Devouring the new Nick Cave documentary on Sky, I am reminded how critics go wild for arty musicians who constantly change direction and dabble in everything. This is its own kind of myth. I know plenty of artists who keep moving – one week they’re sewing fish scales on to jackets, the next they’re painting mirrors or putting seahorses in samovars. The problem is, no one cares. If poet and ceramicist Nick Cave didn’t also write classic songs, he’d just be a local weirdo. I definitely wouldn’t buy a hardcover transcription of conversations he’d had with a mate about God. I’m glad I did, though.
The documentary, Nick Cave’s Veiled World (Saturday 6 December, 9pm, Sky Arts), is timed to promote the TV adaptation of his filthy novel The Death of Bunny Munro. It’s a glorious opportunity to revisit his early, intense masterpieces: electric chair confessionals, murderous duets with pop princesses, profane love songs. They’re still in my head, days later. It’s also a reminder that, in a joyfully perverse career, the assertion of his Christian faith has been his most divisive move. Audiences love biblical imagery in rock songs, provided the singer doesn’t actually believe.
