Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds - Wiltern Theater, Los Angeles - April 16th, 2002.
It's an area surrounded by Korean barbecue restaurants and Mexican Auto Body shops. We walk in and the entire audience is standing, caught in the dark glare of a six foot tall lanky Australian dressed in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, his tar black hair slicked back above his pronounced forehead, and he's staring at this 'young lady' in the front, recalling the moment some demonic cretin threw up his Red Right Hand. Behind the tall lanky man is a scarecrow playing a violin as though it gives off electric shocks, and a percussionist in a more sedate grey suit banging in time on a tubular bell every time this preacher of the old time gospel hour raises his red right hand. The lavish 30's era theater is dark, illuminated only by the crimson lit psyche behind the menacing chamber orchestra, it smells like weed, and the guy beside me is staring at the stage, his mouth agape, his eyes vacant, entranced, stoned, lost, mesmerised. Then the band becomes very quiet, only the repetitive and spare chirp of a guitar, the slight brushes of the drumkit, and the dark man begins to speak of atrocities, of empty and vile houses lost in barren countrysides and he raises his Red Right Hand and suddenly the entire stage is ablaze, pulsating faster, faster, the lights growing from blood red to deep amber and lightening with every return of the chorus, a cycle of fifths, amidst which the prevalent phrase is 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth'. The fury erupts and he's screaming, gasping, screeching.
Later he returns for a third encore, singing about 'a bad motherfucker called Stagger Lee' and how after shooting up various surly unfortunate folk at a local bar, is confronted by the Devil itself, holding a big pitchfork in its hand, telling this Mr. Stagger Lee that he's come to get him until Stagger Lee looks back at that devil and puts four holes in its motherfucking head.
Ain't nothing gone scare that rat. He's looking too high to fall prey to the lows.
I'm fucking sold. Sign me up for the lynch mob.
See what else I listen to at my Music Appreciation Room
Peace,
KMS
It's an area surrounded by Korean barbecue restaurants and Mexican Auto Body shops. We walk in and the entire audience is standing, caught in the dark glare of a six foot tall lanky Australian dressed in a black suit, black shirt, black tie, his tar black hair slicked back above his pronounced forehead, and he's staring at this 'young lady' in the front, recalling the moment some demonic cretin threw up his Red Right Hand. Behind the tall lanky man is a scarecrow playing a violin as though it gives off electric shocks, and a percussionist in a more sedate grey suit banging in time on a tubular bell every time this preacher of the old time gospel hour raises his red right hand. The lavish 30's era theater is dark, illuminated only by the crimson lit psyche behind the menacing chamber orchestra, it smells like weed, and the guy beside me is staring at the stage, his mouth agape, his eyes vacant, entranced, stoned, lost, mesmerised. Then the band becomes very quiet, only the repetitive and spare chirp of a guitar, the slight brushes of the drumkit, and the dark man begins to speak of atrocities, of empty and vile houses lost in barren countrysides and he raises his Red Right Hand and suddenly the entire stage is ablaze, pulsating faster, faster, the lights growing from blood red to deep amber and lightening with every return of the chorus, a cycle of fifths, amidst which the prevalent phrase is 'an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth'. The fury erupts and he's screaming, gasping, screeching.
Later he returns for a third encore, singing about 'a bad motherfucker called Stagger Lee' and how after shooting up various surly unfortunate folk at a local bar, is confronted by the Devil itself, holding a big pitchfork in its hand, telling this Mr. Stagger Lee that he's come to get him until Stagger Lee looks back at that devil and puts four holes in its motherfucking head.
Ain't nothing gone scare that rat. He's looking too high to fall prey to the lows.
I'm fucking sold. Sign me up for the lynch mob.
See what else I listen to at my Music Appreciation Room
Peace,
KMS
posted by Unknown at
5:59 AM
