The body they're feeding off is a mirror of their own emotional turmoil. Barely moving, they're like hyenas attracted to carrion. The Cave constituency tonight in Utrecht, and virtually every night elsewhere, couldn't change its underwear without help. In a Dutch club whose corridors remind me of the entrance to the gas ovens in Auschwitz – not a flippant comment, since I've been there – this lanky piece of literate shit, in his waistcoat and bow tie, holds the audience around the neck by the hangman's noose of his sheer showmanship of inadequacy. Vulnerability, sentimentality, bitterness, abrasiveness, humour and morbidity – all peel from his stretched larynx like a snake shedding skins. The cramped parameters of his singing are his strength. A man trying to exorcise the ghosts inside his head through limited means. Nick Cave is the voice of desperation onstage. It's time to tear out the pages of his book and light a fire. It misses.Įventually the press officer comes between Cave's gale-force windmill limbs and my passive resistance. He'd have trouble pissing against a lamppost. While I kneel down in the street and gather up the gear Cave cocks his boot at my head. Do you think that Jack hasn't got a memory?" "What the hell do you think you're doing?" castigates Nick's press officer as Cave fumbles with my zips – the one's on the bag, you understand. All I want is to get out of this damned city and never have to look at Cave and his dishrag limbs again. "If it means that much to you, I'll give it to you," I offer. "Where's that fucking interview tape," he hisses, ripping the contents of the bag out into the street. Picks it up and runs like an ostrich with its head still buried. He couldn't drive in a tack with a mallet.
"I'll fucking kill you, you bastard," he bellows, trying to tear out my left eye with filthy spatula nails. We're too far into this ugly scene for him to quit or back down now. The hate in Cave's eyes burns more fiercely than a funeral pyre. He'll never get a gardening job chopping down weeds, let alone collecting my skull.
"You're nothing but a shite-eater," he shrieks, taking a scythe with his fist at my head.
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