Nick Cave and Warren Ellis: White Lunar

This double disc release is a patchwork of sadness, mourning, dread and of deeds that cannot be undone. Terrain the pair walk with a keen eye and an otherworldly calm and restraint mixed up with the insistent empathy.

The eighty minutes are culled from the various soundtrack projects that Nick Cave and Warren Ellis have completed since they turned their hands to the craft in 2005; films that are brimming with characters who’s every decision determines their mortal fate. In the case of the second disc even a cursory glance at the synopses of The English Surgeon and The Girls of Phnom Penh suggests that these are films where decisions are made in and against the interest of powerless others.

Consequently the second disc is far less cinematic, in conventional terms. Warren Ellis’ fiddle is noticeably depressed and subdued (presumably by the subject matter’s immediacy and authenticity) compared to the epic scope he summons for the contemporary pathos of quasi-fictional modern Westerns. Both musicians retreat into a pained intimacy particularly with regards to music from The Girls of Phnom Penh, from which ‘Sorya Market’ is used to close the release. It begins with fragile tendrils of piano and electronics, subtly builds its resolve and then rests. After ten minutes of silence a searing six of industrial noise and tense quiverings shatters any illusion of resolution. It’s a gesture that seems applicable, ending a disc of intriguing experimentalism from a pair who are better known for passionate brashness and broad, operatic strokes.

The first disc gathers instrumental pieces from a film I haven’t seen (The Proposition), a film I have (The Assassination of Jesse James) and a forthcoming adaptation of Cormac McCarthy’s novel The Road; a book I read in one paralysed sitting. So it seems appropriate for me to begin with an appraisal of the latter, a story which branded my imagination with images and feelings that were almost too much to bear, affecting me for days, if not forever.

So I was both expectant and nervous when taking my first partial glance at the coming evocation. Initially I was surprised, although the music is both sad and bleak it is nowhere near as painful as I found the book to be in the silence of my living room at four in the morning. Pieces like ‘The Mother’ evoke a distant, buried hope in the subject matter, where I detected nothing but despair and loss. ‘The Beach’ amplifies that scene’s scant relief.

Perhaps this approach will work exceptionally well in conjunction with the imagery and narrative, perhaps it will be necessary to not utterly destroy the audience. In my opinion the novels immense dread grows upon (and certainly smothers) an impenetrable but not indestructible love. Perhaps Cave and Ellis took it upon themselves to musically prolong its glimmer, in the same way the central character, The Man, cares for his child.

Its relative lack of vibrancy in comparison with The Proposition material speaks for their craft, reflecting the absolute determination of The Road and contrasting it with what I presume is a story where the possibility of escape has not been totally eradicated. In a post-apocalyptic landscape the whole word is a frontier, and all within it unwilling pioneers. Quite the opposite in The Proposition I imagine, though from what I gather both share a poignant and unflinching portrayal of absolute brutality.

The seven songs from The Proposition and the four from Jesse James contain a wide diversity of tone and instrumentation. From ‘Road to Banyon’s’ fuzz bass and strummed fiddle to ‘Song for Jesse’s’ shimmering music box, piano and marimba to ‘The Rider’s’ ethereal loops and Cave’s Peyote trip recital. Which brings me to Ellis’ suggestion that we “Listen to it as you might listen to an instrumental album” as “some kind of trip”. This is no conceit nor is it vanity, it was exactly my instinctual response to the flow, with or without the memory of narrative or image to cross-reference.

The stories for which these pieces were created balance the struggle for survival with compassion. Clearly The Proposition and Jesse James in particular weigh in heavy on the self-preservation side and The English Surgeon presumably revolves around stymied benevolence, but those opposing forces share a love of life, be it ego-centric of universal in scope. I wasn’t a big fan of The Assassination of Jesse James, but the four songs here are beautiful, particularly ‘Song for Bob’ and the aforementioned ‘Song for Jesse’; it’s enough to make me want to give the film another whirl.

For anyone who enjoyed the Balmorhea album that didn’t quite move me earlier this year, I would highly recommend this record. There are some amazing pieces that reveal ever greater depth of vision the longer you immerse yourselves within them; I get the distinct impression that the second disc will yield more over time. I’ve been particularly struck by the balance of earnestly laboured compositions, ramshackle folk-based meanderings and textural experimentation and consequently by the way in which these two men unite them thematically.

I’m a far bigger fan of Ellis’s work with Dirty Three than I am with Cave’s Bad Seeds and Grinderman projects, but the duo’s working relationship is without doubt a fortuitous occurrence. It takes a special kind of musician to soundtrack an image effectively, and like Philip Glass’ masterpieces of the genre the happy by-product is music that can stand alone.