Ok, let's be clear; this is the first time I've gone to two concerts in a week since 2009. I don't normally leave the house this often.
But geez, I'm glad I did. I've seen some remarkable concerts in my time, but I can say right now, I've never seen any better than the one Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds unleashed on the folk at the Perth Arena last night. Walking out of it, I felt like Darwin, circa 1974. (Google it, young 'uns.)
It was a problematic gig to anticipate, in many ways. The idea of Nick Cave returning to the acute rawness of the stage - in the face of the incomprehensible grief of having lost his young son - upends the normal audience-artist dynamic, blurring and twisting the expectations of experience. I guess it's difficult to know how to feel when confronted with tragedy or trauma on any level, in that whilst we all want to embrace the connection of empathy, none of us want to feel pitied. They're not quite the same, I know, but it's still hard, sometimes, to know how to feel about things.
With expectations duly tangled, the Bad Seeds walked out and began to play. Soon after, Cave strode out, resplendent in his crisp, blue suit and open-necked shirt. The music rippled and pulsed; and like Cave himself, it was a heady, sinewy presence. The song, Anthrocene, webbed its way over the crowd. For the unaware, the scientist and scientific writer, Andrew Revkin, coined the term 'anthrocene' in 1992, to describe what he saw as a new phase in our geo-cultural evolution; namely, that we (humans, and by proxy, the entire planet and its creatures) are moving into a world of our own making. As concept, it could be full of hope (it really should be, too); but in the song, in Nick's world and in ours, it's a mournful, reproachful refrain. We are, none of us, living in easy times.
And Cave's songs have never been 'easy' listens, either, even those which many might consider to be his most accessible. Of those at the easier end (and they both got an airing), The Ship Song is a clever and complex extended metaphor that explores the dynamics of intimacy; and Red Right Hand, despite its 'Count Cabaret' stylings, is as much a stern warning as it is a Burton-esque celebration of the spooky. And when Cave sets his darkly playful side aside and heads straight for the absolute dark, one best be prepared. No one else in music (or anywhere else, probably) is coining phrases like 'you're an African Doctor, harvesting tear ducts'. On many occasions, Cave's words slam into you like a fist to the solar plexus. And yet, before you've caught your breath, he's made you laugh out loud with a quip that Clive James would admire.
I think the James comparison is an apt one, in that Cave is a true polymath, whose work (particularly recently) sits squarely between the latter oeuvres of Dylan and Cohen. On one hand, he boldly splices image, history and narrative with an eye solely on internal (rather than linear) cohesion, whilst on the other, he exercises control over form and structure with the precision of a master calligrapher. No one writes like Cave. He's well and truly in a league of his own.
And the music is equally commanding. In Warren Ellis, Cave has a peerless bandleader and a bona fide soundscape visionary. A violin virtuoso, Ellis is part garden gnome, part sonic volcano. At one point, it sounded for all the world like Ellis was playing a theremin - which must've been hooked up to some kind of industrial forge - with his violin. Not the bow; the bloody violin. He swung it about him like an insect-phobe beset by a swarm of bees, and from it came the sound of an electrified hurricane. The force of the noise when the band pulled out all the stops on songs like From Her to Eternity, Tupelo, and the herculean finale of Jubilee Street, was nothing short of apocalyptic. This wasn't just heavy; it was a cataclysm. All you could do was abandon yourself to its unrelenting power, and let it sweep you away to a place that was, in the end, a hard-won kind of bliss.
Was this theatre? Was it catharsis? Was it performance? Was it real? With every song, the divisions of understanding became more and more blurred. Cave was undoubtedly giving his all, and the disciplined precision of the Bad Seeds was magnificent. Cave sang with all his heart; and what a singer he's become! Never the most natural vocalist, he's slowly but surely mastered his instrument, and uses it to deliver extraordinary nuances of meaning and feeling. And for every glimpse of Cave, the Artist, and Cave, the Grieving Father (and by God, they were there), there was Cave, the rakishly charming and irreverent Australian. And thank Christ for that; he's still one of us. Even musically, for every deft chamber-music touch, there's Warren Ellis, using his precisely abrasive guitar tones to put a barbed-wire fence around Cave's traditional English garden. It's stuff like that that made this gig so incredible, really; it was a chance to watch a Picasso paint a Guernica in front of your eyes. It just isn't 'normal', to witness this level of personal and artistic statement. I truly felt like I was watching something extraordinary.
Artistically and musically, I have no idea where Cave will go next, only that I sincerely doubt he'll stay where he is right now for very long. He never does. His final song of the night (and one of the best songs ever written by anyone) speaks to his endless journey of muse and spirt. No matter where you are, or what people tell you, you've got to keep pushing the sky away. In Cave's recent life, that sky has been blacker than most of us would dare imagine, but he keeps pushing. His bravery, artistry, honesty and integrity are both humbling and inspiring.
Some concerts are truly unforgettable. Those who get to see them forever share knowing looks, like brothers and sisters in arms. This was one of those concerts. You don't worry that you might never see another one; you marvel at the fact you were blessed enough to see one at all.
Thanks, Nick. Thanks, Seeds. That was really quite something.