Larry 'Ratso' Sloman (left) & Nick Cave
Larry 'Ratso' Sloman is a best-selling author whose work includes On the Road With Bob Dylan, Scar Tissue with Anthony Kiedis, and Private Parts and Miss America with Howard Stern. His book The Secret Life of Houdini inspired Nick Cave to dedicate "Dig, Lazarus, Dig!!!" to him, although Larry claims no relationship to the Larry in that song.
I have a fairly standard routine when my friend Nick Cave and the gang come to New York City. Go to the show, hear some great music, let them soak in the adulation at the meet and greet, then pile into the van and head straight to Arturo's for a large coal-oven pizza with sausage, pepperoni, and extra cheese. Sated, we bid each other a fond adieu until the next time. Except for this last Grinderman tour. Through a bizarre confluence of circumstances, I wound up training it to Washington, D.C., motoring in a 15-passenger van to Atlanta, and then riding the deluxe Grinderman tour bus to Nashville and Memphis. It was a journey that encompassed chicken hearts, a tattooed mannequin arm, Elvis' favorite pizza place, and a woman wearing huge antlers on her head. What you are about to read is 100 percent true.
SUNDAY, NOVEMBER 14—NEW YORK CITY
For some reason, we decide to have absinthe shots prior to arriving at the Best Buy Theater in Times Square for the Grinderman show—we being me, my wife Christy, my friend Shilpa Ray, and Nick Hundley, the bass player in Shilpa Ray and Her Happy Hookers. Shilpa is an amazing harmonium player/vocalist/songwriter. I gave Cave a copy of her first record, and his comments to a Canadian reporter ("She has a great voice, she writes great songs, great lyrics") went viral, and in every subsequent article about her, she suddenly became "Nick Cave–approved."
Click to enlarge
Click to enlarge
Thank God we were fortified with a hint of a hallucinogenic. The Best Buy Theatre is the apotheosis of the middle-Americanization of Times Square—cavernous, soulless, fittingly spitting distance from an Olive Garden. As we make our way in, we hear the dulcet tones of Armen Ra wafting over the soon-to-congested main showroom. Armen is a gay Persian theremin player (is there any other kind?).
We watch the show from our perch on the balcony. The band is dynamic and assertive, much tighter than the last time they played in New York, opening for the White Stripes at Madison Square Garden. Nick seems to be in fine voice, but when we parade back to the dressing room, he curbs our enthusiasm. "This place is so sterile," he says. "Difficult to connect with the audience. It was like we were doing a TV show."
After the set, we head backstage for a short reception. Among the boldfaced revelers are Nick Zinner of Yeah Yeah Yeahs, Eugene Hutz of Gogol Bordello, and Waris Ahluwalia, who played the chief steward in The Darjeeling Limited. After a half hour of hobnobbing, it's time to make our move. Arturo's? Extra cheese, pepperoni, and sausage?
"No, Rats, don't think we can handle that," Nick cautions. They've been on the road for less than a week and haven't adjusted to American food and are suffering. "What is it with this country and it's food? It's like visiting fucking Bombay," says Nick. Multi-instrumentalist Warren Ellis, who has an even more delicate constitution, has been alternating between calling Ralph on the big white telephone and firing napalm out of his other end.
We wind up at a Japanese tapas place on St. Marks Place. Shilpa, Christy, and Warren are excited, especially Warren, since his wife is Japanese, and he has a familiarity with the more exotic detours of Japanese fare. The three of them begin ordering for the table: skewers of chicken hearts and gizzards, beef tongue, quail eggs, and French fries with spicy cod roe and mayo sauce. Nick looks pale. "Do you have any, like, plain rice?" he asks the waitress.
Halfway through the meal, the esteemed record producer Hal Willner joins the fray. He reports that his next project is going to be a collaboration between Lou Reed and Metallica. From there the conversation takes an even odder turn. We talk about Michael Jackson, Jesus Juice, and speculate whether the Gloved One had sex with Bubbles. Finally, we ponder the finer points of bestiality. Shilpa Ray has to pinch herself. She can't believe (1) that she's sitting between Nick Cave and Warren Ellis, and (2) that the table talk is about fucking sheep.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 15—NEW YORK CITY
Today is a day off from performing. Just as well. Warren has been throwing up all night. But Grinderman is slated to appear on Late Night With Jimmy Fallon, so there's a 10 A.M. lobby call for the drive up to the NBC Studios at Rockefeller Center. The soundcheck is uneventful, and we all take the van back to the Sheraton on Canal Street. Drummer Jim Sclavunos, bassist Martyn Casey, and Warren get out to get some shut-eye, but Nick and I commandeer the van because Nick has some shopping to do.
His destinations: the Yankees store in Times Square (Earl, one of his ten-year-old twins, wants a Yankees cap "with a flat brim"). Then it's on to Fantasma Magic, where Nick spends an hour trying to find some coin or card tricks that Arthur, the other twin, hasn't already mastered. Finally, we invade Kidrobot on Prince Street, where Nick grabs an armful of figurines and plushes, two of each kind.
The Fallon appearance goes great. To celebrate, Nick, Warren, Martyn, Jim, Jim's wife Sarah, his octogenarian mother, and I go to the Old Homestead for some steak. From there, Nick, Warren, and I hop a cab to the Delancey, a bar near the Williamsburg Bridge, where Nick's friend Janine Nichols is performing solo. Regrettably we get there for only the last two songs, the final tune being an exquisite cover of Nick's "Love Letter." But the night takes a wrong turn as we squeeze into a booth with Janine and her sister. Now we're trapped and we have to listen to the entire set of the evening's MC, a brassy woman, accompanied by a pianist, who is singing songs, cabaret style, about two-headed babies in formaldehyde and even a ditty from the point of view of the Creature from the Black Lagoon. "You should manage her, Ratso," says Warren, wiping tears from his eyes. "She's another fucking Susan Boyle."
