I first saw Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds in the winter of 1989 at the old 930 Club in DC. I must’ve been 16 or 17 then; it was my first club show, and to be honest the whole experience frightened the hell out of me. The intimidating vampires in the audience, the Bad Seeds crowded onto the tiny stage, dressed in suits, but looking like they had slept in them in the gutter - or worse, with Nick leaning into the crowd, head almost touching the low painted-black ceiling, shaking his fist, one foot propped up on the monitor, screaming “I’m gonna KILL that woman!!!” at the top of his lungs. It tattooed my psyche, and I immediately knew I wasn’t the same kid coming out of the club that night that shuffled in. Since then I grew over the years to adore the chaos, wrath, and fury of his songwriting and performances.
So it was quite gratifying, and touching, actually, for me to pick up this book, decades after my cacophonous baptism in DC and read the words of a man who has grown into his fearless magnanimity in such an amazing and human way. He is still the same man that catalyzed and instigated that mayhem years ago, but is also a profound, caring, loving man who has meditated upon the travails of his life in such an inspiring fashion - more inspiring than Nick the artist in February of 1989 could ever be.
One of my favorite concepts that NC returns to several times in the book is his emphasis that grief and trauma are as common an emotion or experience as love is, in this world. It will happen to all of us. It was comforting, like a feeling of human unity and belonging, even, for me to meditate upon that notion.
A fine example:
“But what I want to say is this: this will happen to everybody at some point - a deconstruction of the known self. It may not necessarily be a death, but there will be some kind of devastation. We see it happen to people all the time: a marriage breakdown, or a transgression that has a devastating effect on a persons, life, or health issues, or a betrayal, or a public shaming, or a separation, or someone loses their kids, or whatever it is. And it shatters them completely, into 1 million pieces, and it seems like there is no coming back. It’s over. But in time they put themselves together piece by piece. And the thing is, when they do that, they often find that they are a different person, a changed, more complete, more realized, more clearly drawn person. I think that’s what it is to live, really – to die in a way, and to be reborn. And sometimes it can happen many times over, that complex re-ordering of ourselves.
So, to return to what we talked about at the beginning of this conversation – the religious impulse… It seems, for some of us, the religious experience awaits the devastation, or a trauma, not to bring you happiness, or comfort, necessarily, but to bring about an expansion of the self – the possibility to extend as a human being, rather than contract. And, afterwards, we feel a compulsion, too, a need to pass the message on like missionaries of grief or something.”
I was also inspired by his disarming and earnest discussion of religion or religiousness, and his need for it, in the face of rationality and the science of the modern world. As an atheist, maybe I should try to allow magic into my life a bit more.