He's a ghost, he's a god, he's a man, he's a guru

Last week I spoke to my mother on the phone while suffering from my horrible cold. Take it easy, she said. Don't be going out getting drunk. Of course not, I said.

Twenty four hours later M and I were jammed down the front of a splendidly unlikely theatre at the end of Hastings Pier, screaming at Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds. I am not quite sure that's what she had in mind.

I am rubbish at reviewing gigs, so I won't -- the Observer's done it here and the Times here, and there's bound to be some even more elaborate hyperbole in the next Q. Suffice it to say that it was easily in my top 10 of all live music experiences. He is a man at the peak of his powers, and we were right down the front.

Afterwards, we caught last orders at the charming Gritti Palace, a bar at the land end of the pier with benches and fairy lights outside, and sat in the mild sparkly darkness as equipment was trundled out and people in long black coats disappeared into the night. We stayed overnight in an underheated room with a squidgy bed and a sea view.

In the morning we had a (desultory, as it was never going to be me) argument about who should move the car. Twenty minutes later, M returned clutching the Guardian and telling me that as he got back to the hotel, there was Nick Cave getting into his car. What are the chances of that? Apparently he accepted compliments graciously and winced charmingly at the front page headline ("Four more years" - this was the morning after the US election) before driving off.

Took a detour via Battle and imagined lots of horses and chainmail and longbows, then drove home, feeling generally at peace with the world and listening to Abattoir Blues.

To paraphrase Stephen Fry talking about Noel Edmonds in quite the opposite sense:
A short word about Nick Cave: Yes.
A longer word about Nick Cave: Transcendent.

I'd be a microscopic cog in his catastrophic plan anytime. Hey, maybe I already am.

joella