisoner in a cave. You have always been a prisoner. You remember no other way of being, in fact you do not even know you are a prisoner. There is no source of light except for a great fire behind you. Chained, unable to turn left or right you see only the wall in front. Shapes appear, which you recognise, men, trees, birds, but these are only shadows of puppets other men hold up in front of the flames. You are unaware of these other men and their props, although you are aware of the other prisoners that flank you, you can not see them but you can talk, and you all agree the shapes are real. You see the shadow of man and it is a man, not a shadow. Were a visionary to break free he would realise the fire and the puppets. But this is your world and you are happy.
I've never fully connected with Nick Cave. Don't get me wrong; I'm excited. I've heard some moments of staggering intensity - moments of genius I venture. And I'm a man who says the word genius is overused. But there's always the lionized Cave, the blubous ego, the self-absorbed intelectual, the man who tries to introduce sensitivity into a song by battering it with a mooing baritone. Ray Bardbury once suggested a reason for loving books was that behind each of them was a person. Unitl now I've always been happy with the synopsis and few choice quotes. I've never seen the man in the flesh. I've only communed with the shadow. Something a full blooded experience will change?
Neither have I sat down at a gig before. Never. Not even in protest. Well nearly never. At Radarmaker's triumphant CD launch I sat at on the floor at the front, three meters back from the stage, the many different parts of Atlas Shrugged unfolding above me. But that's hardly the same as sitting in the yon distant stalls, five rows from the back of the theatre. It feels like a stadium up here (I don't do stadium gigs either). What's more, as he takes to the arena, fans banging and ranting like Eagles / Dockers supporters (we don't discrimanate, all the footie possessed are fair chumps round here), Cave, supported by eight Bad Seeds, including the ever faithful Mick Harvey, and four backing vocalists caterwaul into the Messiah Ward, where NC describes the front row as the 'best seats in the house'.
Ever the dramatist, Cave has always belonged in the theatre - his gargantuan warped shadow lurches as he swings across the edge of the stage, baying into the pit below, as he pulverises his way through Are You Ready for Love with its anti-Christian charm, peppered with a just the slightest allusional dash of Clockwork Orange rape. Red Right Hand is eagerly devoured by the crowd - and let it be testified that only an artist of Cave's bent and verve could make such a murderous Kurt Weil-esque funk with no chorus into one of his best loved calling cards. Such is his confrontational reputation that its almost a disappointment to hear him utter good natured bon viveur inbetween songs, although there's a touch of Alan Rikman in his flip remarks. 'There are happy songs, sad songs, scary songs, long songs'. That'll be The Carny then? No, we get both barrels of Do You Love Me. If one man could become a rag doll capable of throwing itself around that would be Cave with his limbs riding the full band sound that thunders between uplifting and terrifying. The backing singers are the perfect compliment to their front man, his barritone howls contrasting their pseudo-gospel harmonies. High against the curtain, the grossly elogated limbs of Cave flicker like giant black fingers. The hand of unseen demon. This is goth theatre at its peak: totally Hans Christian pantomine.
Easy Money is the first of the slower numbers, and its a well deserved break, as Cave takes to the piano to mine his well of bitter disgust at life's inequities. From here on the mood swings from the sweet to enraged. I've yet to be convinced by NC's mellow musings. It's a side I've tried to connect with, but as a flute trill opens Breathless with its jaunty carefree bounciness, I can't but help be reminded of The Eurthymics carefree, bouncy and utterly repulsive Right by Your Side. I've always advocated pesonal reviews, I want the experience, the unique first person perception with all its faults and bias, but moreover its insubstitutible testiment, so if I offend anyone with an honest impression - tough. 'Deal with it', as a man with more swagger than I once said. The first words that entered my head when I first heard Babe, You Turn Me on, possibly the only song to find a rhyming scheme for 'Juniper' (its 'coniffer' since you're wondering), when hearing last year's Lyre of Orpheus LP was, 'stick a fork in this pansy, he's done'. Wasn't this once the once undisputed Lord the Murder Ballard? Wasn't this the man, who in his Birthday Party days, raised the bar at bludgeoning ungrateful front row patrons with either mic stand or boot; now tottering on the stage edge, a dizzy goat, groping for his voice. Nonetheless, I've been listening over and again to the so many delicate touches and charms, both lyrically and musically, that make up this song (which tonight he dedicates to his wife - another thing Lords of Despair and Damnation shouldn't do) with the final exquiste intricacies of the final verse and its 'crimson snow' (there's always a subtext) he pulls it gingerly out of the fire.
All material thus far has been lovingly largely faithful to the studio recordings, except now for a radically different "Mercy Seat", accoustic guitar and organ driven, ceding to to a pounding mass of twin drums. This aside, all tonight's drumming could pretty much be done by one musician. Indubitably, we should we give praise to NC's lack of comproimse in fulfilling his full vision on stage. There She Goes My Beautiful World soars to climax the main set. It brings the biggest cheer of the night and the sitting to their feet.
The encore sees Cave largely at the piano rolling out a theatrical, almost Tom Waits-esque God Is in the House, with the tense near silence of the 'creeping mice' bridge. Now this might be a new way to reveal the artist. Strip away the choir and flunkies, pin the man on keys in a quietened bar and see what he can do by himself, as here, without the augmentation of his followers, he puts more range and detail into his performance than ever before. The new trajectory is marred alas, by the sludgy, redundant goo of The Ship Song. How many cliches can you fit into one stanza? A while ago when I embarked on this writing venture I came to realise that language is an ever evolving nymph, owned by no one, used by all; dynamic, constantly changing - meanings and associations stripped and rebuilt each day. 'Burning bridges' and 'sailing ships' are verbal driftwood; archaic lumps from a distant time that say nothing to me about my life. Even Mac who espouses The Ship Song admits this is not a king version. Although how he can criticise the likes of Travis as wimpy and then eulogise this escapes my reason.
The Lyre of Orpheus, the story of man who challenges the Gods and is skinned alive for his impudence, features an unexpected comedy element. Having initialy warning of imminent catastrophe, NC accepts an audiance member's offer to dance onstage. Given its off-kilter, slowed down death march rhtymn of Orpheus is almost impossible to get down to. Some highly 'interpretative' leaps and swoops ensue and Cave at the fourth final bar can't but suppress a giggle. Nevertheless, kudos to the brave: how many of you have danced on stage with your hero? Not one little worm I'll wager. Kristen, she tells us gutless seat-limpets, was able to find some moves because of her 'psychotic mother'. "I find that hard to believe' Cave cracks drylys, concluding the bizzarest rendition of any Greek tragedy I'm ever likely to see. It's probably not the atmosphere Cave had in mind for the rabble-rousing crescendo of Stagger Lee. Disappointing. It must difficult to stay in character for two plus hours, and Stagger just feels like a posturing cartoon. It's not the journey's end I might have hoped for. He's holding his ground, knees deeply bent, utilising the word 'motherfucker' so prolifically Ice Cube should take lessons, although he's not covering the whole stage as before, and as at sometime it comes back to me - Nc has a son. Assuming that boy reaches seed ladden manhood, and assuming he's hetrosexual, the chances of NC becoming a grandfather are dautingly plausible. Imagine that: going up to Grandpa's big scary house on the distnat hill to listen to his semi-lucid rattle about degenerates, thieves and love ending murder? Maybe he could show you his collection of human skulls? Not so much the doting relative you squeeze for small change, as the lurking puppet master. And the only image in my brain is Cave's distorted, over-reaching silhouette twisting on the theatre walls. Sometimes dancing, more often staggering, like some basement monster reflecting with the darkness. I still don't believe I've seen anything more than Cave's shadow, but hey, what a shadow.
setlist:Plato's cave allegory explained in detail.
outpatients.