I need to go buy some more Clairol black dye in the green box with the Asian lady on it because it’s the cheapest, and the color gives my face that great ashen look. I’m thinking maybe some blue streaks this time, red perhaps but I’ve done it so many times. Oh I know! Blue and red makes purple, then purple streaks it is! So, I scored this great velvet pant suit I’m going to sport at the NickCave show. He’s not playing with the Bad Seeds yet. He’s just trying out the new material. Yeah he’s coming to town and I’m sooo excited. We will be reunited again, me and my mister. Oh Nick, if only you would look into my eyes while standing in front of 12,000 glazed and passionate eyes. Then you will know that we were meant to be. Your songs speak only to me, in a deep secret place in my heart that no one will ever touch, especially that stupid MC5-loving guy who works at the record store who rolls his eyes every time I come in for my special shipment of your Australian import flexi-disc of a B-side not available in the States. I’m gonna wear a tie and smoke cigarettes and wear tons of black eyeliner just like him. Oh, I think I’ll run off into my room and write some more poetry while sipping some hot tea and feeling very glamorous about angst. Sigh! No mother, I won’t turn down the stereo! – Is this you or do you know someone like this? You need to get this person some help. I should know, I’m one of them. Why are people fanatical about NickCave? Well, I won’t go as far as saying he’s the greatest because he’s not, but he does possess what’s missing in most artists of his caliber; it’s that soul of the soulless quality which brings one to self validate deep depression as an overflowing artesian source of inspiration. He’s a haunting reminder that art school is never out of style for some people. Unfortunately “Deanna” has long passed. “Straight to You” is a memory of a love affair that once was. “The Mercy Seat” is now being occupied by a film school freshman trying to become the next Fasbinder, Wender or Jarmusch. Nobody goes “Where the Wild Roses Grow.” So Mr. Cave now sits quietly under an antique stained glass ceiling in front of a piano with a glowing cigarette pluming a ghostly veil in the middle the dark stage. He tries to sing with a voice that took him all these years to muster up. They are love songs for the love lorn, of course, but his maturity shines through. The lyrical content of “No More Shall We Part” has less of the absurd thrill kill death scenarios he’s so famous for painting and more reasonable woes like relationships. Mr. Cave finally grows into that suit and tie image and places himself and his music along the level of Leonard Cohen and Serge Gainsbourg. I’m coining a new music genre “Diet Death” or “Death Lite.” Enjoy.
–nam (Nick CAve and the Bad Seeds)