Nick Cave makes you taste blood
Album is both metallic and sweet
Garry Juhans
Issue date: 2/17/09 Section: Arts & Life
I've got a strange problem with Nick Cave. It's not really his fault. Nor is it really mine, for that matter. It's more about the human foot that came in to spatial contact with tender regions of my skull one terrible, drunken night.
You see, my problem with St. Nick is his voice. Not to say that his voice is awful, it isn't. It's actually one of the finest voiced to ever be caught and compressed into an MP3, compact disc, record or whatever the hell you've got going on now.
It's really the best. A rich, ashen voice that rolls out in fine bombastic spurts of expression. A wonderful shot of Jager and Red Bull. So why, if Nick Cave's voice happens to be the best around, do I have a problem with it?
Well, it goes back to that horrible night I had. You see, whenever I hear the voice of old St. Nick, I taste blood in my mouth.
Let's go back to when this first happened. I first encountered Nick Cave on the night of Oct. 12, 1999. I remember that night specifically because it was the night I got my ass kicked royally by a few guys who were actually friends.
Getting beat up is, among other things, like going to school. It's a bad trip, for sure. But it's completely necessary sometimes. Getting lobotomized by a pair of Doc Martens can be a religious experience. The crunching of skulls is holy.
So while I was going through this, I noticed instantly that something was very different. My ears had picked up this incredible sound blasting out somewhere of a wailing man spewing out an avalanche of obscene poetics.
"I stuck a six-inch gold blade in the head of a girl / sharks-fin slices sugar-bed slices that pretty redhead."
Nothing was quite the same after hearing that voice, combined with the trauma of swallowing my own blood. I knew an obsession had planted itself in my life. When it was over, I thanked all those guys with a twisted, spit-strung smile. They all ran away in horror.
Weeks later, after the blood had dried and flaked away, I found out about that strange voice I heard that night. It was the man himself, Nick Cave and his old band, The Birthday Party. I ran, bought the records and took them home, putting them through the same ritualistic vinyl experience I've always had: feeling them up.
You see, my problem with St. Nick is his voice. Not to say that his voice is awful, it isn't. It's actually one of the finest voiced to ever be caught and compressed into an MP3, compact disc, record or whatever the hell you've got going on now.
It's really the best. A rich, ashen voice that rolls out in fine bombastic spurts of expression. A wonderful shot of Jager and Red Bull. So why, if Nick Cave's voice happens to be the best around, do I have a problem with it?
Well, it goes back to that horrible night I had. You see, whenever I hear the voice of old St. Nick, I taste blood in my mouth.
Let's go back to when this first happened. I first encountered Nick Cave on the night of Oct. 12, 1999. I remember that night specifically because it was the night I got my ass kicked royally by a few guys who were actually friends.
Getting beat up is, among other things, like going to school. It's a bad trip, for sure. But it's completely necessary sometimes. Getting lobotomized by a pair of Doc Martens can be a religious experience. The crunching of skulls is holy.
So while I was going through this, I noticed instantly that something was very different. My ears had picked up this incredible sound blasting out somewhere of a wailing man spewing out an avalanche of obscene poetics.
"I stuck a six-inch gold blade in the head of a girl / sharks-fin slices sugar-bed slices that pretty redhead."
Nothing was quite the same after hearing that voice, combined with the trauma of swallowing my own blood. I knew an obsession had planted itself in my life. When it was over, I thanked all those guys with a twisted, spit-strung smile. They all ran away in horror.
Weeks later, after the blood had dried and flaked away, I found out about that strange voice I heard that night. It was the man himself, Nick Cave and his old band, The Birthday Party. I ran, bought the records and took them home, putting them through the same ritualistic vinyl experience I've always had: feeling them up.
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