The Prince of Darkness Speaks in an Australian Accent (But that Doesn’t Make Him God)

By Gianmarc Manzione
Originally published on

There comes a time when a great songwriter’s work eventually builds a monument of such indisputable glory that fans and media alike exchange objective criticism for the kind of polite noise everyone’s making about the latest from Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds, Dig!! Lazarus Dig!!!, as if to handle their work with the remotest honesty is to befoul the names of the gods. Let me make one thing clear: Nick Cave has without any doubt attained the heights of rock ‘n roll divinity, but that doesn’t mean he can’t be pulled to the ground when he asks for it. And with Lazarus, he doesn’t just ask–he begs.

As with other recent outings by similarly gargantuan lyricists, such as Patti Smith’s Trampin’ or Leonard Cohen’s disastrously unfocused Dear Heather, Cave’s Lazarus exudes a conspicuous polish and complacency that culminate in the most pedestrian album of his career, despite its ambitious “Hey! Let’s tell the story of Lazarus rising from the dead, but throw in some bullshit about Harry Houdini at the same time, just to fuck with ‘em!” concept. When the idea sounds more interesting than the work it produces, it’s probably because the idea actually wasn’t all that interesting after all. And no amount of frenzied bluster and gesticulation in Cave’s dime-store-quality video for the title track can change that (part of the problem is that the whole Fu-Manchu thing Nick’s got going on is more interesting than the song.) It’s all noise and no nuance this time around–the exact inversion of everything Cave fans expect of this otherwise brilliant man.

But it’s too late now–the establishment’s chorus of homage-paying bobbleheads has chimed in en masse, dragging the most tired blurb-worthy cliches from the tomb where they were wisely abandoned several decades ago. “The band sounds better than ever!” Uncut exclaims. Yawn. Has this person actually listened to Abattoir Blues or Let Love In? Really, Uncut? Better than that? Yeah, maybe not.

But it gets better–considerably better, in fact, as with this morsel from Entertainment Weekly: “Cave spits out his woebegone lyrics as if he were a holy ghost-filled preaching machine leading the world’s funkiest revival meeting.” A holy ghost-filled preaching machine? Did this mofo actually WRITE that? The joining of Jesus with Garrison Keilor and a fundamentalist version of H.G. Wells is admirable, but only for its phenomenally tortured language.

And then, of course, we get the usual “the band just keeps getting better with age” motif, exactly the kind of tossed-off drivel a nameless journalist scribbles on a napkin in lipstick in a panicked effort to meet a deadline, prompting countless others to cooperatively bray along in their respective rags–and they have. It’s eminently clear that most rock journalists are paying less mind to the music than to the name on the cover it’s wrapped in.

The several talking songs on Lazarus (like “Night of the Lotus Eaters” or the title track) are palpably reminiscent of Lou Reed’s many forgotten “fuck you” albums, rubbish like Ecstasy wherein Lou arrives at the unfortunate conclusion that his lyrics are of such majesty as to require only that he stand somewhere close to a mike and read them off his legal pad while the band plays something listenable. It’s this very presumptuousness that undercuts Cave’s performances here, a combination of indifference and indulgence that suggests Nick’s been reading his own clippings. Gone is the gut-deep rave against the world in the brilliant “Oh My Lord” from 2001′s memorably haunted And No More Shall We Part. Gone are the McGarrigle sisters summoning a backdrop of distant ghosts to the misted edges of the song. Gone is the ballsiness of opening an album of ballads with a line like “I don’t believe in an interventionist God.”

Instead we get a self-congratulatory Cave luxuriating in the density of his own chiseled lines while spitting stale similes like “you came on like a punch in the heart,” accidentally stumbling here and there into a vocal melody that almost approximates song. The band accompanies Cave in a drunken nausea of whiny violins and one-chord riffs that condemn most tracks to the monotone rut Cave is so clearly steeped in. At times, as on the entirely discordant “Midnight Man” or “Moonland,” the band simply collapses into an unlistenable jazz of dispassion. When Cave released the jam-packed double album Abattoir Blues in 2004, a mature masterpiece that integrated the blistering abandon of his Birthday Party days with the brooding balladry of Boatman’s Call, he suggested that fans ought to listen to disc one first, and then resort to disc 2 only when they grew hungry for a new Nick Cave album. Well, I find myself famished after listening to Lazarus, and so you’ll understand if I return now to the Abattoir to get my fill.