Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds: Tender Prey

About a week ago I bought Tender Prey, the much-lauded 1988 LP by Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds, and I have to say it's one of the most intriguing and downright scary albums I've ever listened to. Nick Cave may be my next rock idol. On the front cover he looks equal parts devil and debonaire: arms crossed in a bloodred button-down and jet-black sport coat. He looks like a young Elvis if he'd been the star of Night of the Living Dead.

Lyrically, the album sounds like he's obsessed with old Gothic novels, the most terrifying parts of the bible, and the middle part of Joyce's A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man that I can't get through. Recurrent themes are murder, the devil, selling and/or taking souls, and seeking refuge or mercy.

Sample lyrics:
"You stand before your maker
In a state of shame
Bacause your robes are covered in mud
While you kneel at the feet
Of a woman of the street
The gutters will run with blood
They will run with blood!

You better run, you better run
You better run to the City of Refuge
You better run, you better run
You better run to the City of Refuge

In the days of madness
My brother, my sister
When you're dragged toward the Hell-mouth
You will beg at the end
But there ain't gonna be one, friend
For the grave will spew you out
It will spew you out!"
-"City of Refuge"

But all horror movie-novelty aside, The songs are just damn good. There's a lot of variety, with tracks ranging from ballads like "Watching Alice," rockers like "City of Refuge" and "Deanna," and piano-driven romps like "Up Jumped the Devil." Cave's got a huge baritone voice, in the ilk of singers like Ian McCulloch and Scott Walker.

Tracks to check out:
"The Mercy Seat"
"Watching Alice"
"City of Refuge"

S

The North Sea

The smell of the brine has always made me uncomfortable. As a boy I would ride my bicycle along the streets of the harbour town in which I was born and raised. The reeking hauls the fishermen would sell in seaside stalls was more than I could bear and I would always keep my head down and plug my nose.

When my younger brother and I were small children, mum and dad brought us on holiday to France. We caught the ferry in Dover and I remember being violently ill over the rail of the barge as it rocked upon the tumbling waves. I've never been much of a sailor--a source of continuous disappointment to my father, a former petty officer in the Royal Navy. We arrived at the Port of Calais, and I can't remember having been happier to see land in my life...at least until the War began.

I was seventeen when the Germans invaded Belgium en route to France. We were in the middle of a History lecture on the Napoleonic Wars when the lanky Mr. Percy Staunch, the head of English walked in and announced impassively that Old Willy "had finally done it."

The following weeks were surreal. Suddenly the streets were filled with Union Jacks and propaganda posters showing demonic figures in black uniforms and spiky helmets grimacing ruthlessly. My friends and I would spend our evenings in our common room listening intently to the radio reports as the Germans finally toppled the last of the Belgian garrisons and moved into France.

The excitement the War generated created a massive stir at my school. The boys in their final year had all begun signing up for service. I remember listening raptly to speakers from the Army and Navy coming and talking of our duty to King and Country.

Two years later I'm writing from my division's camp in Dover. At 19, the prospect of crossing the Channel again can hardly be called bright. The war has not been going well for our side, and my division has been ordered to refresh a worn out stretch of the front lines.

We leave tomorrow morning for the gloomy coast of France and God only knows what else.

Because I went to Public School, they've given me a wartime commission as a lieutenant. The men in my platoon look ill equipped and nervous, but they are eager to join the fray. None of us knows what to expect, having never seen combat. I feel embarassed and ill-prepared in my position as platoon leader. Some of the men are in their forties: butchers and fishermen from the coastal towns.

When I left my home in Brighton my mother was crying and my father, his arm around her, sternly saluted and said, "Good luck, son." My younger brother said, "I'll be listening to the radio for you Thomas, I can't wait until my eighteenth birthday so I can come and fight with you." I waved goodbye before I rounded the street corner down to the bus-stop.

Now, as I look out onto the slim stretch of the North Sea between our camp and what is certain to be the defining experience of my life, I cannot help but feel apprehensive. I cast my gaze to the foaming waves and think of my childhood.

You Made Me Forget My Dreams

Lawrence looked out the window into the morning rain. The northeast was a nice change after the dry heat of the Southwest. He had covered the miles between Salt Lake City and Boston in a few flighty days and was dropped off by the last of a kindly slew of motorists in the Commons. He put his sachel in a locker and idly wandered the streets until he came to a quaint little coffee shop just off one of the main cobblestone roads.

It had been drizzling on and off since his bleary-eyed introduction to the city, and he'd finally gotten sodden to the point that he could no longer deny his discomfort. So, at the first sign of warmth and a good cup of coffee he stepped into said coffee house. He ordered some lunch and sat down on one of the barstools near the window and let himself get lost in his thoughts.

Then the waitress came over, bringing him his coffee with a sad smile. She was probably a college student working a summer job. He'd have to get one of those himself sooner than he'd like. Her eye caught a shabby little paperback that Lawrence had placed on the counter. It was All Quiet on the Western Front and she told him warmly that it was a great book. She wiped the countertop a little with a rag, idly, and sooner than he would have liked, she turned and went back to the kitchen.

Lawrence had it tough. He couldn't understand why he had this constant urge to move. There was so much he wanted--needed to do, and seemingly so little time to do it in. Sharks need to have water moving past their gills constantly to survive, so they've always got to move. He couldn't bear to sit still, he was like a shark, always in search of prey--always the same hunger, in his heart, if not his belly. Transit releases one from obligation. You might be headed for something big--you might have the biggest event of your life just over the horizon--but whether you can see it's ominous outline or not, the time you spend just moving, drifting slowly towards it--during that time you've got no responsibilities; all your cares are put on hold.

But for Lawrence, there would be some startling changes ahead. He had analyzed every facet of his life and thought he understood what caused what and why he lived the way he did, but he would soon meet someone who would turn his perspective inside out. This was refreshing for Lawrence, who learned that when you've spent too much of your time examining yourself under a microscope this can be a very good thing.

S

The Kinks Live 1973 - Part 7 of 7

Watch The Kinks perform the song, "The Village Green Preservation Society" on the BBC in 1973.

The Kinks

Now, having spent my adolescence growing up in the southern US, I was introduced to The Kinks by way of Van Halen's audacious cover of "You Really Got Me." I liked the cover as a kid, but when I got older and my tastes changed, the cerebral overload of Eddie Van Halen's shredding began to wear on me.

Then during the Summer a couple of years ago my family and I were in England for a few days visiting family, and I bought a copy of Uncut. Like a lot of zines these days, the issue featured a mix CD, which happened to include a track by The Kinks called, "The Village Green Preservation Society." The pompous title stuck with me and I made a mental note to listen a little harder when I got to that track.

What I heard was some of the most colorful, charming songwriting to grace my ears. This was nothing like the hard-hitting r&b of "You Really Got Me," this was tongue-in-cheek, campy music that playfully flicked off anyone who ever took themselves too seriously. Check out these lyrics:

"We are the office block condemnation affinity.
God save little shops,
China cups and virginity."

and

"We are the skyscraper condemnation affiliate.
God save Tudor housing,
Antique tables and billiards."

Are not those some of your favorite lyrics ever? They should be.

Now, I'm not a Kinks Kompletist, but I would say that their album The Kinks are the Village Green Preservation Society is a crucial component to any record collection. Songs like "Picture Book" and "Sitting by the River Side" are pure pop in its most gloriously radiant form.

Ray Davies is the principle songwriter of the Kinks, and he is a badass. The guy was shot a couple of years ago while being mugged with his girlfriend in New Orleans or something, and apparently he didn't even go down--he fucking chased after the assailant until he (presumably) could no longer continue due to his injuries. He just came out with a solo record called Other People's Lives.

Check out the Kinks.

Recommended songs:

"Do You Remember Walter?" from The Village Green Preservation Society
"Waterloo Sunset" from The Ultimate Kinks Collection
"Dedicated Follower of Fashion" from The Ultimate Kinks Collection
"Tired of Waiting" from The Ultimate Kinks Collection

S

"As Rose collects the money in the cannister..."

Today I heard an absolutely vile homily at church by an intolerant fundamentalist priest. According to said sad man of the cloth, it's not the good who get into heaven, but rather the HOLY. What does that even mean?

Here's what I think:

The holy are whomever the old men in gowns over in the Vatican decide are worthy of bearing that highly subjective title. They probably still consider the Crusades holy or even the Inquisition. Why the hell do we trust these descendents of murderers, molesters, and slimy con-men?

I don't know. I'm sure there are a great deal of devout, virtuous priests out there, but man do some of their ilk piss me off. How often do you read about some father being convicted of multiple sex crimes? Just because these fellows act solemnly and perform religious rites doesn't mean they're saints that we should rely on for our morality.

It's so hard to be religious these days with people constantly trying to tell you you're damned unless you do as they say. I, for one, think your faith is only valid and respectable if you have an open mind towards the decisions and traditions of others.

S

What is that fucking Pringles smell??

I just had a thought:

Sometimes life feels like a tragic comedy that you're constantly playing out. I mean, I guess that's a pretty common thought and not too original an analogy, but doesn't it really seem like that sometimes? Especially in retrospect. Certain things just seem ridiculous to me when I look back on them. It's like everyday I wake up and I have this restless urge to do something that will make my personal tragicomedy a little more interesting to my mysterious reader(s).

Maybe God made us for entertainment. Maybe he's sat up there in his library reading our life stories 'cause there's nothing better to do with your time when your an all-powerful diety (and you've done everything there is to do, presumably).

I'm anticipating the start of the school year and departure of my friends to their respective institutions of higher learning. I'm super pumped to form my own band and write and record album number 2 (and finish no. 1, let's not forget that). The city's starting to beckon me, and I think I'm about ready to dive back in.

Sincerely,

S

My dad once told me he had an essay prompt in school when he was a boy: "Sartorial Eloquence is Mere Exhibitionism." Discuss.

Scrolling Pentateuch

The dark is a perfect canvas. You walked a mile and a half out into the wilderness of the American Southwest and you camped one night in the open, freezing desert. The night encloses and terrifies and you move a little closer to your campfire.

Dreams are moving across the sky like silent, screaming banshees: symbiotes looking for a good host. They feed on your confusion and they give back inspiration (or more confusion). The dark is a perfect canvas. Contrast is so important in almost every aspect of life: better contrast gets you closer to self-realization. Example: It's hard to know who's friend and who's foe amongst these rows and rows of steely gray ghosts.

In a beat-up el camino in the great American Southwest you begin the next day. Truckstop coffee and a syrupy short stack and you're on your way. New friends and lovers, new oases to shoot the shit. The hot black asphalt becomes sticky tar at noontime. Look in your rearview and you're being followed by the fuzz, or maybe it's nothing.

Bottleneck mirages as you approach some sad city in Arizona or New Mexico. Stop in for a coke in the convenience store and get a dirty look from the proprietor for linering overlong. Next night it's out to the cliff dwellings to try and feel more primal. Is it a false notion that we were once better equiped to handle all the baggage that life piles upon us with each passing year? What's the point of despair? If we can be more animal and less cannibal maybe we still have a chance.

The dark is a perfect canvas. I walked a mile and a half in a sandy place and a strange tribal figure approached me and gave me an animal skin, maybe covered in sheep or goat's wool or something. A rickety house on the red-orange plains. Out of place entirely. I look up at the second story window...who is that inside?

Laps and laps back and forth and/or around the track. The therapy of repetitive motion and/or minor triumph (e.g. making a basket, gracefully jumping over an obstacle in one's path) is a wonderful thing.

Stars so bright tonight.

Sincerely,
S

Nick Drake

Nick Drake is the fucking man!

If I were you I'd buy every little release of his that you can lay your hands on. He was such a talent: the kind of phenomenal artist of which there are only a handfull per generation.

Five Leaves Left is jazz plus enchanted forest folk, including the mind-blowing "Riverman" and "Man in a Shed"

Bryter Layter is an attempt at commercial success, which usually has negative consequences, but not in Nick Drake's case. "Fly" and "Northern Sky" are my two personal favorites.

Pink Moon is brilliant all the way through. From the opening title track to the closer, "From the Morning," the album for me is the epitome of honest expression. The raw emotion and pain that is contained in the songs can at times be unsettling and even disturbing, but it's so refreshing to hear, like a good John Lennon song.

-S

Pavement Carrot Rope

One of my favorite songs right now...

Macbook & Pavement

I'm currently obsessed with two things: my new macbook and the band Pavement. Pavement's music, to me, is poignant, yet unsentimental. This seems to me the most reliable formula from great pop music. When Malkmus sings, "Every building same height, every street a straight line, two colors: yellow and blue," he's sounds almost like some nihilistic automaton, yet it's undeniably emotional. I don't know why or how yet...if I did I would be a mega indie rock star right now.

If you want to get into pavement, buy their last album, Terror Twilight, and then delve into their older stuff if you find yourself uncontrollably humming the melodies to "Billie" and "Carrot Rope." Pavement is a crucial band. They're proof that rock 'n' roll never dies, but simply reinvents itself. The songs sound bored and they're filled with non-sequiturs about urban decay, social deviance, and just plain silly (but oh so good) wordplay, but they're rock gods in my pantheon.

Songs to listen to:

"Lions (Linden)" from the Watery, Domestic EP
"Carrot Rope" from the Terror Twilight LP
"Zurich is Stained" from the Slanted and Enchanted LP

Youtube it up!

As far as the macbook goes, I'm typing this post on it right now! I told you I was obsessed!

Sincerely,

S

Phantoms

Phantoms, Entry I.

When I was a boy, my mum or my dad took me to a bank or something. The floor was a hard, reflective surface and so it looked as if there was nothing to walk on whatsoever. I mean, being a little kid, I was absolutely terrified that if I took a step off the black marble tiles near the entrance to the building that I would fall into some ominous chasm. I probably pulled a Dante and swooned shortly afterwards, since I don't remember any more of what happened after that. The point is, I'm just glad I've been privileged enough to have led a happy childhood and that I can look back fondly on some little moments of disarming innocence.


Thoughts:
Lucrative Career Alternatives: Anyone can be a poet, but can you put the pen to paper and make it sing?