On a tour that feels like both a victory lap and a renewal, Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds are showcasing material from their latest album Wild God alongside career-defining classics. But anyone expecting a simple album promotion tour is missing the point entirely.
Let us start with this: Nick Cave doesn’t perform gigs; he conducts mass rituals of emotional destruction and rebirth. He may repeatedly claim to be a “fucking disaster“—a self-deprecating refrain that’s become almost a mantra—but nothing could be further from the truth. What we witness on stage isn’t disaster but mastery, refined over decades into something approaching perfection. Watching him live twice in a week—first from the sweaty, euphoric chaos of the front rows in Manchester’s AO Arena, then from a more civilized seated tier in Birmingham’s BP Pulse Live—was like attending two vastly different but equally electrifying church services.
In Manchester, the energy was feral. Being crushed up against strangers somehow felt like kinship, not discomfort. Cave was a man possessed, prowling the stage like a preacher from some gothic revival, reaching into the crowd, literally and metaphorically. And we, the congregation, responded in kind. By the time he launched into Red Right Hand, the place was a roiling sea of arms, voices, and unhinged devotion. Cave fed off it. He wasn’t just performing to the crowd; he was performing with us. Hands clasping his outstretched arms, faces inches from his, he roared out lyrics as though they were being dredged up from the depths of his soul. And we roared them back, with voices that by the next morning could only croak their apologies to concerned co-workers.
Then there was Birmingham’s BP Pulse Live. The tiered seats felt like watching a gladiator fight from a balcony—one step removed from the heat of the action but still swept up in the spectacle. From here, we could take in the full scope of Cave’s theatrical genius. Watching him prowl the extended stage from our elevated position reveals his literal magnetic pull on the crowd—like iron filings responding to a powerful magnet being drawn across paper, arms rise and reach as he approaches, only to fall away in his wake, creating a rolling human tide that tracks his movement. Every gesture seemed monumental, every interaction with the audience a seismic event. The setlist was largely the same—Manchester and Birmingham both witnessed the heart-stopping opener Frogs from Wild God, the devastating beauty of Bright Horses, and the transcendent, almost spiritual rendition of Into My Arms. The new material doesn’t just hold its own against the classics – it feels earned, with Long Dark Night hitting with the same devastating force as The Weeping Song, while Conversion already feels like it’s been in the setlist forever. Yet each show’s experience was entirely different. Where Manchester was raw, Birmingham was refined. From the elevated vantage point, we witness an entirely different kind of magic: the gradual awakening of a seated crowd. While Manchester’s front rows erupted from the first note, Birmingham’s transformation comes during Jubilee Street’s crescendo, when the entire arena rises as one in the night’s first spontaneous standing ovation. Less sweat-soaked euphoria, more slow-burning intensity. But the same catharsis was there. By the time The Mercy Seat thundered out, it didn’t matter where we were sitting—we were right there with him, in the moment.
What makes Nick Cave’s shows so utterly addictive is the way he makes us feel both seen and swallowed whole. In Manchester, he made eye contact with someone near us during Jubilee Street, and we swear they looked like they’d been struck by lightning. In Birmingham, during the quieter Song of the Lake, we could feel every person in the arena holding their breath. Cave has this uncanny ability to make a cavernous arena feel like an intimate room, backed by a band that moves like a single organism around his commanding presence.
There’s also an absurd joy to the experience. Cave’s banter between songs is laced with dry wit. Between songs, Cave teases that this might be their last UK show… ever? The crowd’s collective intake of breath is audible before he continues, musing that after Paris next up, that’s it for Europe—45 years wrapped up. They need our energy tonight, he claims, hanging by the thinnest of threads. There’s truth hiding in the jest; his voice, powerful as ever but showing the wear of the tour, occasionally cracks with the weight of weeks on the road. And then there’s Warren Ellis, the unassuming wizard at Cave’s side, who looks like he’s casting spells with every flourish, his hands adorned with painted nails and an array of silver rings catching the stage lights, Ellis is a study in contrasts. His violin solo during O Children is nothing short of jaw dropping as he coaxes sounds that seem to defy physics from his instrument, and then the next moment he’s got a cheeky twinkle in his eye as he re-discovers the half-eaten banana he abandoned earlier in the show. The chemistry between them, developed over decades of collaboration. Ellis, sharing with characteristic mischief that his grandfather hailed from Solihull, claims a bit of local DNA flows through his veins. Having performed in Manchester with a protective boot due to injury, by Birmingham he’s shed it, the healing time carved out somehow despite their relentless touring schedule.
Looking around both venues, you see faces spanning generations – teenage goths discovering their new hero, veterans who’ve followed Cave since his Birthday Party days, and everyone in between. The Bad Seeds’ audience, like their sound, has evolved far beyond their post-punk origins.
By the end of both shows, there was a shared sense of release. Cave had dragged us through darkness, but somehow left us lighter. We stumbled out of the venues exhilarated, emotionally rinsed, and just a little croaky. These weren’t just concerts; they were testaments to why live music matters. Like Wild God itself, these shows feel like both a summation and a new beginning. And while both experiences were magnificent in their own right, let us be clear: if you are able to, and you can muster the dedication and stamina required to claim your spot in those front few rows, do it. The true essence of a Nick Cave show lives in that sweat-soaked, soul-stirring chaos of the front lines. For (Wild) God’s sake, get yourself to the front while you still can. Just bring tissues, lozenges, and maybe a sense of humour about the fact that you’ll probably cry in public. Twice.
Photo Gallery by Alex Cropper
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