Irish Times writers review Nick Cave at Vicar Street and Arab Strap at the Temple Bar Music Centre.

Nick Cave

Vicar Street, Dublin

Bono once said that, as a performer, the fans own you. If this is the case then Nick Cave should put himself up for sale. No sooner had Cave finished a song than the audience would begin screaming suggestions for his next track. Playing any songs where partial silence gives the music gravitas was always going to be risky with the belligerence in the air. On tracks such as Into My Arms and God Is In The House, the pushy crowd, hungry for blood, swallowed up any poignancy the tracks had.

However, attempted moments of quietness were to be few and far between. Cave's set-list and set-up were both strange and astonishing. He was trapped behind his grand piano for the night, and at times looked like a man trying to break free of the beast, screaming and hollering as his arms flailed on the ivories.

Drummer Jim Sclavunos beat seven shades from his kit and Martyn P. Casey's bass resonated low and true, occasionally overshadowing the piano. But the real star of the show was mercurial violin player Warren Ellis. Doing the work of several guitar players, he stomped and kicked his way around the stage, hunched over his instruments, usually with his back to the crowd. When he wasn't scraping out notes, he held the violin like a guitar, thrashing chords out of its overworked horsehair, and the immense noise and feedback made by him, thanks to a few distortion pedals, gave menace and energy to the songs.

Cave was low on ceremony on this occasion, and irreverently flaunted the no-smoking policy of the venue. The encore of Wild World, Into My Arms and Jack the Ripper showed all the strengths and small failings of the band. This was no Bad Seeds performance: stripped down, dirty and angry, it was much more unpredictable, and what Cave lost in feeling, he got repaid in energy and aggression from the band, who played like they were working on a cruise ship in the seventh circle of hell. Stirring stuff and doing their damnedest, against an audience of demons. - Laurence Mackin

Arab Strap

Temple Bar Music Centre

Arab Strap used to scowl all the time, while singing about dead girlfriends and how it always rains in their home town of Falkirk. Recently, though, they've cheered up a bit - the indie-rock duo's latest album finds them merely grumbling into their pints rather than stewing in self-loathing. The shift in tone has subtly altered the chemistry of the group. With multi- instrumentalist Malcolm Middleton taking a commanding role and vocalist Aiden Moffatt tempering his misanthropy, the songs are more eloquent and grandiose than before.

On this year's vaguely outgoing Monday at the Hope and Pint album the occasional hook and semi-comprehensible lyric even bobs to the surface. At this rate the duo will soon be grinning wildly at us and throwing out indulgent guitar solos. Not quite yet, however. Arab Strap may have lightened up but they've done so without sacrificing the gut-wrenching, almost hypnotic, intensity they bring to live performance. For while the bearded Moffatt has mellowed as a lyricist, he still slouched from the wings looking like a priest who'd rather be a wino and sang like someone who has had his heart shredded more often than most of us have had cups of tea. At his side, Middleton was a sulky silhouette, wrenching notes from his fretboard with the single- mindedness of a butcher taking a cleaver to a fresh carcass.

On this tour, Arab Strap have augmented their four-piece band with a string section and a keyboard player doubling as a trumpeter. It was the difference between a strong breeze and a gale; numbers that seem numb and distant on record emerged towering and throbbing, less depressing than downright scary.

As if to prove they aren't one-trick glumsters, there were even forays into lo-fi techno, with grinding disco beats making Moffatt's mutterings sound oddly groovy. Who knows? One day Arab Strap might give in to their pop instincts and record the indie-dance masterpiece that is in them. Until then, we should cherish the beautiful dirges of these bittersweet moochers. -

Ed Power.