NICK CAVE & THE BAD SEEDS
Nocturama
(Mute/Anti-)
The wild, weird world of Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds can be a forbidding one for the newcomer. The band is capable of achingly beautiful melodies and exquisite arrangements, but it's just as likely to veer into howling noise that sounds like a typhoon about to touch down. Frontman Cave can croon with the best of them, caressing a lyric like it's his only beloved, but he can also worry and tear at a libretto like a vicious dog. He can write the most romantic of lyrics, and these days often does, but he tends to boobytrap them with either a downbeat melody or a menacing turn of phrase; his characters look for love but their motives for doing so are often suspect. In a Cave song the protagonist may be pledge true devotion, but he (or she) can also fall into acts of appalling violence. The Bad Seeds' music balances darkness and light, faith and despair, romance and degradation, selflessness and sociopathy better than just about anyone else. It's a mix Cave's legion of followers and fans eagerly take to heart every time he and the Seeds release a record. But it's not the kind of material the masses find particularly easy to digest, and Cave's stardom remains of the cult variety.

With his fourteenth album Nocturama, however, Cave and the Seeds have crafted what may be the most accessible record of their career. What's interesting about this assertion is that it's probably a coincidence; Cave never considers anything other than his own artistic standards when writing songs, and the band couldn't deliberately create a top-40 pop ditty even if it wanted to. (Actually, the musicians are perfectly deft enough to play anything they want; it's just unlikely that mainstream pop would ever occur to them.) But some confluence of the moon, stars and tides has prodded the Bad Seeds towards a sound that, while not exactly mass-market, is at least friendlier than its usual gloomy aura, and they've accomplished this without sacrificing anything that makes the group what it is.

As with The Boatman's Call and No More Shall We Part, the ensemble's last couple of highly acclaimed albums, Nocturama is dominated by ballads, mostly exploring the theme of love and devotion. (The mysterious "There is a Town" is the only tune here to delve into Cave's pet theme of spiritual confusion.) "Wonderful Life," "Still in Love" and "Right Out of Your Hand" float on some of Cave's most beauteous melodies; "Rock of Gibraltar" is easily one of his most heart-stoppingly romantic tunes, sung with quiet passion and earnest promise. Of course, as with any Cave love song, there is some subtle sabotage. "Still in Love" sounds like it takes place during a wake, as the singer silently pledges his heart to the recently bereaved, and just why are "the cops hanging around the house?" "Right Out of Your Hand" throws in couplets like "I mean you no harm/When I tell you you're blind" and "But any fool can tell you/It's all in your mind," making one wonder about the sincerity behind the lover's declaration. "Wonderful Life," with a downbeat minor key melody and lyrics like "It don't matter much/We got nothing much to lose/It's a wonderful life/If you can find it," is more plea than promise. "Rock of Gibraltar" seems the most straightforwardly lovely when Cave sings "Let me say this to you/I'll be steadfast and true/And my love will never falter"—until you get near the end, where he sadly croons "Could the powers that be/Ever foresee/That things could so utterly alter?," concluding "All the plans that we laid/Could soon be betrayed/Betrayed like the Rock of Gibraltar." It's the kind of song lovers would play at their wedding without listening to closely to the actual words. Despite the arsenic lacing the flower, however, it's still one of Cave's most beautiful creations.

The group breaks up the bittersweet tenderness with a trio of uncommon diversions. "Bring It On," a surging pop tune that features rich guest vocals from Saints leader Chris Bailey, not only disperses the dark clouds by pledging "Bring it on/Every little fear/And I'll make them disappear," but does so while managing to make a well-worn hack phrase sound fresh. That the lyrics are married to one of Cave's catchiest-ever melodies doesn't hurt; if the Bad Seeds have a hit single in them, "Bring It On" is it. It's immediately followed by "Dead Man in My Bed," a noise-mongering rocker that recalls the demented howls in the night from his masterpiece of nightmares Henry's Dream. And then there's "Babe, I'm On Fire." For fifteen minutes (four pages in the lyric book), Cave rants about obsessive lust like a hellfire-and-brimstone preacher desperate to prove that every living being feels the same way he does when it comes to his boiling tumescence: "The laughing hyena says it/The homesick Polish cleaner says it/The man from the Klan with the torch in his hand says/Babe, I'm on fire!" The Seeds match their leader's agitation with a wall of sound that grows more and more frenzied with every stanza, as Warren Ellis' violin, Blixa Bargeld's dischordant guitar and Cave's own savage Hammond organ fight for dominance with the frontman's relentless bellowing. Before the song is over, the staccato, seemingly innocuous chorus—"We can hold hands 'til the sun goes down/'Cause I know that you/And I/Can be/Together/'Cause I love you"—sounds far more like a threat than any kind of pillow talk. It's as if the Seeds were suppressing their usual penchant for emotional and musical violence for the duration of the record until it came spilling out in this repetitive, ugly but compelling stream of sexual invective. "Babe, I'm on Fire" is like a rug pulled out from under anyone grown complacent from the prettiness of all that's come before it.

That said, it's unlikely an epic declaration of trouser-ripping lust would be the calling card of an album like this; it's more the gun hidden under the pillow than the warm blanket over the comfy mattress. Other than "Babe, I'm on Fire" and "Dead Man in My Bed," everything on this album is more inviting to the casual listener than nearly anything else in Cave's oeuvre. With the right promotion and careful choice of emphasis tracks, Nocturama could find itself nestled high on the charts, with copies in the home stereos of suburban housewives, snobbish indie rockers and alienated teenagers alike. (The mere thought of "Babe, I'm on Fire" blasting out of a convertible's CD player induces a smile.) Admittedly, the odds are against it. But Nocturama has the potential to make Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds a household word; that they might find success without an inch of artistic compromise makes the taste even sweeter. Michael Toland [buy it]

For fans of: PJ Harvey, Cousteau, early Tom Waits