Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. The Anthem. Washington, D.C. April 21, 2025.
Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds. That’s grown-up music, the kind of sound that makes you straighten your back and pay attention. Music for people who’ve seen a thing or two, maybe lost something along the way. An artist's artist. Everything about them. The look, the sound, the mystique, the way they seem to conjure something out of the shadows and hand it to you bleeding but left alive. Never having sewn their seeds a bed in any set genre, subculture, or space in time. Everything about them says this is the real deal. The pinnacle of what it means to mean something. Transformative and transcendental.
I’ve chased that haunting charisma through what seems like a few lifetimes now. Having not passed up a chance to see Nick Cave when given the chance, he’s come to my part of the world. I first caught some of that mystique in 2010, when Grinderman tore through the Variety Playhouse in Atlanta like a hungry wolf among sheep. Shilpa Ray opened— a one-woman wrecking crew with a harmonium and a howl that still rattles every fiber of my being when I listen to her. Then, in 2013, the full weight of the Bad Seeds hit the Ryman Auditorium in Nashville like a sermon from the gods. Sharon Van Etten opened that night—haunting, devastating—and later joined the Bad Seeds on stage, alongside Shilpa Ray, contributing backing vocals. And most recently, in 2023, it was Cave on solo piano, with Colin Greenwood of Radiohead on bass, at the Atlanta Symphony Hall. That one stuck with me for a different reason.
The year before that show, I’d finally put two and two together: My love of photography and live shows. It made sense. I’d been in so many darkly lit rooms and sticky-floored clubs for over 20 years, through six hundred-some shows, just me and the noise huddled around other patrons of the concert-going culture. It never occurred to me to bring my camera. So I tried to photograph him—Nick Cave—at that show. Got close but was told no. It wasn’t the right time, the odds told me. I didn’t consider it a screaming failure, though—only a slight hum of postponement. So I made myself a promise: next time.
Six hundred miles is a long way to drive for a show, but it’s nothing I’m not used to. I love driving. Especially when I’m going to someplace far away and have never been. In 2018, I packed up my stubborn little life in Northeast Georgia with two of my best friends and pointed the car west. Seeing the flat lands of Kansas, the majesty of Colorado, the jagged colossi of the Rockies, the red peaks of Moab, the salty dirt of Utah, and the deathly heat and beauty of Arizona and Nevada, all for the first time. All that to see the Melvins and Boris play a one-off at the Echoplex in LA. That trip wasn’t just a memory. It was a moment that burned itself into the film reel of who I am. A rite of passage disguised as a road trip. One of those rare, feral flashes in life when everything makes sense for just a second—and then rewires you forever.
I’ve witnessed many memorable experiences in a great deal of cities, but none more often than in Washington, D.C. The city is steeped in culture and heritage, not just as the nation’s capital or a cornerstone of the Civil Rights movement, but as a vital home to the DIY punk and hardcore scene. This is where basements turned into battlefields, where bands like Minor Threat, Bad Brains, and Fugazi carved out a legacy that cemented D.C. on the musical map for generations.
It makes sense, then, that every time I’ve traveled here, it’s been for a different, one-of-a-kind music experience. There’s a cultural richness within D.C.'s community that often gets overlooked by the unfamiliar—those who dismiss it as just another government town are just blind to the heartbeat that drives it.
Shows like Boris pulling a 2-night stint and performing Flood in full at the Rock & Roll Hotel. John Carpenter is weaving synth-drenched nightmares at the Lincoln Theatre. Fever Ray summoning Nordic witchcraft at the 9:30 Club. And the Mummies are leaving sweat and fuzz all over the Black Cat. So, it would be that once again, my soul would be beckoned to attend Nick Cave & the Bad Seeds at the Anthem in D.C.’s District Square at the Wharf.
If asked, ‘why’? I guess I could say that some people collect stamps. I seem to collect moments. And here I am, chasing another.
This was the biggest show I’d photographed since starting this messy, but beautiful thing two years ago. Normally, I don’t rattle easily when attending shows. I’ve stood too close to too many amps, eaten at too many 24-hour diners and late-night street vendors, suffered too many stomped toes, too many times to be shaken by much anymore. But this one had me twitching. Not in a dramatic kind of way—just a low rattle under the hood before the ‘check engine’ light comes on. But, like all of us, we can only ignore that light for so long.
I’m not in this for the money. There isn’t any. I’m a working-class guy trying to carve out something meaningful on the side of a job that helps me get by just enough so I can live to do this again, much like everybody else. So yeah, taking a chance like this was an experience I couldn’t afford. But couldn’t afford to miss either. Growth, experience, all those lofty things you tell yourself when the checking account is whispering, “Maybe not.”
I got to the venue early. Sleek, industrial, crouched right there on the edge of the Potomac River like it wasn’t supposed to be there. It painted a picture I wasn’t used to seeing. Truly, a venue to behold. I stood outside for a while, letting the nerves do their little dance, and stared out across the water and thought about how weird it was that I was here doing something like this. This is something for other people, other than me. How did I get here? What if the camera dies? What if I blow it? What if I’m just not cut out for this?
Eventually, the doors opened, and I made my way in.
There were still two hours to kill, so I wandered. That’s what I do. And sometimes, when life has it, I talk to people. I let the moment slow-cook and happen naturally, all the same. Chatted with the floor crew, bartenders, and fellow peers, shooting the show. I met a Polish sculptor named Milo who’d worshipped Cave since he was eleven and carried that fandom like religion. He told me about a personal meeting with the man himself where he handed Cave a birthday present and other past run-ins he’d had involving him over the years. You learn a lot about people in places like this—backstage and behind the curtain, just before the lights go down. There’s a strange camaraderie among strangers in those moments.
Soon enough, the clock lurched forward. Not a dramatic drumroll or spotlight—just a quiet shift in the air. I felt it. We felt it. More people had pressed themselves as close to the stage as possible, awaiting him like the coming of a messiah. It was time to get into position. Showtime was coming, whether I was ready or not.
As the house lights dimmed and the stage lights came to life, I took one final breath. The crowd—thousands deep—roared to life as the Bad Seeds took the stage: Warren Ellis, George Vjestica, Colin Greenwood, Larry Mullins, Jim Sclavunos, Carly Paradis, T Jae Cole, Janet Ramus, Mica Townsend, Wendi Ross. Some had worn the title of Bad Seed longer than others, but a Bad Seed all the same.
And then—like a prophet stepping into his legend—Nick Cave appeared. Familiar, yet different. Radiating something beyond normal means, as if carved out of a myth. The crowd’s hands reached for him, but he stood just beyond their reach. For now, at least. I felt it too, that radiance, like a whisper in the air: “Don’t worry, I’m here now. Everything will be okay.”
A wave of excitement surged through me. Joy wrapped itself around my body. And just like that, the self-doubt, the worry, the noise clouding my head, were all washed away.
And just like that, the 11-piece ensemble launched into their fourth stop on an 18-date trek across North America, riding the heels of their latest offering, Wild God. The opener, “Frogs,” came in slow and swelling horns and strings, a whispering soft jazz percussion/bass combo, soaring synth organ shrills, as Cave sat front and center, tinkering with and coaxing notes from his Yamaha grand. Singing of Sunday rain and Kris Kristofferson kicking a can down the street.
Midway through, the energy of the song shifted. Cave jumped up, stepped away from the keys, and moved toward the crowd—mic in one hand, the other extended like a preacher, a prophet, or maybe just a man who understood what everyone needed in that moment. His face held the same eager light as the crowd’s—just as thrilled to see them as they were to see him. Hands stretched toward him like vines reaching towards the sunlight, each one hoping for even a fleeting touch, a connection, a moment of healing from whatever weight they’d carried in with them. I caught glimpses of the crowd as some faces glistened in the light with tears, and others, wide-eyed with excitement, ready to burst out of their heads.
Cave would perform this action regularly throughout the night, jumping from crowd to piano, like a shepherd checking on his flock. Gifting them moments that last for most people’s lifetimes: a look, a gesture, a stare down, a lyric sung directly to them, a sense of being truly seen. He gives them time, a connection, and a rare vulnerability, all wrapped in a performance as raw and visceral as the lyrics and notes he’s penned since his earliest days with The Boys Next Door and The Birthday Party. As the Bad Seeds moved through newer material like “Wild God” and “Song of the Lake,” his longtime collaborator and musical soulmate, Warren Ellis, sent out electric bursts of energy—fiery, but measured. He moved from violin to guitar to his microKORG synthesizer like a mad sorcerer on the edge of chaos, channeling a kind of caged heat, always dancing the line between noise and beauty, or dancing in the seat of his chair which I’m to understand is the same chair that tours with him all over the world. Excitedly kicking the air on cue with the flow of the songs, where he deemed fit, and a bottle of wine not far out of reach. As Cave aptly said that night, “Warren is a man of many sounds.”
Colin Greenwood, stepping in for longtime bassist Martyn Casey, slid into the lineup like he’d always been there, locking in with percussionists Larry Mullins and Jim Sclavunos to form a rhythm section that didn’t just support the band, but propelled it. Their groove laid the foundation, steady and unshakable, while Carly Paradis’s synth textures floated above the layers of sound like smoke, adding a cosmic shimmer to the atmosphere. George Vjestica handled dual rhythm and lead guitar duties with the kind of understated swagger that keeps the engines of this vehicle purring. And rising above it all—literally and sonically—was the powerhouse vocal quartet of T Jae Cole, Wendi Ross, Mica Townsend, and Janet Ramus, elevating and lifting the songs past the stratosphere.
What followed was a journey through four decades of music—a carefully curated stretch of sound and sentiment that felt less like a setlist and more like reading from a scripture. From the back of the room, I sat still and let the grandeur of it all wash over me as my eyes chained themselves to the stage. I wept openly during “Carnage” and “Joy,” two songs that, although on the newer side, have burrowed into me and haven’t come back out yet. I snarled the words to ”Tupelo” “Red Right Hand” and “Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry,” letting the grit of their fury burn inside my throat. And when “Jubilee Street” and “White Elephant” hit, I noticed myself moving and bobbing along to rhythms that felt familiar and entirely new in the moment. It wasn’t just nostalgia. It was communion. A reminder of every moment I’d ever needed these songs—and how, somehow, they still knew how to meet me where I was.
Again, needing them just as much as they needed him. Cave never let go of his grasp of the crowd. Commenting on people's fashion choices and proclivity of not wanting to put down their phone, prompting him to alter a lyric of “Red Right Hand” to beckon a woman to put down her phone and see beyond that tiny screen. He clasped every hand that reached up to him. Commanding and conducting the crowd with a series of random bursts of “Yeah! Yeah! Yeah!” to keep the engagement with the rest of the crowd that wasn’t close enough to the front of the stage to interact on a physical level. Dancing like a conduit and his transistor, the piano. Every twitch and jolt mimicking an antenna tuning into something just outside the realm of ordinary. Frequencies from another world transforming electricity into sound and feelings we could understand. Cave’s command of a room is deeper than most. Maybe his choice of words and how he uses them are just the right combination of keys fitted specifically to some people’s locked-up emotions. Or, maybe those words are like answers to questions we’re often too afraid to ask out loud. Or perhaps it’s because he offers answers through his site, The Red Hand Files—launched in 2018 as a space where he speaks directly to fans and shares his responses in an open-letter format. A kind of divine correspondence, if you will. Like a god who will write you back.
As the final notes of the last song faded and the Bad Seeds took their leave, the applause still echoing through the venue like aftershocks, Nick Cave lingered. He stayed behind, not out of obligation, but as if he had one last thing to say—something that couldn’t be delivered through bombast or showmanship, only intimacy. The stage lights softened. The noise dwindled. He sat at the piano.
And then it began. “Into My Arms.” A hush swept over the room, as if every soul inside knew they were about to be a part of something sacred. The opening piano notes rang out with gentle caress, and Cave’s voice followed, cracked and human: “I don’t believe in an interventionist God / but I know, darling, that you do.” I felt the tears come without resistance—not just mine, but from those around me, strangers linked by a moment that pulled on something deeper than fandom.
The song, long known to be deeply personal to Cave, hadn’t been a staple in his live performances until recent years. But here it was, stripped down and reverent, offered up like a benediction at the end of a religious experience. For all the spectacle and sound that had preceded it, this quiet, vulnerable moment hit the hardest. Like all great art, it didn’t ask for anything—it just offered itself freely, to be interpreted, felt, and carried away in the ways each person needed most. The crowd turned choir sang back at Cave, the chorus in unison as he leaned back from the microphone and let us all have this moment to ourselves. He then concluded. Thanked everyone and said, “I’ll see you…Whenever it is, l see you again.”
[Nick Cave. Exit stage right.]
I had plenty of time to reflect during the long drive back home to Georgia. This wasn’t just another show—it meant something deeper. I thought about how far I’ve come in life up to now, how this was something I once only imagined doing, and now, here I was—doing it. Not because someone else said I could, but because I believed I could.
There’s something about long drives that gives your thoughts room to breathe or, if you’re with someone, time to bond. The open road, going to places you’ve never been, unknown of what lies in store for you—they open up something new inside you. Meeting people you’d never cross paths with otherwise, collecting moments that stick to your soul. It’s these quiet moments that remind you you’re alive, and maybe even help you become the person you’re happy to be. Having the time to reflect on that, I sort of realize that even though it took me a while longer than most to find my passion, I’ve had many experiences in the past that have helped get me to this moment.
For a long time, I felt like I was just drifting—idling from one day to the next without direction. But somewhere along the way, I found something that gave me purpose. Something I cared about deeply.
I still struggle with doubt, as we all do. Wondering if I’m good enough, if I belong—but moments like this help silence that voice. They remind me that I’m on the right path. That I’m building something real for myself and not anyone else. Pulling a quote from Nick Cave and Sean O’Hagan’s 2022 book Faith, Hope, and Carnage,“Vulnerability is essential to spiritual and creative growth…” I certainly hope I’ve been able to convey some of my vulnerabilities here, as Cave does in everything he does.
