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Rating: The firstborn is dead... let the sky break, spew out its tears and dress in mourning this red earth.
The prophet is the voice that fills the silence between the lightning and the thunder: he is a hooded snake, mad and sensual, with the face of a vampire worn out by thirst. He throws his cigarette, points to the sky... and begins to snarl: "A storm will come to Tupelo, raging as only the Apocalypse can be. The rivers will turn into streets, the streets will turn into rivers, a messiah will come to teach us to sin, people will call him 'The King' and his birth will be marked by the death of those who preceded him."
The flood ends. The sun returns to shed light on murky stories of guilty men and dirty souls. Stories, men, and souls that, perhaps, were better left hidden.
There is a man madly in love with a little girl ("Say Goodbye To The Little Girl Tree"). He feels like he's going crazy as he thinks of that white neck, that skin writhing under the dress... the still uncertain curves of her body... and knows that killing himself is the only way to quell his lust. There is a train made of suffering that dances on the tracks of memories ("Train Long-Suffering"): you hear it puffing under the clatter of guitars and its whistle is the howl of the prophet chained to the engine. There is a black crow left alone to rule over a cornfield that stretches to the horizon ("Black Crow King") and prison cells, death row inmates ("Knockin' On Joe"), pursued outlaws who have lost all will to live ("Wanted Man"), broken teeth counted in front of the bathroom mirror of some bar, and guitar strings that make you bleed ("Blind Lemon Jefferson").
The obsession that permeated the immense "From Her To Eternity" returns. The angry hisses, the screeching sounds, the retches and the growls of the animal wounded more in mind than in body return: only more vivid, even more real.
"The First Born Is Dead" is an album rich with insights, deeply steeped in Cave’s obsession with the images and colors of the Southern states, with certain characters that accompany them and, above all, with their sounds and their music: a desolate and hallucinatory scenario, equally Sergio Leone and Ken Russell.
Standing out among all is the crippled, apocalyptic and "tribal" blues of "Tupelo": a tangle of references, biblical and otherwise (the namesake track by John Lee Hooker), visions and bold blends of sacred and profane. The messiah is none other than Elvis (of whom Tupelo is, indeed, the birthplace and whose twin brother died shortly after birth), but Cave, an exasperated and visionary prophet, predicts his coming as a second Christ, who will be born clutching his brother's heels, slipping into the world "with the glory of an unwanted guest" (just as will happen, a few years later, to Euchrid, the protagonist of "And the Ass Saw the Angel").
From there on it's a desolate kaleidoscope of characters and men drowned in misery, amidst a continuous intertwining of voices and gospel choirs, slithering slide guitars and thin threads of harmonica. The times stretch, the themes of travel, abandonment, and a life now dwindling recur continuously: what gives chills, this time, are not the cacophonous gusts of "From Her To Eternity", but the slow pace, the inexorable advance of memories. Cave continues to pay his tribute to the great demons of the past (as he did, for example, in "Well Of Misery"), immersing himself in the role of the mournful and hallucinatory bluesman, partially rewriting Dylan's "Wanted Man" cover, evoking the spirit of Blind Lemon Jefferson.
The music (with the sole exception, perhaps, of "Train Long-Suffering"), is reduced to the bone: few guitar notes, few drum hits, clapping of hands, oppressive and decadent strings ("Black Crow King"), a handful of chords on an old piano covered in dust. Cave's voice is enough, increasingly "an instrument of itself". Now little more than a whispered lament, a desperate prayer for redemption ("Knockin' On Joe"), now a chilling snarl of anger ("Tupelo"), it insinuates itself with a sneer into the creases of those who dare to listen to it, only to hurl its entire load of rancor, fanaticism and frustration at them. The exasperation of the tones remains, the screams and the cavernous abysses of his possessed voice remain. Even more vivid are the "rural thriller" atmospheres. Yet there's a hint of that boundless sweetness peeking through that will more prominently characterize productions to come: Cave's eye is not petty, his spirit is not accusatory. He narrates the deeds of this strange bunch of misfits almost with the compassion of one who has been through it, who knows pain all too well.
Twenty years after its release, "The Firt Born Is Dead" remains, in my opinion, one of Nick Cave's most poignant and beautiful frescoes. It is pure musical expressionism, soaked in poetry: a bit like discovering the nerves of the human soul and playing them like the strings of a violin.
Tracklist Lyrics and Samples
01 Tupelo (07:16)
Looka yonder! Looka yonder!
Looka yonder! A big black cloud come!
A big black cloud come!
O comes to Tupelo. Comes to Tupelo
Yonder on the horizon
Yonder on the horizon
Stopped at the mighty river
Stopped at the mighty river and
Sucked the damn thing dry
Tupelo-o-o, O Tupelo
In a valley hides a town called Tupelo
Distant thunder rumble. Distant thunder rumble
Rumble hungry like the Beast
The Beast it cometh, cometh down
The Beast it cometh, cometh down
Wo wo wo-o-o
Tupelo bound. Tupelo-o-o. Yeah Tupelo
The Beast it cometh, Tupelo bound
Why the hen won't lay no egg
Can't get that cock to crow
The nag is spooked and crazy
O God help Tupelo! O God help Tupelo!
O God help Tupelo! O God help Tupelo!
Ya can say these streets are rivers
Ya can call these rivers streets
Ya can tell ya self ya dreaming buddy
But no sleep runs this deep
No! No sleep runs this deep
No sleep runs this deep
Women at their windows
Rain crashing on the pane
Writing in the frost
Tupelos' shame. Tupelo's shame
O God help Tupelo! O God help Tupelo!
O go to sleep lil children
The sandmans on his way
O go to sleep lil children
The sandmans in his way
But the lil children know
They listen to the beating of their blood
listen to the beating of their blood
listen to the beating of their blood
listen to the beating of their blood
They listen to the beating of their blood
The sandman's mud!
The sandman's mud!
And the black rain come down
the black rain come down
the black rain come down
Water water everywhere
Where no bird can fly no fish can swim
Where no bird can fly no fish can swim
No fish can swim
Until The King is born!
Until The King is born!
In Tupelo! Tupelo-o-o!
Til The King is born in Tupelo!
In a clap-board shack with a roof of tin
Where the rain came down and leaked within
A young mother frozen on a concrete floor
With a bottle and a box and a cradle of straw
Tupelo-o-o! O Tupelo!
With a bottle and a box and a cradle of straw
Well Saturday gives what Sunday steals
And a child is born on his brothers heels
Come Sunday morn the first-born dead
In a shoebox tied with a ribbon of red
Tupelo-o-o! Hey Tupelo!
In a shoebox buried with a ribbon of red
O ma-ma rock you lil' one slow
O ma-ma rock your baby
O ma-ma rock your lil' one slow
O God help Tupelo! O God help Tupelo!
Mama rock your lil' one slow
The lil one will walk on Tupelo
The lil one will walk on Tupelo
Black rain come down, Black rain come down
Tupelo-o-o! Yeah Tupelo!
And carry the burden of Tupelo
Tupelo-o-o! O Tupelo! Yeah!
The King will walk on Tupelo!
Tupelo-o-o! O Tupelo!
He carried the burden outa Tupelo!
Tupelo-o-o! Hey Tupelo! [Repeat]
You will reap just what you sow
07 Blind Lemon Jefferson (06:09)
Blind Lemon Jefferson is a-coming
Tap tap tappin with his cane
Blind Lemon Jefferson is a-coming
Tap tap tappin with his cane
His last ditch lies down the road of trials
Down the road of trials
Half filled with rain
O Sycamore, Sycamore!
Stretch your arms across the storm
Down fly two greasy brother-crows
They hop'n'bop They hop'n'bop They hop'n'bop
Like the tax-man come to call
They go knock knock! Knock knock!
Hop'n'bop hop'n'bop
They slap a death-writ on his door
Here come the Judgement train
Git on board!
And turn that big black engine home
O let's roll!
Let's roll!
Down the tunnel
The terrible tunnel of his world
Waiting at his final station
Like a bigger blacker third bird
O let's roll!
Let's roll!
O his road is dark and lonely
He don't drive no Cadillac
O his road is dark and holy
He don't drive no Cadillac
If that sky serves as his eyes
Then that moons a cataract
Let's roll!
Yeah let's roll!
08 In the Ghetto (04:06)
(M. Davies)
As the snow flies
On a cold and grey Chicago morn
A poor little baby child is born in the ghetto
And his mama cries
Cause there's one thing that she don't need
Is another little hungry mouth to feed in the ghetto
Oh people don't you understand
This child needs a helping hand
He's gonna grow to be an angry young man some day
Take a look at you and me
Are we that blind to see?
Do we simply turn our heads and look the other way?
And the world turns
And the hungry little boy with the runny nose
Plays in the streets as the cold wind blows in the ghetto
And his hunger burns
So he starts to roam the streets at night
And he learns how to steal and he learns how to fight in the ghetto
Then one night in desperation
The young man breaks away
He buys a gun and steals a car
He tries to run but he don't get far
And his mama cries
A crowd gathers round an angry young man
Face down in the street with a gun in his hand in the ghetto
Oh people don't you understand
This child needs a helping hand
He's gonna grow to be an angry young man some day
Take a look at you and me
Are we that blind to see?
Do we simply turn our heads and look the other way?
And as her young man dies
On a cold and grey Chicago morn
Another little baby child is born in the ghetto
10 The Six Strings That Drew Blood (04:50)
Guitar thug blew into town
His eyes like wheels spinnin' round
Jerkin-off at every sound
Layin' all his crosses down
O yeah
He got Six Strings
The Six Strings that drew blood
The bar is full of Holy-Joes
A Holy-hole-a-whole-aria
Around the neck of our consumptive rose
is the root of all his sorrows
O yeah
He got Six Strings
Six Strings that drew blood
A Holy-hole-a-whole-aria
Six Strings that drew blood
In the bathroom under cover
He turns on one tap to discover
He's smashed his teeth out on the other
Well he look in the mirror and say
don't fuck me brother
Cause I got Six Strings
Six Strings that drew blood
Numbin' the runt of reputation they call rat fame
Top-E as a tourniquet
A low tune whistles across his grave
Forever the master and the slave of his Six Strings
A Holy-hole-a-whole-aria
Six Strings that drew blood.
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Other reviews
By VicVegaMrBlonde
This album, for me, is not an album... it has never been, really... but don’t misunderstand me... more than an album, for me it’s always been a fresco... a sound fresco... decadent poetry and melody... pain and dark sounds...
Nick Cave is the painter... the Bad Seeds are his colors... the canvas, the poems of love and death that trace the path... and you? well, you are the timid observer...
By preachinblues
The album opens with 'Tupelo', introduced and concluded by the sound of pouring rain that explicitly represents the climate and mood, fatalistic and hallucinatory, of the entire work.
'Knockin’ on Joe' is a piercing blues, capable of penetrating the darkest depths and recesses of the soul.
