There are few artists who deserve the praise that Nick Cave receives. As an elder stalwart of music in general, Cave has spent the last 40-plus years successfully reinventing himself.
He has been an antagonistic, masochistic (post-)punk; a suave, gothic troubadour; an acclaimed film scorer and composer; a nuanced author; and an elegiac spoken word artist (among a host of others), and yet, through all of these iterations and transformations, neither the accolades nor the zeal have ever wavered. On Wednesday night, at a sold-out Meridian Hall, the devoted came to pay their respects to the man and his Bad Seeds, in an evening that can only be described as transcendent.
Although the band — which on this tour features Cave, Larry Mullins, George Vjestica, Colin Greenwood, Jim Sclavunos, Carly Paradis and Warren Ellis — leaned heavily on last year's divine Wild God, they also played some of their most beloved songs from across their eclectic, unparalleled discography.
Bathed in blue, the band entered the stage first. When Cave came out with a humble wave, he received a standing ovation. They hadn't even played a single note yet. Throughout the night, portions of the lyrics towered behind the congregated performers, but only for the Wild God tracks, while a glittering four-piece choir added the gospel to even the most harrowing songs.
Fans had filled the front of Meridian Hall, pressed up against the stage, hands upstretched in love and adoration, hoping for a graze or a grasp from the great one's. After the first song ("Frogs"), someone screamed, "I love you!" and Cave looked up into the balcony, quipping, "My god, already?" to laughter and applause. At the risk of appearing ungrateful, he added, "I love you too, I really do." It felt like he meant it, and his performance made that clear.
Between songs, Cave told vulnerable, humorous, and often personal stories about the writing of the songs and their meanings. He was also very funny: at one point, someone in the front row mentioned what song would come next before they played it, and after it happened a second time from a different attendee (it's setlist.fm's world and we're just living in it), Cave told them they should "form a fucking club." Hilarious. Later, he tried talking to some people in the front row, and when another person interjected, Cave told him to shut the fuck up.
"Jubilee Street" was appropriately menacing, its exuberant coda featuring a screaming, high kicking Cave and a bombastic light show. Here, it became abundantly clear that drummer Larry Mullins is the band's secret weapon; a tight, crashing, bashing beast of a performer. Cave threw his microphone to the ground and knocked over its stand on his way to the piano for the final vamp, all unbridled excitement and energy, betraying his 67 years. The song could have been the finale and received a standing ovation, but we were only 30 minutes in.
At one point, Cave pointed at a fan and bellowed, "Put your phone away!" before adding, "I wrote this song especially for you." The Bad Seeds then kicked into a frenzied version of "From Her to Eternity." It's no longer the bleary-eyed, atonal dirge it was in 1984, but my god, does it ever kick, all xylophone and clanging piano and tight cacophony. Of course there was noise, but it was elegant. Find yourself in the din and you might see how far she's really gone.
Cave is confrontational, but it's never malicious or hostile. His violent presence brings the audience in, swallows us whole, disarms and discomfits us. He flagellates and exhausts himself because he wants us present, active, engaged. He's determined to keep us off our phones because he wants us there with him. In fact, he's so dedicated to the cause that he even changes the lyrics of "Red Right Hand" — possibly his most popular song, which earned the biggest cheer of the night as every "BONG!" of that incomparable organ part turned the room red — to reflect his dislike of screens.
Thus is the gravitas of a Bad Seeds show: it's exciting and interactive, but there's also a profound tension, a power, an unsettling sense of weight and aggression that thankfully never borders on pretentious. It's challenging yet inviting, full of fury and grace, a cosmic minutia of contrasts and contradictions.
Conversely, Ellis — looking like a beautiful, bohemian hermit — ate a banana on stage, and people screamed and cheered and clapped. He vamped it up, throwing his arms in the air and standing on his stool. Bad Seeds concerts are heavy, but they're also parties!
The stately "Long Dark Night" followed the fever dream of "Eternity," before the rumbling timpani and shimmering chimes of "Cinnamon Horses" set us up for one of the night's standouts, a roaring "Tupelo." Lightning flashed inside the venue and rain fell, mimicking that fateful night Evlis Presley was born. Everyone clapped along as the opening chords escaped from the piano, creating a collective storm. A single clap from Cave later in the song was enough to begin the proceedings again.
During the climax, our cryptic preacher walked through the aisles, a spotlight shining on him as people stood up, craning their necks and running around trying to get a better glimpse, a closer look. He stood on some seats and observed the masses, telling someone next to him to "take a picture… now put your fucking phone away!"
Late in performing "Conversion" from inside the crowd, Cave ran up one of the aisles and bumped into an attendee who didn't see him coming. He put his arm around her and sang a portion of the song directly to her. After that high-spirited outro, the more "subdued" portion of the evening commenced, with the band playing a number of quieter songs and ballads. During "White Horses," Cave's Canadian keyboardist, Carly Paradis, played the baby grand at the centre of the stage; during the outro, Cave played it alone. You could hear half a pin drop.
The band played a couple of Cave and Ellis solo tracks, including "Carnage" and the triumphant "White Elephant." The bridge between quiet and bombastic was Wild God's pining centrepiece, "Final Rescue Attempt," which was stopped by Cave because they were "fucking it up" too much for his liking. Coulda fooled everyone. They burst back into the chorus effortlessly, before a wailing violin solo from Ellis brought it to a close. The band were tight yet loose, the cracks being where the light gets in.
For the epic four song encore, the band played tracks from four different albums. Before "Skeleton Tree," Cave admitted that the song is a sad but beautiful affair, and that they hadn't played it for a few years because of its dark subtext. Here, it sounded full of acceptance, power and hope. The stage glowed a soft, warm yellow as shimmering shards of white light burst out from behind the performers, gently cascading through the venue like a metaphysical disco ball, stars reduced to spinning lights, the cosmos contained in a few bright streaks through a concert venue in Toronto.
After the band walked off to a resounding standing ovation, Cave closed out the set solo with the fragile, ever-perfect "Into My Arms." It was an emotional, poignant moment, the crowd joining in loudly during the chorus, the elongated, swish of the 's' in "arms" reverberating like an unmanned snare drum.
There is something sincere in the way Cave breaks down the performer-audience divide, especially in a space such as Meridian Hall. His love of the crowd is palpable, and when he enters the audience, talks to concertgoers, passes them the microphone to hold while he struts along the stage, he's simply saying, "You're here: enjoy it." This mutual reverence was most apparent at the end, when he let the audience have the last word, the crowd singing the final titular repetition alone. He gave us that moment. The night belonged to us.