|CONCERT REVIEW: Warfield, San Francisco [17/09/1998] by Michael|
|Sunday, 13 August 2006|
(written on corporate time while temping in some sky-scraper....which is how us deathrockers afford all our ghoulish atire anyway.. here I sit in a two-week GOOD (get-out-of-debt) job in the fraud prevention department of a bank. I love temping. I once frauded this very bank (back when strung out) and now I am here without even being checked out. .. ...but I don't so much as dare pocket a pencil. These folks are the experts.
I saw Nick Cave last night. It was amazing--and it was much more than just him. Amazing show, amazing band. Nothing showy, just great musicianship The group was beautifully great. Nick was appriciative too--giving them a lot of props and even kissing Blixa (the guitar anti-god) on the lips. It was wonderfully boss and gave me a lot of good pretty goth vibes.
I hadn't planned on attending. I was just out hanging up flyers and skating by the Warfield when some crackheaad scalper was taking a bath trying to unload a bunch of tickets moments after the show started. (They had added a second night after the crack had spent his whole welfare check on tickets to the first night.) I talked him down to nine dollars each (the face value was $26.50 I think) I called my gal and sk8ed mad fast to her house six blocks away in the tenderlion,, grabbed her and we were swaying with the lace-and-crushed-velvet crowd moments later.
Despite the presence of so many white-people-dressed-in-black, rich recovering Catholics, we had the time of our week. Man, that Nick the Knife cat is one of my few admitted influenzes (the others being Ozzy and Pink Floyd and Bauhaus and Joy Division and Led Zeppelin and. . . .)
I will not go into silly "Nick-as-manic-preacher-washing-away-our-sins allusions (from the literal stench of humanity whereby the streets of San Francisco smell like sewage at 9:45 A.M. after everyone in the emasculating financial towers clogs antique subterranean shit-pipes with a collective coffee crap, to UC Berkeley students watching as their pals rape and murder little kids.) Gnaw, Mister Nicky is just a damn good performer, though there is something just a little magic about the way that his virtual terminal of desire rumbas into the mainframe of my soul. He scratches my sinews and cummies up the mummy in my little brainpan and fries up a couple souls on smack and feeds them to me.
In his very boring concert flick, when he ain't dancing to Madonna, Nick is reading reviews of himself. One says something like, "Nick Cave is best known for the dual problems of drugs and singing off-key. With his latest album, he has overcome the former and is working on the later."
Well, I could care less if he is using. Nick looked skinny and pretty. Meow. Who knows? Who cares that he lost custody of his Brazilian child by bumping the kid's head on a ceiling fan a few years back on a relapse? Nick sings better than I have ever heard. I been following the boy for fifteen years, since he was the Grande Dame in Australia's answer to hell, The Birthday Party. This was before he started imitating Englebert Humperdink and learned to sing, at first as a parody, then growing into it as a natural fit.
Last night he just belted all natural and pretty like. I held my babydoll lover by her neck and breast and KNEW that every song was just for US. Who cares that the violin solo in the last song sounded like someone beating a baby with a cat>? Actually that was one of the cooler moments of the evening.
After the third encore, we all poured into the street. I saw all my friends and all my Xs (I could never love a woman who didn't love The Bad Seeds) and shared hugs with many many people. I saw more folks I presumed dead in one place than I had since Bomb reunited for one blistery set at the Cocodrie in January.
I must mention all the hugs 'cause the girl who turned me onto "The Birthday Party," has since killed herself. I remember when we decided that Deep in the Woods was "our song." If you've ever heard this lovely ditty about murdering a young lady and throwing her dress down the well, then heck, you have some inkling as to the nature of our angelic relationship.)
It was a neat night. Thanks Nick, wherever you are.