I really wish I could listen to No More Shall We Part without the experience being sullied by recollections of their show at the Warfield last April. This poor girl standing right behind us collapsed and shat herself during (appropriately enough) "The Mercy Seat." There was a stampede, everybody gagging, shrieking and tracking crappuccino everywhere. Rock Med showed up and carted the poo lady away. One lucky Warfield aisle attendant was forced to come forward and clean up what he could with one of those little scoopy-handle thingummers. I felt soooo bad for him. Half the crowd must've offered to buy him a drink.Ah, memories.
Meawhile, the Bad Seeds had no clue any of this was happening. During one of Cave's quieter, more tender piano ballads, I think a couple of them faintly heard the moaning and retching, but had no idea what was prompting it. The show went on. And on. And on. Three encores. (For fuck's sake, Jim took a triangle solo.)
Much later, having finally "caught wind" of the situation, Cave (exhausted from having just flown up from the LA session with Johnny Cash) folded himself into a tiny, angular ball on the green room couch and rubbed his temples while Mick Harvey fixed us groupies drink after drink, chortling "Well, now. I guess we really hit the brown note tonight, eh?"
I was smashed by that point, and behaving badly: "Thiiiis is the pooping song/the song in which we poooooop." Keyboardist Conway Savage tried to slap me, but he was even drunker than I was and couldn't quite manage it.
"And the Mercy Seat is waiting... and I think my ass is burning..."
"No More Shall We Fart...."
Sorry, I'm sorry. I'll stop now.
(Can't stop giggling.)