The wintergreen, the juniper
The cornflower and the chicory
Well all of the words you said to me
Are still vibrating in the air
The elm, the ash and the linden tree
The dark and deep enchanted sea
The trembling moon and the stars unfurled
Well there she goes, my beautiful world
Chorus:
There she goes, my beautiful world
There she goes, my beautiful world
There she goes, my beautiful world
There she goes again
So begins Nick Cave's raucous, tumultuous, erotically charged ballad in praise of the glory of the created order (and, FWIW, the fourth and final song I had played at my baptism).
Or maybe it's an ode to a (possibly ex-) girlfriend? Among the roll call of natural wonders, we have the stark contrast of the couplet “Well all of the words...”. This could, admittedly, refer to almost anything while stripped of wider context as it is at this point; but it does perhaps have the air of a regretted or resented conversation with someone close. More to come.
John Wilmot penned his poetry riddled with a pox
And Nabokov wrote on index cards at a lectern, in his socks
St John of the Cross, he did his best stuff imprisoned in a box
And Johnny Thunders was half alive when he wrote Chinese Rocks
Oh me, I'm lying here, with nothing in my ears
Oh me, I'm lying here, with nothing in my ears
Me, I'm lying here, for what seems years
I'm lying on my bed, with nothing in my head
Send that stuff on down to me, send that stuff on down to me
Send that stuff on down to me, send that stuff on down
(Chorus)
OK, so the song is also about writer's block? This is getting... unwieldy.
In one sense Cave is showing a distinct lack of false modesty, daring to implicitly compare himself to the ranks of assorted historical genius. (For the record, it seems Johnny Thunders only tried to claim credit for Chinese Rocks, but Cave may be well aware of this.)
But then, the comparison is unfavourable – look at the impossible circumstances these writers overcame, and look at me, lying here, not able to so much as put put pen to paper. How feeble! How impotent!
He ends with a prayer for inspiration – although its not fully clear who he's praying to.
Well Karl Marx squeezed his carbuncles while writing Das Kapital
And Gauguin, he buggered off man, and he went all tropical
And Phillip Larkin, he stuck it out in a library in Hull
And Dylan Thomas, he died drunk in St Vincent's Hospital
More great creators of the past, although now the territory is more ambiguous – not simply triumphs over adversity but a variety of fates awaiting those who make a life of what they create. What might become of me, you can almost hear Cave wonder.
I'll lie at your feet, I'll kneel at your door
I'll rock you to sleep, I will roll on the floor
Back to the girlfriend. The imagery, intimate, even passionate, while only hinting at sexuality. Submissive... and yet somehow not.
And I will ask for nothing, nothing in this life
I will ask for nothing – give me everlasting life
I just wanna move the world, I just wanna move the world
I just wanna move the world, I just want to move
Again Cave is the supplicant, asking now not just for inspiration but for inspiration enough to shake the whole world; asking for nothing and yet asking for eternity in the same breath. It is brazen and vulnerable at the same time – and indeed, if you are to prostrate yourself before the Creator why ask for anything less?
Cave often seems to sing “rule the world” for “move the world”, as have artists covering the song. Neither lyric invites an accusation of humility. Nor does the juxtaposition of “ask for nothing ... / ... everlasting life.” although its not clear if Cave's playful mockery here is directed more at himself or the religious, esp. the Christians whose faith he has obsessed with over the years.
(Chorus)
So if you got a trumpet, get on your feet brother and a-blow it
And if you got a field, that don't yield, then get up now and a-hoe it
I look at you, you look at me, and deep in our hearts babe we know it
That you weren't much of a muse, but then, I weren't much of a poet
Now we move from prayer to exhortation – from asking for the power to create, to admonishing others to find theirs. The field that don't yield echoes back to the earlier barrenness of Cave's writer's block, while of course both the trumpet and the hoe would be no means be out of place in a biblical text.
And then the girlfriend makes her most explicit appearance. You weren't much of a muse but I weren't much of a poet? Cave has recovered some false modesty after all. Or maybe he is just airing his regrets from a time in a life he struggled both relationally and artistically.
I'll be your slave, I'll peel your grapes
Up on your pedestal with your ivory and apes
With your book of ideas and your alchemy
Oh come on – send that stuff on down to me
The lyricism of the song reaches a fabulous crescendo. Cave is debasing himself completely – I'll be your slave, I'll peel your grapes, up on your pedestal. But who is he even talking to? God? His muse? Creation itself? Creativity itself? I don't think he knows and I don't think it matters. Everything is bound up in the asking.
Send that stuff on down to me, send that stuff on down to me
Send that stuff on down to me, send that stuff on down to me
Send it all around, send it all around the world
Coz here she comes, my beautiful girl
(Chorus x 2)
And finally, bringing it all together, to send the stuff down but now to send it all around the world. It's worth dwelling on Cave no longer asking just that he might create, or even that he might move the world; he is asking for the divine spark for all, on behalf of all, for creation to overflow with creativity.
“Here she comes, my beautiful girl.” The triptych is complete – creation as muse, muse as lover, and now lover as creation. It evokes the Christian concept of the Bride of Christ, where the Lord is a the bridegroom and the church or the new creation or some aspect thereof is the bride.
Alright, I'll admit it, I think he managed to wield.