Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds @ Hammersmith Apollo, May 7 2008

Oh, Nick. How could you do this to us?

Let's do this quick and do it painless: this wasn't just a bad gig. This was an embarrassing gig, made all the worse by the fact that the man making a tit out of himself just happens to be my all-time musical and artistic hero.

The new songs sounded flat. The old songs sounded flatter. "Red Right Hand" was stripped of all dynamic and menace; "Let Love In" was, if we're being charitable, shambolic. (If we're being accurate, it was shoddy.) "The Ship Song" ... well, he's never been the world's greatest singer qua singer, but I'm sure I remember him holding a tune at some point. You wouldn't believe it on this performance.

And "Into my Arms" ... well, here's a little list, Nick, if you're reading: get a real piano, or at least a decent keyboard setting; turn the bass down; don't rush the thing, but let it breathe; remember the words; don't even think about putting drums behind it; remember the words; remember the words; and remember the fucking words. At the beginning of the set I was wondering which songs I'd like to see; by the end I was praying that he'd avoid them. And by and large he did, which was a tiny positive: no "(Are You) The One That I've Been Waiting For", no "West Country Girl", no "From Her to Eternity" ... and no "The Mercy Seat", which was a (welcome) first for me.

Other positives? Well, "Tupelo" was immense, and the lunar ballads from the new record - "Jesus of the Moon" and "Moonland"- worked well. "We Call Upon The Author To Explain" just about stepped the fine line between creaking and collapsing. And - finally! - a live version of "The Lyre of Orpheus" actually worked.

But that was it, more or less. The glory of going to a Nick Cave gig was, up until last Wednesday, the effortless reach across his multi-faceted back catalogue, reshaping and reworking old favourites into whatever style he happened to be dabbling in at the time. (The frequent re-writes of "West Country Girl", for example.) It was always an interesting show, it was always a good show. This was neither: in his breakneck rush to establish his balls-out-rocker credentials he's left behind the restless invention that's always fuelled and informed his work. It's sad to watch a chameleon ape a dinosaur.

In the pub beforehand, we were discussing criticism, and I remembered a review of Martin Amis's universally-panned Yellow Dog: "It's like finding your favourite uncle in a school playground, masturbating." Up until Wednesday night I always thought this quote was simply a funny of way of describing epic failure; now, I've realised how sad it is, how crushing the disappointment.

Nick. We love you. Come back to us.