If you’re sitting comfortably then he’ll no doubt begin. Though if you’re not, and we understand your reservations, fact is you’re likely to be soon. The sun-starved wastes Nick Cave has generally roamed as master for many many years, currently with his Bad Seeds and formally with his Birthday Party, may evoke more despair than ease, but as with any compendium of tales the true test is always in the telling. The beholder’s eye can always be lulled. He is the aloof uncle that turns up every couple of years, though nobody can quite remember who he belongs to, takes the best chair, spikes the trifle, regales you with tall experiences and then disappears back into whatever corner of the night he came from, until next time. Each time the tales are the same, save for some importantly substituted details, but the glint in his eye is so intoxicating and the weight of experience so deep that you can’t turf the old sod out. And wouldn’t mind him coming again, actually.
18 years then, and you kind of know what to expect from he and they. And in that respect there’s nothing surprising contained herein. But if you expect greatness (and you should always expect greatness) there are few better places to look. This may be subtle greatness, greatness that lurks out of focus, greatness whose maturity has afforded it the right to only intermittently go straight for the jugular, greatness to be savoured. But greatness nonetheless. Take the way the opening double of ‘Wonderful Life’ and ‘He Wants You’ use his gradual creeping forlorn vocal to frame the scenery tumbling very slightly from it, almost reluctant in itself to step into shot. More than just a singer and storyteller, he’s the puppeteer and architect too. He effortlessly proves himself as great a crooner and songwriter as any of the presupposed greats – Sinatra, Bacharach, Cohen, Presley, Costello – and more importantly proves himself more of a long-term prospect here than the lot.
The velveteen musicianship around him, courtesy of course of the Bad Seeds, is naturally as reliable a joy as there could be. Sturdy elegant strings, light-footed piano, well-postured rhythms. And joy as an emotion seems to be one Mr Cave is slowly coming to terms with, maybe more on this album than before. That the nature of the record is solemn is surely a given, but that the subject matter clearly ponders life, hope and love, where before it often preferred the bleak angle of death, despair and impurity is a pleasant surprise. That is excepting the furious ‘Dead Man In My Bed’ which blows it all and also serves as an excuse for the Bad Seeds to shake off the cobwebs and prove the musical Tourette’s isn’t completely exorcised. A theme also fleshed out in the frantic, poetically and inspirationally repetitive 15-minute jagged blow-out ‘Babe, I’m On Fire’. Nocturama, then. An exercise is longevity, maturity and finding a Zen plateau between the dark, the heavy and the light.