fat cherry wrote:from the latest uncut- their 'stop me if you've heard this one before issue. Post boatman's call interview. If there's any really dodgy text blame the OCR software. Had to do a bit of editing as it was:RARELY SINCE THE ancient Babylonians finished work on the Ishtar Gate have people made entrances so splendid. Nick Cave throws open the doors to the lounge of London's Kensington Gore Hotel and pauses to squint at your correspondent, waiting on one of two facing sofas in the centre of the room. He stalks afew steps to the ancient organ affIXed to onewall, throws out the tails of his jacket, perches on the stool, and bashes out chords which might have the villain's arrival in some or other Vincent Price film. As the fanfare fades, Cave vaults from the seat, and saunters unnecessarily around the couches, with the awkward lope ofa man who has neglected to remove the coat-hanger from his suit. He sits,lightsa cigarette - it's 1997-and makes eye contact for the first and last time. "Well,"
he asks. "What do you want to know?"
My honest response would be an enquiry about his skincare regime nudging 40, Cave looks terrific, as poor an advertisement for the drug-free life as might be imagined. I have a feeling, however, that giving voice to this might result in the shortest Nick Cave interview ever recorded: his "What do you want to know?" is clearly not an invitation, but a faintly hostile challenge. I have been dispatched to this appointment with instructions to open up Cave further about the album on which he has opened himself up most: The Boatman's Call, a collection of minimal, gently knelling, ruggedly beautiful heartbreak ballads. It has beenwidely speculated that these songs are inspired by the demise of Cave's marriage to his Brazilian Wife, Viviane Carneiro, and a subsequent, now also defunct, relationship with fellow songwriter Polly Harvey. These are not easy subjects to broach with anybody one has justmet, never mind with a personageas famous for his dislike of the press as Cave. As a consequence, I make hardwork of it, blundering about the point until Cave, perhaps suddenly stricken by stark recognition of the finite nature of corporeal existence, answers what I've been avoiding asking. "This album," he says, in the weary tones of a fugitive who has finally handed himself in, "is basically the setting down of the facts of a couple of relationships, and I haven't been tempted to embellish them or decorate them with language, or hide behind metaphor. What you hear is what happened, and there's something haunting and brutal about that, which I like very much."
I mention to Cave that reviews of The Boatman's Call have called it depressing. He sighs with bored disgust. I then mention that ! only mention this because Idon't hear that at all: hear the euphoric melancholy of Jimmy Webb, or the rueful wit of Leonard Cohen. Cave brightens dimly. "I got letters," he smiles, "from my mother and brother, after they'd heard it. They seemed concerned for mywell-being. I was aware that the record touches on topics that were going to be difficult to talk about, but when was writing and recording it, I was swept away by the whole thing. It's funny talking about it now, because the events have passed, and my personal life has moved on." ! feel sufficiently emboldened to ask Cave if he worries that he might suffer tortured artist syndrome - whether, consciously or not, he deliberately seeks turmoil to nourish his muse. "I don't thinkso," he says, plainly puzzled by the suggestion. "I don't think you can fall in love at will. It'd be good if you could, though."
Cave has a subliminal but nonetheless forceful way of making it clear when he considers an answer finished. Intrigued as to where he might be going with this, though, I counter his silence with silence. Eventually,he takes the prompt. "Oh, I'd do it all the time," he continues. "I think I get more surprised at things going wrong as I get older, because ! feel I should know better. I should learn something,but falling in love is akind of insanity, and you do or say things you wouldn't dream of doing or saying in more rational moments. The one thing you can hope to hold onto from a love affair gone wrong is dignity - if you can hang onto that, you've achieved something. To lose that within a relationship... that stays with you for a while."
Hence, I suppose, The Boatman's Call. "Well. .. mmm. Yeah. Whatever."
I venture to wonder whether Cave sound-tracked perceives similarities in the way he relates to, and writes about, women, and the way he feels and expresses himself about another recurring subject, ie, the Almighty. Before both, he seems uncertain, amazed, awestruck, bemused.
Cave winces at this excursion into minefield-strewn territory, but after a moment's furrowed thought, speaks.
"If," he says, "you're genuinely talented, and stay true to your talent, and don't start doing things for the wrong reasons, you'll be able to continue to do what you do, to continue to be given songs. I do know that if ! started to abusethis, if ! started to just do stuff for money, there's agood chance that my abilities would be taken away from me." Asked to name the agency that might confiscate his gifts, Cave regards the middle distance as if hoping to spot an escape route, before composing himself enough to mumble, "Well, God, I guess. I don't know. Whoever." It has been a strange hour. Cave has at no point given the impression that he wouldn't rather be undergoing dental work. But unlike certain notable rock curmudgeons, who regard interactions with journalists as opportunities for petulant power tripping, Cave has answered very question respectfully, and thoughtfully. It hasn't been the easiest of interviews. It will be a rare joy to transcribe.
"I've never wanted to be part of any underground,"he declares,"or any movement intent on destroying tradition. I just wanted to create a music that was mine, and was instantly identifiable as mine. I would like to write a classic song that would live forever."
A "Bridge Over Troubled Water", say.
"A'Bridge Over Troubled Water'," he nods, "would do nicely. But I don't really feel that ambitious. I don't know quite where to go at the moment. But I'm very comfortable, very happy. very proud to be a songwriter." With that, my tape runs out, and I indicate that I've probably got enough. Cave stands up and leaves the room as quickiy as if !'d set the sofa on fire.
I believe Ivan will want Scouser's commentary on this.
