Formerly a cinema (where, local folklore has it, customers were sprayed with perfume during showings), the London Opera Centre and a bingo hall, the Art Deco Troxy is now East London’s latest medium-sized venue. Next week, it’s cage rage but its gothic splendour was an ideal two-night-stand for Nick Cave and his six Bad Seeds.
I cannot speak for Saturday, but last night the volume was at distortion level, suggesting that, live at least, Cave has failed to heed the lessons of his less-than-magical side project Grinderman.

This meant light and shade were sacrificed for brutal rock’n’roll power, ensuring the affecting majesty of quieter material — The Ship Song, The Weeping Song, Into My Arms — evaporated in the aural murk.

Still looking for all the world like a defrocked sheriff, 51-year-old Cave was in an unsettling and unsettled mood: unfunnily sweary; occasionally confrontational (“You’re very quiet,” he chided the recently deafened audience, “it’s embarrassing”) and keener to bark than sing.

Yet, although his self-conscious desperation to be seen as great (“that was f****** beautiful,” he told himself after Love Letter) was not a road travelled by those whom he wishes to emulate (Dylan, Cohen, Cash, Waits), it doesn’t mean Cave is unworthy.

With multi-instrumentalist chief Seed Warren Ellis looking like he sleeps on pavements but playing like he owns the whole street, Cave’s tightly rehearsed band were a formidable beast. The Mercy Seat, Red Right Hand and an especially fearsome Papa Won’t Leave You Henry were as momentous as pop music can get and the 22-year-old Hard On For Love sounded as brave and fresh as this year’s We Call Upon The Author.

Not vintage Cave by any means and his fad for noise before beauty will surely pass. Flaws, warts and all, he remains a master.