Live Review: Nick Cave

One of the most iconic figures in Australian rock invites you to ask him anything. So, what do you want to know?

The room was pitch black as Nick Cave offered up his rousing poem Steve McQueen. Cave’s gravelly whisper finished with the line “someone’s gotta sing the pain”. All in all, not a bad summary of the man’s career to date. 

As the line echoed out, the deep blue lights in the Odeon Theatre faded on. Cave was revealed to warm applause, hunched centre-stage at his grand piano, as he delivered the opening keys to Sad Waters. Even without the funeral synths and crashing cymbals of the original track, it was a suitably nostalgic opening that showcased Cave’s trademark theatricality. The crowd was silent, expectant, and then broke into grateful applause as Cave launched out of his seat. 

Despite being told that mics would be handed around, of course, being Australia, the first question was shouted out. It became clear that Cave’s music had been the soundtrack for many of the audience’s greatest loves and tragedies, from grief to first dates to recovery anthems. Fittingly, then, Ship Song was the audience’s first request and Cave obliged. Unaccompanied, and in a ballad tempo, Cave highlighted his poetic lyrics, similar to his idol Leonard Cohen.

A 10-year-old squeaked out a question, revealing that he had grown up listening to Cave’s music, and asked what effect he thought it might have on him. Cave retorted, "You poor thing" to rapturous laughter. The kid requested his favourite song, Stagger Lee. Cave responded, "I can’t play that to you for so many reasons," as the audience whooped and clapped. 

Emerging out of the '70s art rock and post-punk scene, the 61-year-old has been a recipient of the Order of Australia, becoming one of the most-renowned Australian artists.

Most harrowing of all is the subject of his documentary, One More Time With Feeling, which explored the grieving process through music following the tragic death of his 15-year-old son, Arthur. “We build up our lives and then something happens that tears that apart,” Cave said. “You go through this obliteration and then you lead a second life. It’s something that happens to almost everyone I think.” When asked, “Do you believe in God?” Cave answered, “Yes, I know it's not popular with some people to say that. Faith and belief in something beyond myself is good for business, and frankly without it my songs would be hugely impoverished.” 

Beside the melodrama of his entrance though, his presence was understated and unfiltered. Cave would leave his roaming mic in front of an empty chair when he would return to the piano. It was almost as though it was a different person from the slightly slumped man with a hand in his pocket. In front of a cluttered array of lyric sheets, Cave played The Weeping Song, which sounded like a gothic musical. 

As he pointed out, his songwriting style has radically transformed compared to the narratives and murder ballads of old. His approach now, he said, is more “porous and fragmented” which allows the listener to enjoy and explore the listening experience rather than investing in a story. He appeared frustrated with the mould that had been cast for him, wanting to be asked lighter questions and focus on moments of joy.

Cave described the infamous story where, on one of his first visits to Hobart, he rammed into a police car resulting in a police chase. When he was caught, the officer slapped Cave around, because he insisted stubbornly that he was in fact a Nick Cave imitator, and not the man himself. 

When the night approached its close, of course, Into My Arms was requested, to which Cave replied, "I think I should know this one." Having written the song in rehab, the gravity of the song was accentuated by the hanging silence between bars. On that sombre final song, Cave thanked the crowd warmly, languidly walking off the stage to long and sincere applause.