Nick Cave is not, you would imagine, a man plagued by much uncertainty when it comes to his work. The reputation of A Serious Artist hangs comfortably on his shoulders, the kind of reputation that should protect him from the stings and slights of critics.
Still, over the past few years, Cave appears to have carried out a curious battle with his public image. When 1996's roistering 'Murder Ballads' veered close to macabre self-parody, he retrenched with the subtle and brilliant 'The Boatman's Call', the most straightforwardly confessional album of his long career. When the latter's intimacies were thoroughly investigated (a heartbreaking affair with PJ Harvey, notably), Cave backed off again and produced 'No More Shall We Part', preserving the tender understatement of 'The Boatman's Call' but replacing the first person with colourful theatrical narratives. Another great, rather undervalued album, but one which appeared to confirm suspicions Cave had lost the will to rock. From now on, piano balladry would be the order of the day.
Or so it seemed. 'Nocturama', the 12th Bad Seeds album, sees this improbably talented man striving to prove to the sceptics that he can still do everything. There's a hint of defiance, almost hysterically so, in some of these songs, not least the closing 'Babe, I'm On Fire', a rambunctious, comical survey of humanity that takes in "Viennese vampires", "hooligan mooners", "hymen-busting Zulus", "My mate Bill Gates" and Picasso. 'Babe I'm On Fire' lasts about 39 verses, or 15 minutes, and is so full-tilt feverish you worry at least one of the Bad Seeds might not make it to the end without a coronary. Like its obvious ancestor 'O'Malley's Bar' from 'Murder Ballads', it could go on longer.
Unlike 'Dead Man In My Bed', a bloodless reprise of Cave's old manias, or the single 'Bring It On', a duet with Chris Bailey of The Saints and the sort of trad indie-rock - blustery, anthemic, of a certain age - that Cave has effortlessly transcended for two decades. At times, 'Nocturama' feels like he's trying too hard. Some of the ballads suffer this way, as if Cave's straining to recapture the gravitas of 'The Boatman's Call' without excessive revelations or dramatic contrivance.
As a result, you have to work a little harder than usual to find the gems. Posterity won't prize 'Nocturama' as one of Cave's greatest works, but it may find room for a handful of these lovely songs. 'There Is A Town', a simple meditation on the meaning of home, finds him pinning a beautiful sliver of melody to a whinnying, eerie violin line from the increasingly prominent Warren Ellis. 'Rock Of Gibraltar' is similarly uncomplicated, a butchly soppy declaration of love to his wife that gentrifies the old swagger into an affecting sway, and harbours a sour twist at its death. There's dignity here, dignity which plainly attracts and repels Cave equally. If only he could find a way of crashing both responses together in the same song, then maybe there's still new territory for this cantankerous, restless genius to explore yet.
