Pitchfork

Until 1997, The Nick Cave Songbook read like a set of William Blake Mad Libs filled in by undertakers, jilted lovers and John Wayne Gacy, with a few American folk covers thrown in for variety. Cave had built his career and reputation on twenty glorious years of human misery; God was an alien creature to be feared, and true love was just the first step toward some poor soul meeting a gruesome end. But then, after the grisly Murder Ballads LP, it seems Nick and Jesus sat down and sorted out their differences. With The Boatman's Call and No More Shall We Part, the anger of Cave's youth had finally lapsed into spiritual angst; murderous desire had given way to simple longing.

Now, I don't want to say specifically that Cave has been showing his age, but in a way, he's been driving with his turn signal on for the past couple albums. So when Nocturama was reported as an attempt to "do it like they used to do it," referencing the prodigious output of his elder folk influences as well as the sturm-und-drang of his own early work, I furrowed my brow with concern. Could the passive, contemplative evangelist of "As I Sat Sadly by Her Side" summon even an ounce of the sulfurous hellfire he so elegantly spewed as recently as the immaculate Let Love In? I sincerely hoped so; lyrically, the elder Cave hadn't lost more than a step in decades, and the overwhelming emotional sincerity he'd laid bare was often stunning, but such exhaustive preaching could make Billy Graham blush.

The skepticism, fortunately, was largely unfounded-- seemingly incompatible halves-of-self, the righteous and the damned, have indeed both come to play in Nocturama. Also, as it turns out, that's not nearly as impressive as it ought to be-- neither half puts its best foot forward. The languor of newer Cave material remains, albeit with a darker, more sorrowful air. Certain songs ("Wonderful Life", "Bring It On") nod toward some of the apocalyptic prophecy of classics like "Tupelo", if minus the actual climaxes. He mercifully strays from redundant tales of religious salvation toward distinctly more personal issues of fulfillment (but never leaves Boatman's Call turf), and generally improves upon his last few outings. But with two (admittedly gigantic-- hold on) exceptions, Nocturama reneges on its promise-- something's still missing from most of these tracks.

Where once the Mr. Cave and his Seeds unearthed the distinctive roots of Blues tradition, holding them aloft with bloody hands and the panache of a hellacious sideshow emcee, they continue to consciously avoid the schtick that made them indie darlings. Entertainingly dismal, piano-hearted tunes are the core instead, backed by uneasy strains of violins, haunting vocals, and funeral march percussion; in truth, it may still be the group's best work since Let Love In, but it had the potential to be so much more. Cave has clearly made a choice to embrace a more "mature" sound, and though I enjoyed older work more, it's hard to fault a man for a choice-- it's a strong album even if it doesn't stand up to his past greatness. Yet, when he goes and outdoes himself so remarkably on the very same album, it's even harder not to.

Exhibits one and two: "Dead Man in My Bed" and "Babe, I'm on Fire". This is what a real fusion of the old firebrand and the mature musician should sound like; the passion and aggression of "Deanna", or "Janglin' Jack", minus the raunch, with superior arrangements and musicianship. "Fire" closes with fourteen minutes of flawless, incendiary madness; The Bad Seeds produce a Latin-and-blues-tinged collage of shredded organ and guitar strings, dub bass, and Cave at his howling, vitriolic best. It fits squarely in his personal hall of fame, and in particular makes a moldy joke of the remainder of Nocturama; they didn't all need to be this good, but a few more stormy rattlings of this caliber are sorely missed. He's obviously more than capable of it.

Lyrically, at least, Nocturama demonstrates (like most everything he's done) why Cave consistently earns votes for all-time vocal achievement, but it's rarely more appreciated than on a tune of such grandiosity. Cave sings even such mind-bending lines as, "The Viennese vampire says it/ The cowboy 'round his campfire says it/ The game show panelist/ The Jungian analyst says/ Babe, I'm on fire," with convincing zealousness. What should never work does. There are supposedly a few more albums on the way soon, and all that can be done is hope that he picks up where the hot streak of "Babe, I'm on Fire" leaves off, the way it ought to, with Nick not merely smoldering, but blazing.