44th... Ghouls passing in the night...

Juju.

You are looking at the album that inspired this whole darn fest of gothic delirium. I hope you've enjoyed the show. Cut and wrap!

Siouxsie and the Banshees were the original goth band of the new wave. They beat Bauhaus to the punch with an inspired post-punk '78 debut. Interestingly, both Siouxsie Sioux and Peter Murphy turned out as gifted singers once they'd learned how to do it. Juju is the critic's pick for best Banshee record. In 1981 they had their classic lineup: Siouxsie to sing in imperious, angry tones; Budgie the spectacularly talented drummer, who favored a tribal rhythm; Steven Severin the bass player, contributing style and atmosphere and several lyrics; and John McGeogh the guest guitarist. This forms the dead center of the McGeogh trilogy, the Banshees' creative peak. But where Kaleidoscope and A Kiss in the Dreamhouse were highly experimental, Juju was pretty straight. It was a guitar propelled bad dream, a parade of ghouls in the night. Men, women and children are all implicated - even the television is a vehicle for evil. Juju sounds only one note, but the band is fiercely proud of that note and plies it well from start to finish. You could call it variations on a theme.

Spellbound is the instantly memorable single, and a popular, much loved tune. The subject is uneasy - children being possessed - but the relentless propulsion of guitar, bass and drums (getting a unique sound from so typical a set-up) makes it more fun, and more commercial, than anything coming afterwards.

Into the Light is the momentary hesitation, hovering on the edge between light and dark. Siouxsie sounds less like she chooses the darkness and more as if she's set on an irretrievable collision course with it. The die is cast; the claustrophobia inherent to this track dogs the whole album and it becomes quite impassioned. The random hisses and angular guitars give a sense of musical overflow.

Arabian Knights casts aspersions on the Middle East, ranging from "a monstrous oil tanker/its wound bleeding in seas" to its treatment of women "kept as your baby machine." Budgie's heavyhanded drumming redefines primitive and the chorus has a shimmering, diseased beauty that points the way to A Kiss in the Dreamhouse.

Halloween is a thrashier, punkish affair and Siouxsie hearkens back to her old toneless singing style. Memories of "a childish murder" casts doubt on the innocence of children. It's not one of the strongest tracks - frankly, it feels a bit gimmicky.

For sheer attitude, Juju has no better than Monitor. Siouxsie has some great howls and the music is so impressive that it's even better the second time round, when it repeats in encore fashion. "His face was full of intent/and we shook with excitement/then the victim stared up/looked strangely at the screen/as if her pain was our fault/but that's entertainment." Good God, what are they watching?

Night Shift is something of a sordid epic, the band in top form, crafting a wall of sound punctuated with squeals of feedback. Visions of the morgue, a sense of nausea, a narrator irredeemably in love with a murderer - and this isn't even the most distasteful song. That's just ahead.

Sin in My Heart is one of the Banshees' best rockers and eschews any lyrical incidents in favour of more of Siouxsie's howling. Not a whole lot can be said about it but it's not filler by a long shot - it's the only fun track on side 2.

Head Cut is about exactly what it says: severed heads, both real and plaster, not to mention the shrunken ones. Even the Banshees' had their limits - this one's a black comedy, maniacally cheerful, and the darkest Juju gets for that reason.

Last of all is Voodoo Dolly, which wastes the opportunity 9 minutes gives it; instead of a long, involved lyric, we're given a few opaque verses and a whole lot of "listen!"s. Musically, it holds up best at its most restrained. It's probably my fault I don't appreciate it more; I just don't find the notion of voodoo dolls all that frightening.

Overall, I would have to disagree with those critics (hell, I almost always do), as Juju is far too limited in scope to stand as Siouxsie and the Banshees at their very best. Good as it is, their next album would be better still.

43rd... The occult, or a pub band gets carried away...

Black Sabbath.

No credit is given in this CD for "lyricist" and I would have presumed the lyrics to be made by Ozzy Osbourne, simply because he's the singer; however, it turns out that the lyrics on this CD were made up by the bass player. As far as that goes, I'm convinced the man couldn't write. Compared to... anybody... on my blog roll, this guy (and by extension Ozzy) comes across as a subliterate caveman. Therefore, I shall not be quoting a single line from this one. Call me a snob if you like.

Historically, by taking the guitar-heavy blues-rock of Cream and turning it into sludge, dismissing everything the 60s stood for, this 1970 album was adored by disaffected youth, panned by the critics and stood as the birth of heavy metal. Rarely are influence, enthusiasm and criticism all perfectly understandable, but in this case I can see where everybody was coming from.

There's no denying Black Sabbath's influence; there's no denying that the cover art is October dynamite, or that they improved significantly on future records. I would argue that their overlong medleys are where this record really shines, giving them time to wander down any alley they choose, earnestly crafting a soundscape that escapes the more tightly reigned in songs. In that way also, Sabbath becomes an inverted Cream. In a way, they even pioneered the "morbid concept album" that I've been celebrating this month.

Who's who: guitarist Tony Iommi, provider of all the fireworks; Terence "Geezer" Butler on bass as well as lyrics; drummer and percussionist Bill Ward; and Ozzy for harmonica and singing - the latter of which is incredibly distinctive, but quite ugly as well. His voice matches the words he sings, and this gives the listener a choice of interpretation: is the narrative clunky because it's an Everyman incoherent in the face of dark powers, or is it actually a tripping college boy, overtaken with admiration for Aleister Crowley, gone off his nut? Take your pick.

The band keeps it simple, managing to name itself, its debut and its introductory song all Black Sabbath. The opening soundtrack of rain, thunder and tolling bell (think of a funeral) is by far the best part of it, as soon the guitar kicks in, running its dirge-like riff into the ground while the band mutters around Ozzy's paranoid encounter with ultimate evil. Eventually this becomes interminable, at which point the band finally loosens up and rocks like hell, stodgy riff thankfully left behind in the ensuing melee. For menace, nothing beats Ozzy screaming for help as if he really means it, but the good and bad on this one lean heavily against each other.

The Wizard, at four minutes, is the shortest track and an anomaly. The harmonica is what you'll remember; the song is out of place, as the mysterious wizard goes around making people feel happy. Word has it that it's talking about the group's drug dealer. Dealer or benevolent magician as it may be, taking the peril from the equation really messes up the effect and leaves this song as filler to my ears, despite its memorable riff.

First of the medleys is Wasp/Behind the Wall of Sleep/Bassically/N.I.B. It gets off to an agreeably rocking start, though Ozzy's first lines are good for a wince. It evens out pretty soon and the use of imagination helps fill in between the lines - something about being put on trial in dreams. Guitars pause, leaving Bill Ward to fill things out and fade into the next scene. Focus goes over to the bassist, soloing into a handy bridge for the next Ozzy-led bit. The only problem with this segment is Ozzy shouting "oh yeah!" and putting a crimp in the atmosphere. Otherwise, it's quite appealing; it's got jive and energy, it's a love song from Lucifer and the musicians are all in top form. Standout.

Side 2 tries for some sort of social commentary with Wicked World. It's also high on energy, but again, there's something constrained in the layout. It does have a gorgeous bridge, assuming a psychedelic bent that ends in an Iommi solo. Nice touches like that really liven up the proceedings.

Fourteen minutes is given to the last act, which is much too long (the other was only ten!). A Bit of Finger/Sleeping Village/Warning. It's got acoustic guitar and a jew's harp to start, and the best lyric by far, an evocative and sadly short fragment before it's back to the usual suspect: heavy metal. Again, the music wanders about, hooking onto a riff, a tune, before moving on, getting a new tempo, cutting back to the last bit and expecting you to keep it all straight. Ozzy gets back into the game, this time with a diatribe against the devil as a woman. At least, I think that's what he's on about. It's not as good as the N.I.B. segment was, going on much too long, though when the group gets into an uptempo place, the result is good music.

Without further adieu, the whole record ceases there. Verdict? It's always good to hear a groundbreaking musical act, but to equate groundbreaking with genius would be a mistake. Black Sabbath was a nifty idea, but in my opinion, one deeply flawed in execution. I'd say if you're looking for heavy rock with claustrophobic and occult tendencies, you'd be better off trying their follow-up Paranoid, or Bowie's Man Who Sold the World. If you want the best of the guitar rock groups of the era, Led Zeppelin's the real deal. But then, I'm less than ideally suited to Sabbath, placing so much weight in lyrics. This still comes recommended as a necessary excerpt in the history of rock.

42nd... gnash those teeth and watch the bones...

Bone Machine.

In 1992, it had been about five years since Tom Waits had released a studio album (Franks Wild Years), when he stepped into the Prairie Sun Recording studios in C.A. and created this monster album of songs every bit as morbid and frightful as the cover art indicates. He sang it in a voice that could be called ugly and just as easily (well, to some of us) be called beautiful. He even released two music videos, primitive accompaniments to an album made with as few instruments as possible (often just percussion, guitar and some upright bass); music stripped back almost to the bones. Yes, he recorded and produced it all in a studio, but did so in the cellar - complete with cement floor and hot water heater. As Tom said "it's got some good echo."

The punchline: this most difficult music, the darkest chapter in his career and not something to sit easily on a person's mind, won the Grammy for Best Alternative Music album. Isn't that nice?

People new to the music of Tom Waits, however, may well be inclined to shut it off before they reach track five, since Tom makes you work for the music. The most punishing tracks are lumped together right at the start (except for In the Colosseum), and only after that can a certain amount of "entertainment" be had.

Earth Died Screaming is where it begins, mostly with percussion that sounds like rattling bones - it would be plain silly, except the imagery invoked is...well... "and the great day of wrath has come/and here's mud in your big red eye/the poker's in the fire/the locusts take the sky." Did I mention his way with words? The transfer from his indifferent account of apocalypse to the impassioned chorus is even more unsettling.

Dirt in the Ground is classic Waits in the ballad style, the piano and clarinet and upright bass making it beautiful to hear. It's also a treatise on how death undoes all of life's meaning and Tom sounds absolutely wounded to sing it. "What does it matter, a dream of love/or a dream of lies/we're all gonna be in the same place when we die." It doesn't get any better.

Such a Scream is not as bad as it may sound - it's music as cacophony, percussion and saxophone vying for your attention while the lyric goes on almost tunelessly about a bizarre, possibly invented woman.

And then there's noise. Very interesting, but it might be a bit much for the unwary. Persevere! All Stripped Down is the first entertaining song - it's infectious, catchy, Tom sings it in a ridiculous high pitch and it's even got elements of a rather surreal kind of love song.

Now things are alright. That doesn't mean it's any happier. Who Are You is the bleeding heart ballad of the set (Tom has a stable of characters in his world, guises donned for whatever the next story is). Who Are You sneaks in a perfect reference to bones, deliberately tying it into the concept, despite the song being addressed to a duplicitous woman. Sung with such sincerity, filled with telling details and antagonism, it's an immediate highlight.

The Ocean Doesn't Want Me is a monologue, briefly recited as a man contemplates drowning, hungers for it, yet is turned back at the last by a faint unease. I defy you to listen to it and not get chills.

Jesus Gonna Be Here is standard acoustic blues, and damn! does he ever replicate the style of the old bluesmen. Unfortunately, I don't much care for the repetition of the blues so this song, of them all, really leaves me cold.

Contrast with the piano driven A Little Rain, a world weary yet comforting intermission. Loss hangs over the fragmented characters of the song, yet the narrator assert "a little trouble makes it worth the going/and a little rain never hurt no one."

In the Colosseum is mainly a tour of carnage and a lot of drums, played by someone humorously called "Brain." Tom plays chamberlain and conundrum and the song leaves a bad taste in the mouth, as any contemplation of the Roman games should...

At this point, I remember thinking I had the album pegged, I knew the themes and how it all tied together. Well, in fact I didn't know anything about it, because Goin' Out West was next. A fuzz drenched guitar rock track (still with only upright for the bass) with a lyric so overly macho that it becomes the only comedic passage. There's still some menace, but no death and the song comes as both a relief and a shock.

Murder in the Red Barn is the best song to sum up Bone Machine - it's got his all-in-a-day's-work recital tone, it's got a banjo (!), percussion (including what sounds like a rocking chair) and upright bass and that's it, and the lyric is monumental. Here's just a snatch of the enigmatic happenings: "someone's crying in the woods/someone's burying all his clothes/now Slam the Crank from Wheezer/slept outside last night and froze." There's at least seven pertinent characters and a ton of confusing events. It's great. You'll never figure it out.

Black Wings sports a fuller sound with two guitars, maracas and a music solo that allows you to draw breath. A western, starring a dark angel type of cowboy awash in Biblical imagery. An exceptional interlude, "and the fenceposts/in the moonlight look like bones."

Piano balladry makes a final flourish on Whistle Down the Wind, about a man who has remained all his life out in the prairie. You can feel the lachrymose desolation. David Hidalgo of A Hawk and a Handsaw guests with accordion and violin, adding to the lugubrious sense of lost time.

I Don't Wanna Grow Up is an astoundingly quick attack on the adult world by a very disenchanted youth, putting down the rat race, the superficial comforts, the futility "nothing out there but sad and gloom." Since everyone on record so far is either damaged or dead, it's perfectly in keeping with the concept. Simple song, just more bass and guitar, yet very catchy.

Let Me Get Up On It is a percussion experiment that doesn't even last a whole minute and has an inaudible lyric. What was the point? It's Tom Waits' world - stuff like that is part and parcel for him.

That Feel is notable for being co-written and with backing vocals from Keith Richards. It's an ode to "the one thing you can't lose," some indestructible feeling that - apparently - can survive everything on Bone Machine. So you're not left in the lurch; you're bid farewell with a teary sing-along.

That is that. That's Tom Waits at his most consistently morbid, more or less. There's far more to Waits' World than this bag of bones though. There are diners and waitresses, musical theaters helped out by Alice in Wonderland and William S. Burroughs (not, alas, at the same time), sailors, booze, true love, crime and rain. Lots of rain. Any one album is only the tip of the iceberg with this guy. If you're just starting out and like the sound of this one, by all means try it out.

41st... A non-linear gothic drama hyper-cycle

Outside.

The heading of this post is the subtitle of this 1995 outing from David Bowie. After his notorious 80s slump, he came out with a fine set of 90s albums before taking up retirement in the early years of the new millennium. Properly titled 1. Outside, first in a proposed trilogy, is the most ambitious of the 90s products and the finest. Considering that Scary Monsters is overrated and Lodger daft, I would be willing to call Outside his best album since "Heroes."

A word of warning: unless you are tremendously fond of William S. Burroughs, Kathy Acker or the cyberpunks, do NOT read the booklet or you'll be put right off. Those who like that kind of thing are in for a treat. The concept involves... fear of the millennium (the story is set in 1999), madness, suicide cults, grisly performance art, a "detective professor," the art murder of a 14 year old girl and maybe some aliens. A sample: "Yea. I remember Ramona. She set herself up as the no-future priestess of the Caucasian Suicide Temple, vomiting out her doctrine of death-as-eternal-party into the empty vessels of Berlin youth."

So comes 74 minutes in a musical style that critics sometimes dismiss as a grunge send-up. The band? Brian Eno the sound painter came up with his usual bag of "treatments and strategies," while no less than Mike Garson reappeared with his expressive piano playing - and David Bowie always got the most out of his sidemen. Notable on guitar is Reeves Gabrels, whilst longtime bandmate Carlos Alomar retains the rhythm guitar. There are others I won't go into.

1. Outside is a film in sound - so dim the lights and concentrate.

Cinematic fade-in, as if the music has been going on for several minutes, piano tinkling away as if in some futurist lounge or lobby. It's called Leon Takes Us Outside. Who is Leon? Perhaps the shadowy ghoul who graces the back cover? His is the first voice you hear, muttering key dates. Martin Luther King Day. August. 1999. Midwinter. Etc. Unsettling as it is, it serves purely as a segue from silence.

Outside is where things begin. One minute of this was all anyone needed to know David was back at the top. If this is grunge, it's filtered through layers of art-rock. Again a confusion of dates, "now/not tomorrow/yesterday/not tomorrow." What does it all mean? No idea, but the bleak and melancholy atmosphere, the stately and sweeping music carry you past the enigma. People say Nathan Adler, private eye, was David's latest persona, but I disagree. It's not Adler who narrates these songs. He'll show up much later.

The Heart's Filthy Lesson owes a lot to Nine Inch Nails. Grunge guitar abounds, but the moodsetter is in fact Garson's piano, pounding into your mind one minute one minute, then backing off and becoming frail and silent. It was an unlikely single with a sepia toned, nightmarish video I'd advise you track down. Rather than play the death cult up for all it's worth, this anonymous narrator is divided, relishing the tangible sickness of his world and life, then severing off to cry "oh Patty/I think I've lost my way." Whoever this Patty is does not get into the liner notes. Nor does the narrator, for that matter...

A Small Plot of Land changes tactic. Mike Garson leads the relentless rhythm section as the narrator points to another victim, this one a man with "two innocent eyes," spat upon and resented. The music takes on the electronic voices and stamping of a crowd, the title perhaps referring to the small plot on which the man loses his life....

There are segues placed strategically across this album, all voice acting done by David, of course. They form chapter breaks, in my mind. Segue - Baby Grace (A Horrid Cassette) is the narrative of the 14 year old, perhaps tape recorded as her final, drugged up testament before being murdered. Oh, there's music to these segues for texture, but scarcely as a comforting distraction. Meanwhile this child has the wizened voice of an old woman...

An explosion cuts the cassette off and leads into one of the only full rockers on the record, Hallo Spaceboy. Broken snatches of pre-recorded voices thread in and out of a soundscape with pummeling drums and guitar jumping from one speaker to the other. If it's not about aliens or astronauts, then it must be the most abstract, hallucinogenic event in the "story."

Mike Garson once said The Motel was his twenty-five-years-later version of Lady Grinning Soul, and if you want beauty in a soundscape where little can be found, this is the reprieve. The exhausted, desperate reprieve. The hero seems almost sane, recognizing the limitations and artifice of the world around him.

I Have Not Been to Oxford Town finds him in jail for the murder of Baby Grace. The funky, if angular, rhythms make this one of the most appealing songs included - it's even got handclaps, the old standby of accessibility. This is where Nathan Adler steps in, leading back into the hazy storyline while the one in jail ruminates on his position.

No Control is a direct follow-up: "Stay away from the future/back away from the light/it's all deranged/no control." The music on this record is so dense that it's euphoric to listen to but beyond my ability to describe, so I must focus on the dread, the obsessive blending of past, present and future, the fear of powerlessness and the mystery of who exactly the narrator is addressing.

Segue - Algeria Touchshriek takes time away for the soliloquy of an old man. There's enough in this clip for a good short story, but it's a brief note with no apparent relation to the plot at hand. It does prove that the whole cityscape is crazy: "My shop sells aid shows off the see saws and empty females."

The psychotic chapter comes next. The narrator is back, the pace picks up and carries him forward in a frenzy. How'd he get out of jail? We'll never know. The Voyeur of Utter Destruction (As Beauty) encases his mad, broken ravings, his sudden fear and distaste towards women rising to incoherency, hinting at lab experiments.

Segue - Ramona A. Stone/I Am With Name is segue and song combined as sheer lunacy. With a voice like a cyborg and sporting a bad mid-life crisis, Ramona is like a nightmare, yet there's something vain and theatrical about her as well. The segue overlaps into music made of assorted industrial noises. There is applause. Someone screams out. The narrator becomes unintelligible and the musings of Nathan Adler intervene, turning this into Outside's harshest song.

For Wishful Beginnings, I will say little. It's a testament to David Bowie that he could make so distasteful a character pitiable. It's his singing that allows this excessive postmodern gothic to be believable.

We Prick You shows the narrator split in two by his madness. Schizophrenic phrasing, fantasies of violence, memories of incestuous desires, and yet, pulling against these terrors is an obscured line that repeats through the song until it becomes benevolent. Musically, this fractured psychosis is amazing to hear.

Taking a needed break from the threatening, sex-ridden monster the narrator's become, it's time for Segue - Nathan Adler. His monologue ties Ramona, Touchshriek and Leon together (sort of) while again failing to identify the narrator or that mysterious extra character. David voice-acting a hard-boiled detective somehow comes across as deeply funny, it's so over-the-top and out of place.

I'm Deranged is breathtaking. David's singing on this drawn-out lament for sanity is shiver-inducing. It also functions as a key moment of self-realization for the presumed protagonist.

Things take an abruptly sunny turn with Thru' These Architects Eyes. "All the majesty of a city landscape/all the soaring days in our lives/all the concrete dreams in my mind's eye..." The tune speaks of a degree of peace, despite the bitter railing against his actual job. It's an about-face so startling that it's difficult to make sense of. It's the most Musically, it's the most upbeat the album's been since Oxford Town, but there's still that manic edge; perhaps his madness is not shed, it's simply taken another form....

It's time for Segue - Nathan Adler again. 27 seconds to drum up the real connection between Ramona and Leon, not that it's all that shocking. Not worth the addition? Then why is it there?

As if 70 minutes were not enough, David decided to re-work the song Strangers When We Meet from his Buddha of Suburbia album. Having no part in this violent "hyper-cycle" it's out of place, as if a window has been thrown open. Though a sad song, it seems warm, healthfully wistful and full of life coming on the heels of Outside. It could be interpreted as a philosophical nudge, David's way of saying "this was a simple theater presentation and I am just a songwriter."

However, the greatest aspect of a concept like Outside is the width of interpretation. I took the first person, linear approach but you could take the "non-linear" sub-title to heart: for example, it could end with Oxford Town. Or you could take to the notion that the songs are told through multiple viewpoints. You could even do it over in Jungian style, if you were so inclined.

If you've a mind to skip the concept and enjoy the music, that's also an option. It's how I did it the first time. Any way you parse it, it makes for great music and a good story, if fully aware of its own derangement. Maybe that's why there wasn't a 2. Maybe remaining in a world like that for so long would be too much of an effort.

It left one incredible CD, anyway. And it gave me a devil of a time trying to find the words for reviewing it.* This is not music for all tastes and your mileage may vary. If this review sounded unpleasant, I'd advise you skip this CD and check out a different 90s effort, such as Hours or Black Tie White Noise, which are much more pleasant.

Stay tuned for next week's October inspired nightmare.

*Hence much Tuesday editing...

40th.... Dark obsessions and death knells

From Her To Eternity.

There was once an Australian rock group called The Birthday Party - I have not heard them, but I like to imagine their music as a bracing, volatile extravaganza of darkness so terrible it had to either split or consume its creators. Whether this myth is true, the band did split and from the ashes, in 1983, came Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. Nick Cave believed himself a poet, appreciated the stylings of gospel music as well as rock, was a heroin addict and appears to have been fascinated by America's myths of violence. He had the idea for a new band, and together with fellow Birthday Party-er Mick Harvey, came up with the Bad Seeds, the original line-up of which included Barry Adamson from Magazine and Blixa Bargeld, the howling frontman from Germany's Einsturzende Neubauten. The band's debut in 1984 set up a clear sound and purpose. Angular, post-punk thrash with plain old noise thrown in for the hell of it, the music sounds menacing, dangerous at close quarters. Nick is at the center of all proceedings, shrieking and contorting, proclaiming like some manic prophet of the damned...

So October is my month for psychotic music. And Nick's first record was his scariest; slowly but surely a sense of melody, balladry and even tenderness crept into his bleak worldview, leading to a run of eloquent, finely wrought and somewhat mannered albums in the 90s. In the beginning his gothic tales are unrelieved by beauty, grace or mawkishness. Everything that comes on From Her to Eternity is ugly and brutal.

It begins with silence. Then the silence gives way to a cover of Leonard Cohen's Avalanche. In an ironic shift, where the original had no drums on it (Leonard was probably still traumatized by what his producer did to So Long, Marianne) Nick's rendition is driven by lengthy drum rolls that rush up to your ears like the tide. The original functions as a cold put-down to a lover's pretensions; Nick's emotive and controlled delivery sounds like he's fighting the urge to strangle her. This ranks up there with the best cover songs of all time: it completely reinvents the song.

Cabin Fever! is one of the best examples of noise-rock I can think of. It's a destructive song; it's letting the beast out. Blixa's influence is clear, especially as Nick lets loose with his best contortionist screaming, choking on the awful details of life at sea. It's a highly ominous and deranged, somewhat brilliant and tuneless monstrosity. The best part is either the horror movie piano (like a primal, sped up Sense of Doubt) or the suggestion at the end that the ship and crew sank a long while ago....

Well of Misery slows the pace to a crawl, based on the old chain-gang song - a line is sung and parroted by the band in somber, deadened tones. The gothic version of a well and bucket: "it swings slow and aching like a bell/and its toll is dead and hollow." Driving over the music is the percussion equivalent of a flogging. You get five minutes of mind-numbing repetitions in the lyrics, the bass line and the rhythm, alleviated only by the branches of harmonica and other noise in the band.

The classic From Her to Eternity is next, and it's a prime example of the Bad Seeds' abilities: as soon as the drums sound, you know something bad is going to happen. Random machine noises emphasize the violence of the narrative: an obsession so throttling that murder is the only way out.

The album on reissue is hereby cut in half to include a single of In the Ghetto. It's a respectful rendition and points toward the impassioned balladry of later years. Unfortunately, 1: Nick is a great singer, but he is no Elvis and 2: Mac Davis was no Nick Cave. It's just too simple to fit in with the literate ravings found elsewhere.

The flipside of the single was The Moon is in the Gutter, a bluesy vignette of city slum miasma. "The moon is in the gutter/and the stars wash down the sink," is good imagery. "The moon blind my eye with opal cataracts," is not so good. But it is an example of Nick's habit for overwriting. Oh well. Listen for a cut in from Wordsworth!

Those songs are curios, but they do make a difference to the pacing and restore lucidity just when you thought he couldn't do anything but froth at the mouth. It's back to the album proper with Saint Huck. "If you wanna catch a saint/then bait your hook/let's take a walk." Now this is punk. Nick plays devil's advocate, taking American icon Huckleberry Finn, luring him into the big city, dragging him to the bottom and annihilating him there. Who did this Australian think he was? The band drives forward relentlessly, alternating spare claustrophobia with heavier rock, and who can forget Nick's yodel once they've heard it?

For percussion, Wings Off Flies utilizes a man either nailing a picture or a coffin... Nick sing-speaks this one like he's at a poetry reading in someone's cellar. Musically, it's no great shakes, but it does have black humour going for it.

At a whopping nine minutes, A Box for Black Paul is the outstanding moment - after a mob kills Black Paul, Nick relates the details, sometimes with vitriol, sometimes with plaintive sympathy. "Who threw the first stone at Black Paul?" The song progresses quietly enough, showing the witnesses to have no pity for the dead man and as it continues, the story takes on a supernatural tinge. Paul's last words are a perfect touch and the reserve in both music and singing makes this last track the very best.

Because this is the reissue, there's a live version of From Her to Eternity attached. In 1987, Cave fan Wim Wenders made a film called Der Himmel Uber Berlin, known in English as Wings of Desire. The Bad Seeds showed up for a performance at the end of the film (they were one of the highlights, by the way) and their fiery rendition of this song holds up well against the original.

In the 80s, when all the old guard of rock music were selling out and becoming insufferable, it was left to the underground artists to make the decade seem worthwhile. Nick Cave was among these groups, and while I can't advise any but noise-rock aficionados starting with this CD, I have to admit it's a far more visceral experience than his later work. The secret to liking his music, I've found, is to buy into his worldview, to believe his visions, at least for the duration of the visit. Do that and you've got some awesome listening experiences ahead of you, not least of which is this frightening original statement.