Gothic Council Tries to Figure Out Nick Cave
A little while back, I was tasked with defining the seven ages of goth. Basically, the goal was to go from the birth of the genre to its modern forms and incarnations based on the years which each of those subgenres were at their height. It was a fair bit of writing that pleased pretty much no one because goths are happiest when they're pointing out how much more they know about goth than you, but there was always one huge, glaring omission to the article that I couldn't hide: Nick Cave.
The man, whom as I've pointed out is awesomely insane, defies all attempts to nail him into a box. It's not just that you have to deal with the fact that he's fronted three iconic bands with three totally distinct sounds in addition to his solo work, it's that even within those bands he has never, ever fit in with a defined period of gothic evolution.
Yet, there is absolutely no doubt that Cave is one of the highest-credentialed goths around. He's an anomaly, woven inside a movement without directly affecting or being affected by that movement.
I had given up attempting to categorize the man on my own, and decided it was time to have the Gothic Council rule on Mr. Cave's rightful place in the gothic world. Joining me this week is living historian Morrighanne Burns, Hex of the deathrock act Culture Decay, Church of Melkarth's Jvstin Whitney, DJs Regen Robinson and Martin Oldgoth, blogger Drusilla Grey, and Carmilla Voiez, author of Starblood.
Morrighanne Burns: He's a morbid cowboy with the heart of a lion and the soul of Oscar Wilde. I have never been a huge uberfan of Cave's music, but from reading his novels and watching films based on his screenplays I have come to appreciate him more as I have aged.
Hex: He's a post punk icon with a quick temper, a strange fascination with the Deep South and gave birth to the name of a very famous song that inspired a very well known deathrock night.
Jvstin Whitney: Pussy.
Rocks Off: I'm sorry?
Jvstin Whitney: I shouldn't need to elaborate. He's a weepy crybaby that no one with measurable amounts of testosterone should want to ever listen to. I remember an ex-girlfriend who made me listen to his garbage all the time and I was all, "You're probably always depressed because you listen to this pussyfest all day. "TURN UP THE FUNKER VOGT AND DANCE FOR FUCK'S SAKE."