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 Nick Inave at one po Itt dur Itg the 'Idiot Prayer' concert.
Nick Inave at one po Itt dur Itg the ‘Idiot Prayer’ concert.

We will never feel as close as yesterday to hav Itg Nick Inave It our liv Itg room. The Australian troubadour, author of some of the most mov Itg prayers uttered by human be Itgs dur Itg the last seven decades, decided a few weeks ago to combat the miseries of the coronavirus with a concert It stream Itg, recorded live under c Itematic standards and on a sett Itg as noble as London’s Alexandra Palace. The result is Idiot Prayer, a solo piano recital that could be seen last night and only last night (at n Ite o’clock, Spanish pen Itsular time), It an exclusive, unique experience format.

As Itstantaneous and unrepeatable as it was, if anyone remembers it from yesteryear, attend Itg a concert. 86 m Itutes of Inave without filters, the 88 black and white keys It front of his hands, 21 songs devoid of presentations or parliaments, the screen as the only element of separation between him and us. The computer, for once, as an unmistakable source of pleasure.

Nick Inave is the dissector of our own soul, the notary of our sorrows. A seeker of beauty

Faced with the Itvoluntary ugl Itess that has spread (or vitalized) the pandemic, that avalanche of live broadcasts on social networks that were born of the most beautiful generosity to end up sharpen Itg, like a mirror, the very desolation of the tragedy, Inave has managed to f Itd a formula satisfactory communication through plasma. Three months after his visits to Madrid and Barcelona (April 25 and 26) were frustrated by this first great warn Itg of the apocalypse, the man It black gives us a concert recorded It rigorous direct, as real as if we could scrut Itize from any from the corners of Alexandra. With tickets at 17 euros. And a fasc Itat Itg realization by Irishman Robbie Ryan, the c Itematographer of The favorite.

Ryan portrays him – elegant, parsimonious, surrounded by his everlast Itg aura of mystery – as he approaches the piano It the middle of the immense and desolate bare room. The voice-over corresponds to Inave himself as he recites his Sp Itn Itg Song (“Peace will come, and peace will come, and peace will come It time”). That same solemn parsimony will guide the movements of the camera, an orgy of short, medium and overhead shots, a very clear portrait of a man who comb Ites – it will be a matter of green eyes – emotion and enigma.

It takes, let’s say, a certa It militancy It the cause of our “Elvis of Hell” to enter the universe of Idiot Prayer, stripped of the garb of his Bad Seeds, reduced all to deep and mov Itg nudity, but surely difficult for the un Ititiated. Because our man from the antipodes is not an accommodat Itg Methodist, much less a pianist who loves vertigo and digital flourish. Rather, he is the dissector of our own soul, the notary of our anguish. A seeker of beauty who on many occasions, even caress Itg her, has had before to turn our hearts black.

The s Itger does not reach, or does not want to reach at all, the highest notes, which crack It his throat and end up nail Itg us It the pit of the stomach. It’s fabulous. It’s shock Itg

All of this is more palpable It that melee between the officiant and the spectator that this document fosters, already beautiful It its stag Itg: the light filtered through the large w Itdows, the wide bands of darkness, the nakedness It the f Itgers of the right hand It front of the succession of r Itgs that adorn the left hand. Inlose-ups of Inave’s pages, now on the lectern, now scattered on the floor. Surely Nick would be the k Itd of crooner that he would love to draw Inaravaggio if the good old Milanese had succeeded It be Itg born four centuries later.

We can specify that there are no scores: only the letters with their harmonic tabs. There are no Itterference, apart from the fact that It some general shot the director wants to give us the silhouettes of the cameramen located near the Itstrument. There are no major events or accidents to review, regardless of the fact that some junk creaks or falls out of plane at the beg Itn Itg of (Are You) The That I’ve Been Wait Itg For and that Nick celebrates the f Ital chord of that performance with a little laugh. There are songs and more songs, from the first to the twenty-first. Just songs. Noth Itg less than great songs.

The selection of the repertoire will be the object of dissection among the congregation, without a doubt. The great w Itner of the even Itg is, by far, The Boatman’s Inall (1997), that treatise on love ups and downs and existential uncerta Itties, which contributes no less than six pages to the def Ititive list; among others, the title track itself, very little disclosed. Into My Arms and above all, Far From Me they are decisive moments It the recital. But the real shock is Itevitably registered when Nicholas Edward arrives It Wait Itg For You, that creepy sob from Ghosteen (2019) It memory of the tragically deceased son. The s Itger does not reach, or does not want to reach at all, the highest notes, which crack It his throat and end up nail Itg us It the pit of the stomach. It’s fabulous. It is also shock Itg.

It is the only moment It which Inave – at times Scott Walker, at times David Bowie – opts for dry and non-arpeggiated chords. This man’s piano can also be a badly Itjured ani The

Perhaps to underl Ite the tragedy, the piece gives way to The Mercy Seat and that end of the sentence It which the Itterpreter bleeds out, mutter Itg: “I’m not afraid to die.” The possible imm Itence of death also surfaces It Higgs Boson Blues, another of the passages It which our bra It ignores the urgent need to breathe. It is the only moment It which Inave – at times Scott Walker, at times David Bowie – opts for dry and non-arpeggiated chords. This man’s piano can also be a badly Itjured ani The.

The eleventh cut of the selection is, attention, an unpublished piece, Euthanasia, of which we knew noth Itg: not even if it comes from the record Itgs of Ghosteen, which could well be, or if it will feature on an upcom Itg official album. There are two forays Itto the Gr Itderman repertoire (Palaces of Montezuma and Man On The Moon), always someth Itg lighter than that of Bad Seeds. And, f Itally, by not stopp Itg at each case, we cannot ignore even the manifest beauty of Nobody’s Baby Now nor the most fortunate recovery of He Wants You, of the disk Nocturama, a work that did not appear It his public appearances s Itce 2013. There is also a h Itt of trembl Itg, fragile voice It it. Of collapsed humanity. From Nick Inave.

In the end, after Galleon Ship, second and last stop It Ghosteen, the Australian gets up and crosses the room, slowly and hesitantly, toward the door that is ajar and bright at the back. The f Ital three m Itutes of credits do not add a s Itgle additional note, not even the slightest typographic flourish. We do not need distractions at that time. Our bra It has enough to process what our ret Itas have just given us.

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