conversion

On April 25, 1975, I saw my very first concert. It was just a few months before my 14th birthday. At the time, I was trying to ween myself off of a steady musical diet of AM radio bubble gum pop. The airwaves were jam-packed with the likes of Leo Sayer and Olivia Newton-John and The Bay City Rollers. Sure, Elton John was riding high, but I sought something... louder....something... harder. I found satisfaction in Alice Cooper's Welcome to My Nightmare. This was the pseudo-subversive demon rocker's first solo effort after leaving the namesake band from which he pinches his stage moniker. So with my mom's permission, I scraped together the impossible sum of $6.50 and purchased a ticket to the show. I convinced a couple of classmates to join me, and after securing a ride from my mom to the Spectrum (the South Philadelphia multi-purpose venue that succumbed to the wrecking ball in 2010), we were all set.

My friends and I found seats in Section C at the massive Spectrum and waited — impatiently — for the festivities to begin. A forty minute set from bassist Suzi Quatro got everyone in the mood for an evening with Alice Cooper. So, when the lights went out and Alice materialized from the darkness, bathed in ethereal purple light, we knew we were in for a night of wicked fun. Sure it was innocent, but there was still something bad about it — and "bad" was "good."

Almost 50 years later — to the day — I attended my most recent concert. My son, a DJ on a local Philadelphia radio station, arranged for two tickets to see Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds at The Met, a newly-rehabbed former opera house on North Broad Street that has emerged as the go-to venue for bands not quite popular enough to fill the Wells Fargo Center (the shitty multi-purpose South Philadelphia venue that replaced the equally-as-shitty Spectrum). The Met is looming and cavernous, appointed with ornate wood carving and an abundance of gold leaf. It made for a great setting in which to see Nick Cave. (This was the fourth time I saw the Australian rocker and each performance was mesmerizing.)

Alice Cooper and Nick Cave are similar... sort of. They both exude a sense of malevolence, of danger. Both singers' songs feature dark imagery and grim messaging. Alice Cooper's stage show relies more on visual props, costume changes and little vignettes. Way back in '75, I saw Alice fight — and decapitate — a cyclops. I saw Alice get his head chopped off in a guillotine. I saw Alice perform a Busby Berkeley-style kick-line with a troupe of tuxedo-clad skeletons. I saw Alice wield a snake and swing his microphone stand at those in the front row. It was scary and exhilarating and — most of all — entertaining. However, it was all presented with an underlying feeling of goofiness. It was fun. It was cartoony. It was the Coyote dropping an anvil of the Roadrunner. It was Simon Bar Sinister threatening the citizens of Capitol City with a snow gun. It was Moe poking Larry in the eyes and hearing that familiar "DOINK!" sound. Alice sang about school and movies and scary ghoulies hiding under your bed. It was scary... but not too scary.

On the other hand, Nick Cave seems to be genuinely dangerous. Nick Cave brings menace — an unsettling, unpredictable menace — to any stage he sets foot upon. Looking dapper — like an undertaker — in a dark suit and tie, Nick Cave leans into the audience with a scowl and a growl from the very first song to the very last. He flips his cordless mic to the wayside with the same carefree indifference as a kidnapper kicking his bound-and-gagged victim out of a moving car. His laugh is reminiscent of Satan. His deep vocals resonate a threatening tone, offering a no-nonsense missive as each song-story unfolds. He spins dark epic tales of unsavory lowlifes, biblical outcasts and desperate life challenges. His between-song patter, while sometimes playful, still carries a palpable capriciousness, that keeps the audience on its collective toes. You get the feeling you should be checking for the closest exit... you know... just in case things get icky... and there's always the chance they could. Whereas Alice Cooper's portent is presented with all the seriousness of a water pistol, Nick Cave's malice appears real. Alice Cooper waves a rolling pin at you like a comic-strip housewife waiting for her drunken husband to return home from a late-night bender. Nick Cave is David Berkowitz stealthily sneaking up to your parked car and shooting you in the back of the head while you're making out with your boyfriend. 

The audience at a Nick Cave show is entertained, but still, made to feel vulnerable. It's thrilling and, at the same time, uncomfortable. It's like pulling back the curtain and instead of seeing Willy Wonka's chocolate waterfall, you witness a Black Mass just as they're getting to the human sacrifice part of the service.

I think if I had seen Nick Cave instead of Alice Cooper when I was 14, I would have sworn off concerts for the rest of my life. Now, as my 64th year on Earth approaches, I'm ready to see what the next concert offers.

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