Sproutings Music - Giving thanks for "Bright horses"
Sproutings Music - An open letter of thanks to Nick Cave for his song "Bright horses"
Dear Nick Cave,
Thanks for creating the song “Bright horses.”
As I write this in Brunswick East, Melbourne, in May 2024, hearing just the first few bars of “Bright horses” soothes me. Your song enwraps me like a long sought-after blanket. Like a long sought-after blanket, late on a cloudless, shivery, autumn night. Last month with friends I was lucky enough to see you perform in that bizarre conference hall venue near the old Polly Woodside, somewhere called South Wharf. (Most of) our party met beforehand at an indoor/outdoor bar by the murky brown Yarra, where I sat with a glass of pinot noir while we witnessed the very ground come alive with riverside mice. Later, it was my first time being in your audience. I loved it.
I also enjoyed what your man Colin Greenwood added – both with his bass guitar – and when he stood quietly in darkness and applauded with the rest of us.
But this note concerns your song “Bright horses.”
The bright horses have broken free from the fields
They are horses of love, their manes full of fire
They are parting the cities, those bright burning horses
And everyone is hiding, and no one makes a sound
And I'm by your side and I'm holding your hand
Bright horses of wonder springing from your burning hand
I don’t really know what happens to me when I hear that song. And I don’t want to know. Not the physics of it, anyway. Not about the sound waves and the tympanic membrane.
Certainly something happens. I am overtaken somehow. Transported. My chest swells. My eyes see shapes and movement where someone else alongside me would likely see none.
In a way I am glad you didn’t play it the other night, though it might have been an interesting experiment.
And everyone has a heart and it's calling for something
We're all so sick and tired of seeing things as they are
Horses are just horses and their manes aren't full of fire
The fields are just fields, and there ain't no Lord
And everyone is hidden, and everyone is cruel
And there's no shortage of tyrants, and no shortage of fools
And the little white shape dancing at the end of the hall
Is just a wish that time can't dissolve at all
Over the past few years, without noticing it, your album “Ghosteen” became something of a security blanket for me among the vicissitudes of life. Loss, love, loneliness, joy.
I subscribe to and read your Red Hand Files. I came on board in 2019 with Issue #58, which to me remains a beacon of humanity. Here: https://www.theredhandfiles.com/how-do-you-forgive/
Oh, oh, oh
Something new in the past few years - some weeks I have the kids with me, some weeks I do not. I find it a peculiar life. At once full of care and wonder, sorrow and anger, pride and forgiveness, growth and fear. It is bizarre. (Possibly any life is similar).
But through these years, without thought, I have repeatedly found my way to Ghosteen. Or Ghosteen has found its way to me. As if I was a water diviner. Or a meaning diviner.
You beautifully played other songs from Ghosteen at that green-seated conference venue last month. And that was perfect. Perfect too, that I was sat with great friends in the balcony.
Oh, oh, oh, well, this world is plain to see
It don't mean we can't believe in something, and anyway
My baby's coming back now on the next train
I can hear the whistle blowing, I can hear the mighty roar
I can hear the horses prancing in the pastures of the Lord
Thoughts are of limited use – I get that. And so I think what might have happened in these last couple of years, is that I settled in with an old ghost of my younger self. He came back to me (of that I am sure). He came back and it turns out that we really enjoy each other’s company.
Does that make sense?
It’s hard to explain.
Oh the train is coming, and I'm standing here to see
And it's bringing my baby right back to me
Well there are some things too hard to explain
But my baby's coming home now, on the 5:30 train
The bright horses get it.
And that is enough.
Thank you.
David, Brunswick East, Victoria, Australia.
Lost, Frederick McCubbin, 1886
It makes perfect sense Dave. Keep it up, geoff