By MIKA ROSS-SOUTHALL
Nick Cave is an oddball. His music, writing, performance – everything about him, or what we can make out about him, is a strange, intense mixture of menace, chaos, gentleness and self-mockery. We like him when he calls us “motherfuckers” and tells us to “fuck off”, as he did several times at the Royal Albert Hall on Sunday night. We cheered louder when he coolly threw his mic over one shoulder to resume playing the piano during a mesmerizing delivery of “Higgs Boson Blues” (poor – or lucky? – person in the front row who was caught by the flying mic stand). At one point, he invited a few members of the audience onto the stage, group-hugged them, and then abandoned them to continue parading up and down the aisles of the stalls, looming over us like a bird of prey, pointing in faces and touching heads as if granting absolution: “Can you feel my heartbeat? / I’m talking to you / My heart goes boom boom boom boom”.