Thursday, 9 May 2013

GREATEST SCIENCE FICTION STORIES OF ALL TIME

The golden age of SF was in the fifties and sixties however, there are also some real gems both before and after this period also.
I would recommend looking up the Hugo and Nebula Award Winning Novels and nominations for an absolute wealth of wonders. Also, Gollancz have published a series called 'Science Fiction Masterworks' and this is another goldmine.
My favourite books of all time are in that list - 'The Star's My Destination' and ‘The Demolished Man’ by The Grandfather - Mr Alfred Bester (I am not worthy) - widely regarded as the greatest SF books of all time by other SF authors. See where William Gibson (read Neuromancer) got the cyberpunk bug from.
Read everything by him above and also J.G. Ballard - author of 'Crash' for dystopian visions.
'Last and First Men' and 'Starmaker' by Olaf Stapledon. You read this and you'll see where Clarke, Asimov, Baxter, hell everybody got their inspiration for the big stuff.
Try '2001, 2010, 2061 and 3001' By Arthur C Clarke and 'The Foundation Trilogy' By Isaac Asimov and 'Dune Series' By Frank Herbert for more epic scale.
Try 'Rites Of Passage' by Alexei Panshin which is divinely written. What a rip-roaring ride of masterful narrative and nailbiting tension. It also raises some fascinating ideas about overpopulation and future societies.
Try 'Earth Abides' By George R Stewart - read it now, or suffer mediocrity for the rest of your life. Other fantastic pre and post holocaust novels are 'Lucifer's Hammer' and 'Footfall' By Larry Niven and Jerry Pournelle and 'Earth' By David Brin.
Try 'Canticle For Liebowitz' by Walter M Miller for a spiritual epic running through millennia.
Try 'Bug Jack Barron', 'Little Heroes' and 'The Iron Dream' by Norman Spinrad for a drug hazed headf*-k.
Try 'The Deep Range' by Arthur C. Clarke for a high pressure ocean eco-adventure.
Try 'The Forever War' and follow ups by Joe Haldeman for scale and virtuosity.
Try 'Dark Universe' By Daniel Galouye for strange delights and gradual awakenings of understanding. Lightbulbs will ping on in your brain over and over again.
Try 'Do Androids Dream of Electric Sheep' By Philip K Dick and then run out and buy Bladerunner by Ridley Scott (Ultimate Cut) immediately because it's the best SF movie ever made. Actually - read anything by this guy.
Try 'Non Stop' By Brian Aldiss - magnificent pace and adventure. What a master.
Try 'Flowers For Algernon' by Daniel Keyes for a beautiful story about a man with learning difficulties - get your hankies out though.
Try 'Red Mars', 'Green Mars' and 'Blue Mars' By Kim Stanley Robinson for an epic and technical marvel of future colonisation - NASA asks him for advice on the strength of these books.
Try 'Blood Music' By Greg Bear for a biohorror - and talking of that, 'I Am Legend' by
Richard Matheson is the best SF-horror crossover ever - beats the hell out of the pathetic recent attempt at the movie. I read on the grapevine that there was a time when Ridley Scott was going to make it during his golden SF era and sadly, I shall be haunted by the ghosts of great SF films unmade.
Try 'The Space Merchants' By Frederick Pohl and CM Kornbluth for a funny as fu*! story of future identity theft and fraud.
Try the 'Ender's Saga' starting with 'Ender's Game' and don't miss 'Speaker For The Dead' by Orson Scott Card for an examination of war ethics and recovery and healing afterward.
Try 'Startide Rising' By David Brin for a great yarn about the uplift of dolphins and great apes in to sentient beings.
Try 'No Enemy But Time' By Michael Bishop for the ultimate in time travelling yarns.
Try 'The Iron Dream' By Norman Spinrad and 'The Man In The High Castle' By Philip K Dick for an exploration of what if the Nazi's were around now.
Actually, just read the whole of the Gollancz SF Masterworks series - oh thankyou, thank you, thankyou whoever put this series together!
For Kids a fantastic intro to scifi at around 10 - 12 are 'The Children of Morrow' By H.M. Hoover and 'Dolphin Island' By Arthur C. Clarke.
Enjoy as I did and feed your brain!
Oh Bugger, I forgot Stranger In a Strange Land, Damnation Alley, Brave New World, 1984, Little Heroes, Gateway, Tau Zero, The City and The Stars, Childhood’s End and Fahrenheit 451!

I’m sure I’ll think of more as soon as I post this. Dammit Janet!

Monday, 6 May 2013

MY TOP 5 RESONATOR GUITARS TO DIE FOR




Who has not heard the sound of those resonant, ringing, sliding, warbling bell-like beauties and not been struck by their sonic splendour? If they don't hit you somewhere deep inside then to be quite frank, you must be dead. My little Ozark does the job and gives a nice sound when played laptop style using a nut to raise the action and a Lap Dawg contemporary tonebar. If you want a beautiful example of playing, listen to 'Knockin' On Heaven's Door' at the following link and pretty much anything by Jerry Douglas, Sonny Landreth, Arlen Roth etc.
Here are some nice links with sound examples of these quirky instruments:

http://www.terraplaneguitars.com/

So I thought that after all my squawking about my hatred of lists that I would make a list o
f my own.

My top five resonators and Oh My God, do I wish I had the dough for any of these!

5. The Jerry Douglas Signature Dobro
Body
Mah
ogany
Resonator
Spider
Cover Plate Fan
Binding
Neck and Body
Hardware
Nickel Plate
Finish
Natural MahoganyComes with Deluxe Hard-shell Case
Price $2409


Jerry Douglas' fluid, seemingly effortless playing has earned him the nickname "flux." He's worked with an amazing array of stars from all genres of music - from James Taylor and Paul Simon to Alison Krauss and Lyle Lovett. He has won Grammy Awards as a producer for the Nashville Bluegrass Band and Allison Krauss as well.The Great Dobro Sessions yielded Jerry Grammy Awards as both producer and performer. He has also been awarded fifteen trophies by the International Bluegrass Music Association; seven Academy of Country Music Awards for best instrumentalist; and several Indie Awards. Despite his relative young age, Jerry Douglas is a renowned modern Dobro master.
4. National Polychrome Tricone Acoustic Resonator Guitar


Model - Polychrome Tricone
Weight - 8lbs 14oz
Serial - 15263Year - 08-2009
Case - OMHC
Tuners: National BrandNutMaterial: Bone
Fretboard: MahoganyFretboard Binding: Ivoroid
Fretboard Markers: Mother of Pearl
Fretwire: W.106 H.039
Resonator: Three 6 inch ConesBridge
Type: T BridgeNeck
Material: MapleTopMaterial: SteelSideMaterial: SteelBackMaterial: SteelUpperBout Width:10.25 Inch
Lower Bout Width:14.25 InchOverall Length: 39 Inch
Depth Of Body: 3.125 InchWidth at Nut: 1.825 Inch
Width at 12th: 2.3 Inch
Scale Length: 25-21/32
Price: $2,000 +/-
The Polychrome Tricone is a steel body version of the classic Style 1. The body is finished in durable powdercoat, it has a maple neck, rosewood fretboard and 1930s style headstock overlay.

3. National M1 Tricone Acoustic Resonator Guitar

Headstock Style: Slotted
Tuners: National Brand
Nut Material: Bone
Fretboard: Ebony
Fretboard Binding: Ivoroid
Fretboard Markers: Mother of Pearl
Fretwire: W-.106 H.039
Resonator: Three 6" Cones
Bridge Type: T Bridge
Neck Material: Honduras Mahogany
Top Material: Mahogany
Side Material: Mahogany
Back Material: Mahogany
Upper Bout Width: 10.25"
Lower Bout Width: 14.25"
Overal Length: 39"
Depth Of Body: 3.125"
Width at Nut: 1.825"
Width at 12th: 2.3"
Scale Length: 25-21/32"
Weight: 6 lbs 5 oz
Hardshell Case: Included
Price: 6 String $2900; 12 String $3200; Left Handed $2900; Square Neck $2900; Baritone $3200

National’s Mahogany bodied M1 Tricone has a tone unlike anything else the company has ever offered. The volume and dynamic range of this guitar will surprise you at first strum; it’s much more airy and open than a brass or steel tricone – and has much less focus in the mids than the metal bodies. Instead, the sound is warm, wide and breathy, and controlled.
Fingerstyle guitarists (who don’t play slide) will find inspiration in this instrument, as will anybody who’s always wanted a resonator but hasn’t found one that’s just right. A truly remarkable creation, and more than 3 pounds lighter than a metal bodied equivalent. Mahogany ply body with wooden soundwell, mahogany neck, ivoroid-bound ebony fingerboard, slotted headstock. Round neck carve, 25.65” scale, 1-13/16” nut.

2. Terraplane - Zydeco

Terraplane Zydeco - modelled by Sonny Landreth

  • Nickel Silver Polished Thinline Cutaway Body
  • Cutaway Body Available In:
    • Polished Brass -which will naturally age
    • Polished Brass -with a urethane clear coat
    • Custom Hot-Rod Candy Finishes
    • Nickel Plated
    • Snakedance Finish Optional
  • Two Custom Jason Lollar Pickups
  • Rotary Volume Control & Mini 3-Way Pickup Selector
  • 1-7/8" Body Thickness
  • 12" Body Width
  • Single Resonator Cone Design
  • Tunematic Bridge
  • ZYDECO™ Tuned Ported Body
  • Ebonized 1-Piece Maple Neck
  • Two Carbon Graphite Neck/Peghead Reinforcement Bars
  • 1-11/16" Nut Width
  • 25.5" Scale Length
  • Bound 19 Fret Quartersawn Wenge Fingerboard
    • Atomic Wenge Fingerboard Additional
  • Kluson 3 x 3 Tuning Machines
  • Pearloid Hand Engraved Headstock Overlay
  • 39" Overall Length
  • Total Weight: 8 lbs.
  • Hardshell Case Included
  • Price: $10000 base model - enhancements cost extra!

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NnofC7KsX2o

1. Terraplane - .44 Special

Modelled by Mark Simon (Luthier) and Cindy Cashdollar


  • Body Available In:
    • Polished Brass -which will naturally age
    • Polished Brass -with a urethane clear coat
    • Custom Hot-Rod Candy Finishes
    • Nickel Plated
    • Snakedance Finish Optional
  • Round or Square Neck
  • Acoustic or Acoustic/Electric with one or two custom Jason Lollar pickups
  • Rotary Volume Control & Minature 3-way Pickup Selector
  • Body Depth 3-3/8"
  • Body Width 14-3/4"
  • Single Resonator Cone Design
  • Carbon Fiber Spider & Saddles
  • Two .44 Revolver Cylinder Adjustable Tone Ports (pat pending)
  • One Piece Spanish Cedar Neck
  • Two Carbon Fiber Neck Reinforcement Bars
  • 1-7/8" Nut Width (squareneck) / 1-11/16" Nut Width (roundneck)
  • Bound 19 Fret Quartersawn Wenge Fingerboard Standard
    • Atomic Wenge Fingerboard Optional
  • Kluson 3 x 3 Tuning Machines
  • Pearloid Headstock Overlay with .44 Special Logo
  • 39-1/8" Overall Length
  • Total Weight: 8.5 lbs
  • Hardshell Case Included
  • Price: $7000 base model - enhancements cost extra!

Wednesday, 28 July 2010

Grinderman Comes Of Age!?!?...?



I have just listened to Nick Cave in his new incarnation as 'Grinderman' with Warren Ellis, Martyn P Casey and Jim Sclavunos. Their opening shot is the single 'Heathen Child' from the album 'Grinderman 2' which is due for release 6th September, 2010.

Listen Here:
http://soundcloud.com/muterecords/heathen-child

I hate to criticise the boys because they hold such a special place in my heart and mind but if I am brutally honest, the first Grinderman album didn't do much for me other than leave me feeling aggressive and my other emotions cold and shut down. Gone was the lyrical magnificence and sonic golddust that smashed you in the soul with subtlety and savagery in equal measure. It sounded to me like a bunch of guys railing against the big five oh and trying to regain the sexual potence of youth via a ramping up of their dark and dirty side. This to the detriment of their other subtleties that have continuously made me fall in love with them over and over again over the decades. If there was a law against sonic obscenity, Grinderman would have broken it but on a more charitable note, perhaps my discomfort is a gender-oriented one. During production, Warren likes to fly more by the seat of his pants which perhaps hastened the bowing out of Mick Harvey, the grand organiser. The production on Grinderman was so fast and loose that it lost any edge it might have gained with me because of a lack of cohesion and tightness. A new and unique vision was there in its infancy but it was a mite too squalling and depraved even for my dark-side tastes (and PS I loved 'And The Ass Saw The Angel'). Gone was the tenderness and heart that drew me in to the Bad Seeds black visions. Though Grinderman remains in my collection as a curio of my all-time favourite group of musicians, it is not, like the rest of the Bad Seeds, something that sits on my 'most played' iPod list. And with profound relief (because I feel disloyal whenever I say anything negative about 'The Dark Lord' / Arachnoman etc), I now move on to the much more palatable positives.

Holy shit, 'Heathen Girl' is transcendent. It's tight, controlled and cohesive and Oh My God, does it pack a punch at the end! Pseudo-religious blues filth dancing just on the right side of depravity that will take you to the edge, hang you off it and just when you think the end is nigh, will pull you back, dust you down and with an undignified shove, send you on your way beaten and bloody with a maniacal grin on your face shrieking "Damn, I gotta get me more of that!" I have listened to the preview more than twenty times already and Bravo boys, Bravo!!!!! All is forgiven in Grinderman world! Even if the rest of the album fails to live up to the promise of this magnificent preview, it will still boast a powerhouse of a a song - a top-class, Cave at-his-best original that deserves to become part of his mythology.
I haven't been able to find the lyrics posted anywhere yet so I tried to transcribe them myself but everytime I try to decipher them in to a set, I am hypnotised in to an alternate state of reality by the malevolent chanting and riffing. Therefore, what follows is a piece of imagery prose provoked and inspired by listening to the song and free-writing.


Juke joints and honky tonks, aquamarine deltas and screaming, steaming, half-decayed swamps full of jewels of golden sunlight through water drops and obsidian shadows. Fireflies, crocodiles and Spanish moss hangin' from the extra-terrestrial cypress trees. Preachers on pulpits screaming at the ears of the heavens - saving the faithful sinners and condemning the unrepentant no-shows to eternal damnation in the depths of Hell. Daily doses of miracle curings and exorcisms for congregations in the concealed, whitewashed, churches whilst around them the deepest, darkest secrets are strangled and submerged in the slowly rotating, inky waters that flow threateningly around the sun-drenched islets.



An impenetrable and final resting place for countless worm-picked skulls and bones. They clack their teeth malevolently in fleshless mouths and fulcrum jaws wobble and whisper in reedy, wavering voices of the evil deeds that sent them to these violent, uninvited and unwelcomed ends. They cast voodoo curses and invoke demons upon those who have wronged them. Low-grade alcohol, strange crystalline substances and heat inflame the blood, fuelling a dreamlike consciousness evolved from red moonshine and sun so hot you wanna die. The days and nights coalesce together in to a melting, smelting, sweltering, boiling, roiling mess. Water vapour hangs in the air like crude oil - a cloying and suffocating blanket that smothers and saps those caught in its inescapable, vice-like tendril shroud.


Even night brings no cool relief as the prayed for breeze is imprisoned by the spectral remains of the heat of the day. The sky screams in desperation for a summer storm of crashing, arcing depravity. Lightning flashes on the horizon and thunder rumbles, taunting in a barely perceptible subsonic register. Sanity depends upon the storm's arrival and until the sky's blessed release of heat and water and electricity, you will exist in a static state of feverish, crackling madness that makes you want to fuck the whole world and everything in it.

Thank you Nick, the Wolfman has arrived. Can't wait for a tour and the rest of the album - roll on September 13th!!!!

Sassyschoolmarm

Thursday, 7 January 2010




TOMMY EMMANUEL – THE GREATEST CONTEMPORARY ACOUSTIC GUITARIST ALIVE TODAY!!!


Firstly, by what expertise do people claim to know who’s best? What expertise do I have to entitle me to make a judgment? I have been completely obsessed with music since the age of two, playing music (self-taught and badly) since the age of six and singing since the age of seven. I have tried to play nearly the whole orchestra, have sung in numerous choirs and have settled for singing and playing guitar competently and piano passably. I am not formally trained and despite numerous attempts to learn musical notation, I have failed miserably. I can find where I am on the manuscript but that’s about it and as a result, I have spent much of my life with a massive inferiority complex. I have on several occasions shelved and seriously thought about giving up music entirely during my regular fits of pique. These occur when I can’t do what I want to do because I don’t have the musical understanding and technical ability however; something keeps drawing me back – like an addict mainlining heroin and saying to themselves, “Just one last time.”

I have only ever performed once or twice to safe and non-judgmental audiences of non-musicians and the thought of performing to an audience of people that actually know what’s what gives me the screaming heebie-jeebies. I’ve never understood how people can find it pleasurable. The only performing I ever truly enjoyed was to the faceless wall in my bedroom and the relative anonymity of choral singing where there is safety in numbers. I suppose the enjoyment must come when you have the confidence in yourself to pull it off instead of being petrified of bombing in front of an audience. I can however, much to the annoyance of my fiancĂ©e, pick up almost any instrument and get a passable tune out of it first time, or pick up my guitar and play quite complex tunes by ear almost note and tempo perfect on the first or second attempt. I also apparently have an enviable skill of being able to transpose in to different keys in my head whilst playing. I am certainly no genius because that requires consistent excellence however, and most irritatingly of all, I do occasionally experience flashes of musical excellence that I can never replicate again on second, third, fourth, fifth, blah, blah, blah attempts hence the aforementioned regular fits of pique.

I must therefore conclude that the only reason I have reached my current standard of musicianship is due to a blinkered obsession and complete refusal to give up on it. Why couldn’t I have got to this standard when I was much younger? Why did I never show any special musical aptitude as a child which made people around me take notice and think my talents should be invested in? I dreamed of being a musician but knew in reality that I would never have been able to cut it in the performing arts. I found that rather than being propelled in to a state of rapture by the anticipation of performing on stage and the subsequent adrenaline jolt of all those people looking at me ascending me to the level of performance spoken about only in hushed whispers, that instead I felt an almost crippling panic – similar to Carly Simon I suppose. She regularly took tranquilisers to calm herself enough to perform and she preferred to pre-record performances without an audience.

I know now that I have late-blooming musical ability and that sadly, I will probably never have the self-confidence to perform coherently in front of other musicians. I consider myself to be a competent if erratic musician with a well developed critical ear honed by decades of all night secret headphone sessions listening to absolutely anything I could get my hands on when I should have been tucked up in bed getting my beauty sleep. So that’s me and my background, now back to the question of whether Tommy Emmanuel is the greatest contemporary acoustic guitarist alive today:

Let’s examine the criteria and evidence on which to determine the truth of the above statement. It is a wildly arrogant claim if it isn’t true and it is one that is bandied around by far too many music commentators about far too many upstart guitarists desperate to enter the hallowed halls of the music legends – to bathe in the same incandescent golden light as the Django Reinhardt’s, the Jimi Hendrix's, the David Gilmour’s and the Chet Atkins’ – I could go on for a while. In the case of Tommy Emmanuel, it may well be true. Having just recently seen a completely mind-buggeringly brilliant concert of his at Colston Hall in Bristol, I can’t even begin to imagine how he could have achieved some of the sonic marvels my ears witnessed – the rendition of “Initiation,” his self-confessed years long work in progress comes to mind. I could hear the didgeridoo’s, the desert winds, the Aboriginal foot stamping, stick-tapping, and guttural shouts, the bull-roarer, the thunder and lightning, the night time fires and the roasting roots going pop in the earth ovens. All this from one man, a battered guitar and an amplifier set on “destroy.”

To explain what I saw, I could descend in to the multitudes of mythologies that are written about musicians of note for example, Robert Johnson selling his soul to the devil out at the unidentifiable crossroads on Highway 61, or Tommy Emmanuel not attending school and living an almost vagrant existence out on the dusty roads of the Outback, such was the passionate belief of his father in his talent as a guitarist. Look up Tommy’s biography on Wikipedia, Google, Yahoo etc. There is certainly truth rattling around in these myths and I am not trying to belittle any actual events. I only mean to say that they are often romanticised or elaborated on by journalists and writers who need to create a good read for publication so they can get paid their ten cents a word – a giant, whirling game of Chinese Whispers, if you will!

We certainly love to elevate people in to more than they actually are or were. Public personas often reach such epic proportions and are so completely spun and artificial that they bear little or no resemblance to the real individuals. Arthur ‘Bomber’ Harris (an RAF pilot ace) said that often, when people met him in the flesh, “I had a perfectly dreadful time convincing them of who I actually was because they had an image in their minds which the real me couldn’t possibly live up to.”

I have also often wondered what Robert Johnson would think if he read the literature and urban legends that have been written about his life. Would he recognise himself in those stories? I am more of the feeling that he would have wandered off down the dusty train-tracks with his guitar sticking out of his hobo sack, silhouetted by the sunset, laughing his ass off. Oh no, I’m doing it now!!! The reality was he was a young, dumb and full of something twenty-seven year old who lived hand to mouth and for the moment, had an immeasurable talent at song writing, singing and guitar playing however, was more than a bit socially clueless when it came to not sleeping with powerful men’s wives, hence getting himself wiped out of existence whilst still a youth. In all honesty, we all need superhero’s and music fans are no different however; I think we need to be a bit more discerning about the criteria which need to be met before we lavish hero worship upon an individual.

Firstly, they must have special abilities that the average person can admire. I'm absolutely sick to death of talentless, carbon-copy celebrities who are only famous because they have either managed to get themselves 'seen' via some voyeuristic and twisted reality show, are bordering on clinical mental illness (people love watching someone crash and burn), or have an already famous relative where they can bask in some of the reflected spotlight until they make their own bones with the press. The lengths they go to to achieve press coverage and ultimately a nice fat pay check is quite pathetic and it is my firm belief that Max Clifford should be shot. If I see any more tabloid scandals where a grainy, seedy C-List celebrity sex tape has made its way on to You Tube much to the feigned dismay of the C-List celebrity who is secretly, behind closed doors, dancing wildly round in triumphant circles, rubbing their hands together and greedily counting their piles of cash with Mr Max, I think I might just see what weaponry I can muster up because Max was probably the one holding the camera. The only thing these people are talented at is ruthless opportunism and having no personal moral code of conduct. These are certainly not traits we should encourage youngsters to admire.


FOLLOWING ARE THE CRITERIA WHICH I BELIEVE A MUSICIAN MUST MEET IN ORDER TO ACHIEVE GREATNESS AND LONGEVITY, THEREFORE EARNING THE RIGHT TO OUR ADMIRATION:



1. Technical ability- ability to play to a consistently excellent standard and to continuously find something new and fresh to communicate at that standard. Nothing I have ever heard by Tommy Emmanuel has ever sounded tired or half-assed. Also, I think it's important to explain what I mean by technical ability. Some people are lucky or cursed , depending upon which way you choose to look at it, to have been either born with or had drilled in to their developing minds, the extraordinary skills that the rest of humanity holds in such high regard. Through a combination of:

1. A random genetic drift that has produced a positive hit - nature
2. An intense internal motivation to reach for the stars and fight the status quo by not just accepting their current status in life - nature and nurture
3. Finally, an obsessive compulsion to practice these abilities way beyond the call of duty - nature and nurture,

a very few individuals are empowered to transcend the limitations of brain, blood, body and spirit that hold the rest of us back in the 'normal range,' and express themselves as master artists of a craft. This description can equally be applied to athletes, philosophers, physicians, leaders etc.


2. Adaptability - Ability to play to an excellent standard in other, unfamiliar genres or subgenres and to be equally comfortable in a 50,000 seater stadium stage or a 25 capacity pub back room. They must also have the ability to “wing it” on stage and cope with unpredicted events without the audience being made aware that there is a problem i.e. being a cool-headed professional when the shit is hitting the fan all around them. Only then will you be a man my son...

3. Showmanship - Ability to continuously “wow” an audience without showboating or being spent after a couple of numbers when the novelty nature of the playing wears thin. I have seen it many times – a musician gets big audience interest initially, then it rapidly tails off when it becomes apparent that there are no more rabbits to come out of the hat. Great magicians or illusionists see their illusions as a series of stages which must be achieved successfully in order to impress the audience. The earlier stages and the final flourish, known as ‘The Prestige’ must be repeated over and over again at breakneck speed throughout the course of a concert in order to keep an audience on the edge of their seats – great musicians therefore must be great magicians. I could have watched Tommy Emmanuel playing for hours and hours. Every second, there was something new and fresh and as his wing-man Rick Price so aptly said as an introduction, "For those of you who have never been to a Tommy Emmanuel concert, you're in for a treat. For those of you that have, you know the routine... buckle up and prepare for the rollercoaster ride!"

4. Peer Respect - To be known as ‘a musician’s musician’ – a moniker awarded by other musicians to those who rise noticeably above the rest due to their artistry, flair and personality (the constituent parts of originality), technicality, consistently excellent live performances and consistently excellent quality and quantity of both live and studio musical output. Tommy has apparently been cited by Clapton, Satriani and Atkins to name but a few as "The Best They Have Ever Heard." This could be seen as a double-edged sword because it must make any artist feel an intense pressure to live up to what their greatly respected peers are saying about them. Also, it’s no good producing a seminal debut if there isn’t an adequate follow-up or subsequent output is sparse. The only people who got away with it are those whose one and only masterpiece burned so brightly that all knelt before it, shielding their eyes from its incandescence. The other unfortunates are the ones who died young and there will always be a steady flow of reminiscences and what might have beens in the press to maintain them on a high level in the collective consciousness.

5. To navigate the shark-infested waters of fame astutely and with panache, therefore maintaining a level-headed and down to earth philosophy about 'The Greatest Circus Of All' - Many unfortunates have been destroyed by their own masterpieces, by the natural jealousy of others and the weight of expectation heaped upon them to continue producing the goods at the same standards. Again, it depends on how you look at it, but you could interpret it as a wolf in sheep's clothing. Hindsight is a wonderful thing. How many of them would trade off their masterpieces for a normal, uneventful and contented existence if they had known in advance the true cost it would exact upon them? Charles Darwin and 'The Evolution Of Species' and Beachboy Brian Wilson and his well documented family history and descent in to decades of mental illness (and there is a subject for a separate article about how much information about the private lives of public figures we should be allowed to cannibalise). Vladimir Nabokov showed a heightened level of awareness over the ramifications of 'Lolita', the manuscript of which, his widow claims, she rescued from the fire he tossed it in to in a moment of panic. This was apparently instigated when he thought about the repercussions such an inflammatory piece of writing could have upon his personal life. These are just three prime examples of the many that leap in to my mind. Also, if being famous is so wonderful, why does it have a steadily rising body count? Someone with their head screwed on straight before they enter the shark-infested waters of fame will probably navigate them successfully by taking everything with a pinch of salt; accepting that 99% is smoke and mirrors / coloured bubbles and only taking notice of the 1% that has substance; by not taking themselves too seriously and most importantly, not becoming mesmerised by their own legend. Probably the best thing that could happen to a public figure is to publicly fall on their backsides once in a while to remind themselves that they are still just a flesh and blood human, albeit a lucky one. T.C. (the highest paid actor in the world) might benefit from it however; he has twenty-five minders to steady him should he stumble. Not one of them, from the one who picks out his clothing to the one who organises every nanosecond of his day so that he doesn't have to worry about it are doing him any favours either. He is living in a trance inside a big pink balloon and maybe he should just go out and mow the lawn. Those with their heads screwed on know it's a just a job - a wonderful job nonetheless - a job that puts ample food on the table for themselves and their descendants if they play the game smart. They don't take it for granted and they plan for the future and an afterlife if they should fall from grace and the fragile illusion shatter. Those that enter fame with a desperate need to be loved due to a dysfunctional personality type or an empty void in their soul are only ever going to be headed for an abyss. The speed at which they run blindly over the edge of the precipice is only down to the effectiveness of the emotional and physical protective buffers placed quietly in strategic locations by loved ones and those with a personal or financial stake in the individual. A tragic case in point is that of Amy Winehouse - a talented singer who is ill-prepared to deal with fame. Sadder still is the exploitative nature of the press in cataloguing her spectacular crash and burn and the apparent lack of protection put in place by those around her. The original talent that made her famous is now incidental because it has been eclipsed by her erratic behaviour. Perhaps she needs a knight in shining armour to sweep her out of the limelight, get her clean and fill her heart and soul with something other than the desperate need to be loved by strangers. God, if any more evidence is required that she is teetering on the edge than the lyrics of 'Rehab' on the album 'Back To Black', then the most charitable / politically correct thing I can say is to suggest that you go take an I.Q. test and not to expect a result in double or triple figures. At the moment, the people surrounding her are profiteering by her fall and it appears they are not going to catch her whilst there is still money to be made. And if, tragically, a celebrity does hit the bottom (and it appears that Amy well might), the people surrounding them will be comforted in the knowledge that they can still resurrect the corpse at any time and make more than a few quid appearing on tribute programs, organising benefit concerts and ghost-writing a tell-all book in which they paint themselves as the hero who tried their utmost to save them whilst further debasing their memory with all the sordid little details of their troubled life and eventual demise. Hell, why wait till they are dead? Get agent representation now in anticipation! Another casualty - a woefully ill-prepared and fame-scarred individual by the initials of M.J. comes immediately to my mind also. Nick Cave said that when he was at his lowest ebb due to drug addiction and personal demons which he had yet to wrestle under control, he had the biggest audiences during that era of his musical career. He knew they had only come to see if he would go up in flames in front of them - nice... Shame on the lot of them! Sorry about that... Deep breath... Calming thoughts... Rant over.
Tommy certainly appeared to have his head screwed on straight and the evidence that this is so - his longevity and the quiet , measured diligence of the performance suggests that he will still be going after countless others fall by the wayside. Whether this is due to a down-to-earth personality type or just the sheer weight of all those decades in the spotlight, I don't know but whatever the explanation, it appears to have served him well.

6. Finally, to inspire mythmaking and urban legends among the Prol's - I hazard to mention this as this is somewhat harder to quantify but what the hell, here goes: an eleven year old once asked me when I was teaching a science lesson if it was true that the guitar that got set fire to by that guy with the big hair from ages ago (because it was in black and white) got sold for £100 million. Apparently a friend had told him about it and he thought because I played guitar, I might know. My case in point.

I don’t claim that my personal opinions are correct as they are completely subjective and I find this obsession with producing lists of the greatest anything and everything rather irritating even though I do confess, I will happily read or watch them during my more brain-dead periods. Who says that so and so is better than so and so? What expertise are these people claiming to have to apparently be justified in making these judgments? It’s all so damn subjective and they can go one of two ways. They can produce a wildly contrary list to those that came before and therefore set themselves aside as mavericks according to some or clueless eedjits according to others, both of which get juicy column inches, or they can research what others have said and produce something similar. You might see a couple of ranking changes in the same old names with a couple of added wild-cards designed to court a safe amount of controversy. Well it’s non-challenging and makes acceptable copy doesn’t it? I never underestimate people’s desire to conform to the peer group.


Perhaps the only way to build a truly accurate picture of 'The Greats' is to anonymously ask the most widely respected and most consistently employed musicians - and not just the front men. Perhaps we should also ask the highly talented backing musicians who graft away year in, year out in the shadows, watching others reap the glory. This is the sacrifice often required to achieve a music industry career with longevity and a regular pay check. These individuals have seen them all – the flash in the pans and the old dogs – the people who came and went and the people who stuck around whilst they kept their heads down, diligently plying their craft and honing their skills. Names that immediately jump in to my mind are Sam Brown, a backing singer who sings all over the place or Ray Phiri, long-time lead guitarist of Paul Simon.

I think perhaps therefore, it should just be enough to say that Tommy Emmanuel does, in my humble opinion, meet and often surpass my aforementioned criteria and is most definitely a “Musician’s Musician." He is hugely respected for his technical prowess and is regularly cited as an inspiration by other guitarists. These are more truthful, more considered and less sycophantic statements and therefore, should probably be ultimately more satisfying to Mr Emmanuel than to call him “The Greatest Contemporary Acoustic Guitarist Alive Today”. As he himself has said, his inspiration for picking up the guitar was hearing Chet Atkins on the radio. If we were to find out who floated Chet Atkins’ boat and ask them, and then asked Tommy Emmanuel who currently yanks his chain, then we could ask those people which musicians take them around corners and so on. Perhaps then you would have the beginnings of a truly definitive, silken spider’s web (not a sequential list) of greatness and the beauty of this concept is that it could be an organic, living entity. If you returned to the living musicians in the web every two years or so and asked them to state their inspirations again; new names would be breathed in and the one hit wonders would be breathed out. The people providing this information would be the ones you could truly respect and mind and if the same names kept cropping up year in year out, throughout the decades, then you could accept that they in fact are the greatest musicians in the history of music performance. Some people might say that they were inspired by simply reading notes on a fading old manuscript page and imagined the music therefore; we would not be limited only to the era of recorded music. We could research to find out who inspired musicians such as Beethoven and we would then know that the judgments on which names entered the web had really been made by the most eminently qualified people and not even death, or the dimming effect of passing time would be a barrier to hearing their voices. They would surge forward, strong, vibrant and clear like a newborn river of stars.

Anyway, enough of my waxing lyrical for another little while... On a lighter note, whilst looking at Tommy on You Tube, I found a video that appears to show him bending the neck of his acoustic guitar away from himself by brute force. This was probably to make up for the absence of a tremolo arm on acoustic guitars and it appeared to expedite a drop in tone – like a reverse string bend. Now:

1. Please tell me that wasn’t a functional Martin he did that to, or was it a onetime only event on a guitar that had reached the end of its useful life?

2. How the hell did he bend the truss rod like that without snapping it, or, more worryingly, did it even have a truss rod? Ouch for the guitar on either count.

3. What the hell???

(Actually, I wanted to end on f*%k but then it might have been a tad overly dramatic and I’m never going to find out whether I actually saw what I thought I saw – if that makes sense... I can't even find the video again despite repeated searches. It’s now three o’clock in the morning and I have yet another stinking winter cold. When I’ve finally managed to scrape my jaw off the floor and unscramble my fricasseed neurons (the effect the concert had on me), I may well decide that everything I have just written in this article was the rantings of a star-struck nut job with a high fever and that it should be deleted forthwith lest I be sectioned under the Mental Health Act! Sigh, so what’s new...?)

Sylvia

Sunday, 8 November 2009

NICK CAVE, THE BAD SEEDS AND ME


This essay arose out of preparations for an interview I did with Jane Pollard and Ian Forsyth for the 'Do You Love Me Like I Love You' films. These were included as companion DVD's to the Nick Cave And The Bad Seeds Remasters currently being released by Mute Records. It was written in July, 2008.

When you are young, you hear some lyrics or note sequences and they strike such a resonant chord with your evolving spirit that you can't believe they could have the same effect on anyone else, anywhere. It was written for you alone.
In your adolescent isolation, you sense another human being reaching out to you down the copper wires saying, "There you are." When you connect with a song, you become a lightning rod and it changes you by pushing you out beyond the borders of your previous experiences. You will be forever grateful to those who shone searchlights in to your darkest recesses and discovered a new facet of you. Thereafter, you will perceive more deeply the magnificent, chaotic experience known as life.

You grow up and present yourself at your first concert. You vibrate with anticipation and excitement and you become aware, with much surprise and more than a little irritation that you were not the sole recipient of "The Message." At first, you are humbled by the seething masses of people but, as the concert finds its rhythm, the stamping, clapping, shouting, shoving and gentle, almost tender touches elevate you above solitary existence in to a group consciousness.
The pools of shadow, the burning lights, the noise, the whisperings, the sweat and close proximity to many others awakens ancestral memories. The group communes and reverts back to early hominids gathered around a fire.



You are compelled to move together and make noise, following the high priest, the clan leader, as you drive the predators, the demons and the nightmares back in to the darkness. Fears subside and the group becomes invincible, screaming their victory in to the night.
You converse with those nearby about your thoughts and feelings because, through your shared love of a song, you sense that they will understand you because they understand your music. For a short time, you may be more intimate with them than you will ever be with some of your family and friends.




You grow older still and you find songs that once set your world on fire have somehow transformed in to comfortable old shoes. They have walked a long and dusty road with you, riding on your memories. Silent partners through life, they experience the joys and sorrows with you, taking on new meanings, ever changing. They change because you have changed in your perceptions and responses to the world around you. Like an old friend, they become a safe harbour to shelter in when your life becomes turbulent and your future seems uncertain.

You grow yet older and the individuality you so desperately sought in your youth has become less important. You look less at what separates people and instead, you find comfort in the forces that bind them together. You have long since discovered that most connections between people are tenuous and temporary in nature. You know that permanent connections are precious and must be nurtured like rare orchids.
Like your relationships with other people, your relationship to music is not a passive experience either. You have tended it constantly, as if it were a small child about to run away if neglected. You have sung until your throat is raw, played guitar until your hands cramp, blister, bruise and split. You have discovered that one of your worst fears is that you will lose your special relationship with music as the necessary actions of day to day existence increase, distracting you from your creative and artistic needs.

More than any other music, 'Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' have enabled me to time travel, exist in multidimensions and jump bodies. I can exist in all the stages of my life simultaneously or, within minutes, race through my whole life from youth to maturity and back again. I can focus on a present event or bring the past in to sharp relief and sometimes, the future appears. 'Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' help me to gather chaotic memories, thoughts, feelings and sensations in to my conscious mind where I can examine and order them. When a song triggers a memory, I realise with relief that it hasn't just floated away in to the firmament in a cloud of atrophied neurons, faulty protein codes and electrical short-circuits.

The greatest accomplishment of 'Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' however, is their ability to pull you out of your own existence. Sometimes, the transition is traumatic because you have been unceremoniously stuffed in to the wrong shaped hole - wonderful!!!
At other times, the transition is so smooth and subtle that the division between yourself and the song character is imperceptible.
You are the serial killer on death row awaiting execution. You are a sideshow freak in a carnival. You are the maniac on the road. You are the revenge-fuelled card shark in the saloon. You are the naive young woman about to have her head bashed in with a rock by the man she loves. You are the psychiatric patient desperate to escape his overbearing nurse. You are the aging man going to ever-greater lengths in your desperation to get laid. You are frustrated because you have lost your direction. You are a heart-broken lover, hurt and crying to the night. You are singing a hymn to God and the angels to protect your lover from harm and leave them exactly as they are. You are bursting with new-found love and absolutely nothing can spoil your day. You worship the simplicity and aesthetic beauty of the natural world and when you are frightened or insecure, you crawl in to you lovers warm and tender embrace.

'Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds' make the music of extremes - extreme darkness and extreme light. They are an enchanted pool hidden in a primeval forest of obsidian shadows and amber shafts of sunlight.



I float dreamily in sunwarmed shallows as a gleaming mist of balmy, golden melodies soothes my troubled spirit. Sometimes, I hear music resonating from the depths - dischordant, chaotic and wild. I have to go and see so I dive down beyond the reach of light, down to where strange, unknown creatures dart threateningly out of the blackness, attacking my senses. I am naked and alone and bleeding and out of the darkness, strong hands reach out and support me, preventing me from sinking in to the cold depths. I know I could drown but a sense of tranquility washes through me and I pray I will never break the surface again.

Monday, 26 October 2009

ARACHNOMAN MAJESTICALLY PULLS IT OFF AGAIN!!! Nick Cave's 'The Death Of Bunny Munro' Tour 2009 with Warren Ellis and Martyn P. Casey



Last night, I was in an extremely fortunate position to see 'An Evening With Nick Cave' at the Palace Theatre in London. Nick was on tour to promote his recently published book 'The Death Of Bunny Munro' - a macabre and cringe-making romp through the seedier side of life. The story is told from the point of view of a cosmetics salesman with no moral compass or self awareness of the sources of his own twisted and depraved actions and desires. He is driven by his infantile needs, egocentrically unaware of the emotional carnage he wreaks upon those about him. As if trying to form a protective barrier in my own mind, I read parts of the book through my fingers with clenched teeth. They were almost unreadable in their depravity and the shocks kept coming. After a while, I became numbed to the seedy unpleasantness and realised that I had been artfully propelled in to the same desensitised and disjointed state in which the protagonist Bunny Munro lived his life. What kept me reading was Nick's ability to place the reader under a subtle, lyrical and relentless barrage. He managed to squeeze laugh out loud black humour from the darkest and most unpleasant of scenarios (the Frida Kahlo monobrow incident comes to mind) and the result is a horrifying car crash of a book. Unsurprisingly, for a writer like Cave who is able to conjure up imagery that is both beautiful and awful and makes you want to scream and laugh in equal measure, 'The Death Of Bunny Munro' has been crafted in to a convulsive modern day morality tale that has real heart at its cloaked and concealed centre. I would highly recommend this book to those who like sharply intelligent, lyrical storytelling that leaves the reader emotionally bloody and bruised yet strangely satisfied. To sum up this book, it is a book that bites.

THE SETLIST:

1. Reading - Kylie Minogue Hotpants / Giftwrapped
2. West Country Girl
3. Hold On To Yourself
4. In To My Arms
5. Weeping Song
6. Babe You Turn Me On
7. Reading - The Frida Kahlo Monobrow Debacle
8. The Mercy Seat
9. Tupelo
10. God Is In The House
11. Are You The One I've Been Waiting For
12. Dig, Lazarus, Dig
13. Ship Song
14. Reading - Bunny Junior Lives Life Through His Encyclopedia
15. Love Letter
16. Lime Tree Arbour
17. Grinderman and goodnight
18. Standing ovation, shouting and 5 minutes of synchronous clapping and chanting
19. Reemergence on to stage with a "You guys are lucky. The last lot didn't get this. Thankyou, you're very kind."
20. Red Right Hand
21. Lucy

Nick orated the readings in a style reminiscent of the beat poets. The words ebbed and flowed rhythmically in to one long, hypnotic, gigantic monosyllable with a dreamy undercurrent of Warren Ellis' violin scrapings. During the particularly grotesque passages, Nick would start twitching and he appeared to be cringing away from the hyper-masculine, depraved imagery that had spilled forth on to the pages from the deep, dark whirlpools of his own mind. A small, almost imperceptible smile would occasionally ghost across his features.

The musician's line-up was long-time bassist of The Bad Seeds, Martyn P. Casey (formerly of The Triffids), brought in to allow Mick Harvey to take over the role of rhythm guitarist. Martyn played a 1962 Fender Precision Bass (as he told me after the show) with a few extra pops and whistles. Martyn's edgy and breakneck bass provided the trio with a remarkably solid rhythmic foundation on which to build their melodies and it was good to see a down to earth guy playing his instrument artfully and without any pretension or grandstanding - he was playing simply for the love of producing good music.

Then there was that second miscreant of The Dirty Three, Mr Warren Ellis. Warren did not disappoint either - twitchy, maniacally messianic and odd in the extreme. My eyes were drawn back to his crouched shenanigans again and again as he spent half the concert fiddling with wires and buttons around his feet. He also experimented with a drum kit which Nick informed us, he had received as a birthday present just a few days previous. Not a glimpse was to be had of his pointed, demonic face as it was hidden beneath a wild barnet of hair, a streaming moustache and flowing beard. A bastard child of a threesome consisting of Charles Manson, Saruman and Cousin It comes to mind however, with a creative talent as flaming and bright as his, as far as I'm concerned, he could have shown up in a crinoline dress, suspenders and high heels and he would still have my utmost respect and admiration. Warren's playing on violin, flute, mandocaster, guitar and drums (multi-instrumentalist git) was both a beautiful and eerily sad accompaniment to Nick Cave in one of his more reticent and quiet times. On this tour, their musical collaboration seems to have led them in to the sonic territory of their recent film scores - ‘The Proposition,’ ‘The Surgeon,’ ‘The Road’ and ‘The Assassination Of Jesse James By The Coward Robert Ford.’

Finally, we have the man himself - Mr Nick Cave! Through no choice of my own, I always start out at concerts with the mentality of someone who has to be won over. I have a "So impress me then" attitude but in this case, I changed immediately in to “Let’s get it on.” A starkly lit and subconsciously threatening stage setup primed the audience and created a tangible sense of nervous anticipation. Nick came on in the darkness and a bright, white spotlight illuminated the piano. His first reading was so rhythmic and dynamic that the audience were caught off guard, quickly descending in to the kind of laughter seen in schoolchildren caught breaking a window. You know, the condemned kids lined up in front of the headmaster, trying desperately not to be the first to crack up and betray their guilt. Subsequent readings were delivered in an equally polished manner and the audience descended still further in to a sort of disorganised giggling and tittering near-hysteria as the macabre humour smashed its way through the carefully crafted facades of the audience members. Nick's piano playing flipped effortlessly between the beautiful and ugly, flowing and staccato. Unfortunately though, due to his early unaccomplished shriekings and squallings (which were only got away with because they were done with such violent and anarchic passion), many still underestimate the strengthening musicianship of a long in the tooth performer who has made his bones on the tour circuit time and time again. He has, in these later years kicked his piano playing and voice in to a most pleasing shape that he should feel proud of. What results is a most pleasing and surprising piano accompanying a deep and golden crooning tone reminiscent of the late, great Johnny Cash.

Nick is currently experimenting with a blonde Fender Telecaster and here, I am sad to say it, is the only chink in his impenetrable creative armour. He strums it in a unidirectional, monodecibel drone that reminds me of when I was 14 and trying desperately to plunk out 'Wish You Were Here ' on individual strings and clumsily hitting every other string in the near and distant vicinity. His guitar chops have definitely improved since the Dig Lazarus, Dig tour but possibly not to the point where he should be performing with it yet. Oh well, the do or die unpredictability of the man is what has made him so compellingly watchable over the decades. It's like watching a careering car on a narrow country road with a cackling maniac at the wheel and wondering whether it will make it round the next bend without hitting a tree. Never mind, nobody's completely perfect. In comparison to the purportedly perfect pink plastic androids with a one single shelf-life that the music and television industry inflicts on us by the dozen each year, Nick Cave is a refreshingly flawed, unpredictable performer who gleefully messes with peoples heads. If you ask him what his favourite music is, you will either get a measured, intellectual response that will become a classic quote or equally, you might get told to fuck off. He is not a man likely to spout off pre-agreed artists memoed over that morning by record company hacks in a bid to increase sales of a particular album.

For me, the highlight of the evening was the reticent, contemplative tone of the song performances and as usual, 'Ship Song' and 'In To My Arms,' reached in and ripped my heart out through my chest. The interactive nature of the evening provided a humorous if limited insight in to an enigmatic artist. Music commentators parp on about this artist or that artist in the sunset of their careers and how they will only ever fade away in to the ether. They wax back to artists who ended when their sun burned at its brightest - the John Lennons, the Elvis Presleys, the Jimi Hendrixes, the Janis Joplins, the Jim Morrisons, the Stevie Ray Vaughans, the Patsy Clines, the Kurt Cobains, the Tim / Jeff Buckleys, the Sandy Dennys, the Duane Allmans, the Ronnie Van Zants, the Otis Reddings, the Robert Johnsons, the Marc Bolans, the Eddie Cochrans, the Bessie Smiths, the Billie Holidays, the Nick Drakes, the Charlie Parkers, the Marvin Gayes, the Brian Jones’, the Sid Barretts, the Sam Cookes and the Buddy Hollys. The sad thing is that these people may have died before they were able to create their finest music and we will never have the privilege of hearing it. What music critics fail to realise is that sunset is the most beautiful, subtle and potentially surprising time of the day and old dogs definitely can learn new tricks. Johnny Cash’s American recordings, Leonard Cohen’s ‘Various Positions,’ Robert Plant’s ‘Raising Sand’ with Alison Krauss and T-Bone Burnett, Bob Dylan’s ‘Time Out Of Mind,’ Elvis Presley’s Las Vegas sets, Paul Simon’s ‘Graceland,’ Red Hot Chili Peppers ‘Californication,’ Brian Wilson’s ‘Smile,’ Frank Sinatra’s ‘Songs For Young Lovers,’ Neil Young’s ‘Freedom’ and Beethoven’s Unfinished Symphony. All of these artists were apparently washed up when they produced these gems according to the supposedly great critical minds of the time.

The more I see of Mr Nick Cave, the more I am convinced that he is a human-arachnid hybrid on the run after escaping from a macabre laboratory similar to the one in 'The Island Of Doctor Moreau.' A towering, gangly behemoth in black. At the 'Dig, Lazarus, Dig' concert, I thought he might seriously injure himself - balancing on the monitors with his spindly, oddly-jointed legs. He created a towering overhang, gleefully intimidating the audience like a spider about to pounce on its prey, emitting guttural shouts and animalistic howls. I thought he might fall but then, with a sigh of relief, I realised that if he did, he would just flip himself and land the right way up in that unsettlingly alien, arthropoid manner of members of the arachnid family to which he is so obviously related.

So my general feeling about the concert and literary reading is that it doesn't get any better than this and in whatever incarnation we see Nick Cave in the future, I now have an unshakeable faith in him that it will always be worth the ticket price. The soaring artistic genius that was on display that night was one of the things that makes it a true joy to be a sentient, living organism on this hurtling ball of rock.

Favourite audience interactions:

"Mr Cave, what do you think lies beyond death?"
"F*** knows, lets play another song."

"Nick, why did you choose to sing Ship Song?" - from a particularly obnoxious woman in the audience
"Because it's so f***ing good and so people like you can go urinate."
And later, before singing 'Grinderman' one of the least pleasant songs in his repertoire - "This one's for you sweetheart!"

"Do you have any advice on bringing up children?"
"F***, asking me that is like asking an undertaker to measure you for a suit. S***, have the courage to stand back and let them breathe and oh, don't molest them."

"If you could see anyone in concert, living or dead, who would you see?"
"Oh f***, Beethoven. Oh yeah, Elvis."

After a particularly long, mumbling and existentially impossible to interpret question from some egghead in the audience - "Yes. Well I didn't hear the question so I've got a 50% chance of being right. Yes."

"Mr Cave do you, like Bunny Munro, love pussy?"
A rambling answer ensues:
"Yes, I love pussy. I'm obsessed by pussy. Pussy rocks. Pussy is on my brain all the time. All I ever think about is Pussy. Pussy is what makes life worth living....." And so on and so on for a pant-wettingly funny, excessive duration.