A year ago, I went to California for my brother’s wedding. My present to Max and Lauren was a painting of their choosing. A few weeks ago they finally told me what they wanted: a picture of Lauren’s dearly-departed cat, Monet, guarding the gates of Hell. Not my usual line, but a promise is a promise, so I got to work.
An image search for ‘gates of Hell’ yielded an endless crawl of cheesy renderings of crenulated Gothic fencing. It wasn’t until I’d scrolled down for awhile that I spotted a photograph of a barren plain with a chasm glowing from molten fire. I don’t recall where it was, but it looked a lot more like the way to the underworld than all the Victorian Halloween imagery clogging my computer screen. I cut-and-pasted Monet over the crater, printed it out, and taped it to my easel above the canvas.
I scattered some skulls on poles about the tundra and floated a a flock of blood-red birds in the distance and called it a day. When I emailed Max a snapshot for approval, he said the painting would haunt them for years. Mission accomplished.
Late Monday afternoon I pedaled twelve miles, from Bridgeport to Jefferson Park. I was going to see Nick Cave at the Copernicus Center. September 30th, mid-80s and humid; a typical July day in Chicago. I brought an extra shirt, knowing I’d be soaked in sweat by the time I got where I was going. I’ve been going to see Cave since the 80s but this promised to be a different kind of show.
As an extension of his Red Hand Files—a newsletter in which Cave answers fan questions—he’s touring the world to play piano and talk to the audience. It’s an unlikely turn for a performer who, until very recently, appeared completely unapproachable. He was famous for churlish, tight-lipped interviews and shows which, while feeding on crowd response, weren’t especially interactive. He didn’t seem much interested in bridging the gap between himself and us. Then his son fell off a cliff and died and everything changed.
Now Cave craves connection and appears willing to tackle even silly and sycophantic queries from his devoted flock. There were moments during the two-plus hours at the Copernicus when I felt embarrassed for what people asked and many when I was touched that Cave humored and respected questions coming from obviously fragile beings. There were times when it felt like a self-help seminar; others when it was more like church. But any time it got too heavy, Cave returned to his piano and reminded us why we’d come. The songs, chosen sometime by request, spanned his long career. I knew them all.
The last question came from a woman with pink hair who complained bitterly about people in the next row talking throughout the show and ruining her night. Cave invited her onstage to perch awkwardly on the edge of his piano stool as he sang his last song. I wondered as I watched her shifting uncomfortably up there, whether it was a moment she’d dreamed of and whether it had turned out the way she’d hoped. I wondered too whether Cave’s exercise in mass empathy and vulnerability was coming out the way he’d wanted it to. Whether he was getting what he needed. How many questions were the same, verbatim, city to city? Did every show end with someone perched at the edge of his piano stool? After laying his heart so bare, would he retreat back to the caustic, guarded persona familiar to most of us for decades? How well did he want to know us?
I couldn’t imagine getting up on a stage and doing what Cave had done. I unlocked my bike and watched as the crowd slowly dispersed into the sticky September/July night. I pedaled home slowly and thought about what I’d witnessed. I couldn’t decide whether I’d loved or hated it. It certainly kept my attention. But isn’t it better to preserve a little mystery? Did Cave actually reveal much or was it just a different kind of performance?
I’d raised my hand a few times during the show, but was never chosen. I don’t know what I would’ve asked, save for whether I could give him my book, since there’s a chapter about him in it. I like to think he’d have taken it. I mean, he signed tattoos and gave out hugs, so it might’ve been almost reasonable.
Twelve or thirteen years ago, via MySpace, I struck up a correspondence with a Canadian musician named Edgar Breau. He commissioned me to do some art for a forthcoming CD. He didn’t use it.
But then, a few years ago, Breau was in town for a gig with his 70s band, Simply Saucer, and we met in person. He told me that he came upon my old cover design and realized to would’ve made a better cover than the photo he ended up using, so, for a time, the CD was sold with an insert of my cover replacing the other one. I was happy to have my work acknowledged.
A week or two ago I saw online somewhere that Simply Saucer was playing in Columbus with Cheater Slicks. It was on a Tuesday that I had nothing happening, so I texted Brian and asked to rent a car. Brian used to be my doorman at the bar Sundays, but his real job is at Enterprise.
I’ve driven to Columbus four times before; three of those to see Cheater Slicks. I knew the route via interstates but wanted to see if there were other ways to get there. Since I don’t use Google anymore and don’t have a smartphone, I tried the Apple Map app for the first time. It suggested a route which looked like more or less a straight shot down mostly secondary roads. I took out my notebook and copied out the directions.
After exiting I-94 at Valparaiso, much of the ride was through fields and small towns in Indiana and Ohio. It felt totally different than being on the big road, away from where people live. There were traffic lights along the way and little diners and gas stations. A few times, following my handwritten notes, I wondered whether it could possibly be the right way, but then the next road sign would appear assuring me I’d made no mistake. Somehow, I arrived at the Motel 6 in Columbus quicker than any other time I’d traveled to this town. I had to wait to check in behind an old lady with a small dog, who insisted that she needed a room with the headboard facing east rather than west. She also didn’t want to be in the pet-friendly section of the motel, as her dog was assuredly much cleaner than most humans, let alone other dog. She was sure they would give her dog fleas. The clerk humored her patiently, as did her husband, who came in after she left and apologized to everyone. The clerk told me she does this every week.
Cafe Bourbon Street, where I thought the show was happening, now has a thing called Pierogi Mountain within it. I was a couple hours early and hungry, so I gorged myself on dumplings with different fillings, then topped it off with something they call Hungarian Poutine. I washed it all down with Old Granddad and soda water. Tom said he’d be there around 8pm. Twelve years back—around the same time I was corresponding with Edgar—I’d driven my rented Yellow Cab to this same club to see Cheater Slicks’ 20th anniversary show. It looked much the same, aside from the pierogis.
I wondered why the stage remained empty, save for the DJ, as 8pm approached, then saw a chalkboard schedule to the side of the bar which indicated that the bands would be playing next door at The Summit. I gulped down the rest of my whiskey and went over there.
There were no pierogis at The Summit and the Old Granddad was a far less generous pour, though the two rooms shared a wall and a doorway. I watched a white-haired guy set up Simply Saucer merch. Tom came in a few minutes later and we talked for a bit. I went over and reintroduced myself to Edgar, who seemed really surprised to see me. He told me about a Russian coworker who believed in giants and told Edgar everything in the news was a lie. I told him that sounded like a typical Russian to me. Dave told me about what it was like traveling with the late Andre Williams, Tom told me Cheater Slicks were working on a new record, and the white-haired merch guy turned out to be Craig Bell from Rocket From the Tombs. It was a good night.
The show ended around 1am, I said my goodbyes, and drove back to the Motel 6 on Olentangy. The next morning I drove to Nancy’s Home Cooking for breakfast. I’d discovered it my last visit to Columbus. “The Food You Dream of in Jail.” After finishing my garbage omelette and grits, I went through the kitchen to use the bathroom. It was occupied, so I stood outside the door and looked at the stove, with a huge pan of home fries sizzling. The cook came back and asked if I had any kitchen chops, whether I wanted a job. For a second I pictured staying there and making breakfast for people for the rest of my life. Then the bathroom door opened and a lady came out and told the cook they needed more soap in there.
I dropped off a couple copies of the music book at Used Kids, where Tom works, then hit the road. I started on the interstate, but then decided to trace my steps down the back roads to Chicago. I only got turned around once or twice, but was back in time to catch The Devil, Probably up on the North Side. I had drinks with Ben and Tal at an obnoxious yuppie bar after, then dropped off the car and Divvy’ed home.
I’d only been gone a day and a half but it felt like forever.
