It is December, a handful of days before Christmas. The stars shine. The still water catches their reflection. Inside the Bad Seeds are on a stage way above the ground. Cave has ditched the op-shop jacket, yanked the tie, and is sweating down the microphone stand, a rape and pillage of language streaming and frothing in the battery of precise slothfulness smacking the thousands somewhere in the back of their grey matter.
Eyes stare, bodies tremble.
They don't dance. You can't dance to the Bad Seeds. Harvey is a dark shadow mincing here and there, standing stock still, unfurling great chunks of sound that meet fellow chunks from Bargeld and co. Under it all, Thomas Wydler, Die Haut's explosive drummer, pounds mercilessly. Character, attitude and atmosphere collide, as they should, intersect at that zenith which is the moment of catchfire.