The second instalment of Mute’s Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds reissue programme enters the classic era with expanded and remastered takes on Cave’s first three bona fide knock-outs: ‘Tender Prey’ (1988), ‘The Good Son’ (1990) and ‘Henry’s Dream’ (1992).

These days, Nick Cave is a towering figure, a still vital veteran no one with any interest in music beyond the restricting confines of the unashamedly commercial could possibly miss. As well as an occasional novelist and a film composer in collaboration with Dirty Three violinist Warren Ellis, he’s also become a bit of a reluctant celebrity, at least in cultured realm of the “quality” papers. Most importantly, Cave’s responsible for a regularly expanded collection of albums that sizzle with energy, enthusiasm and inspiration that belie the fact the guy’s been at this for nearly 30 years, not to mention one of the most – if not the most - compelling live performers around, whether backed by the full Bad Seeds ensemble or the stripped-down scruff-blues howl of Grinderman.

It wasn’t always so. Cave’s early 80’s band The Birthday Party specialised in a violent cacophony that even those who’d normally gravitate towards deliberately ugly aural assaults recoiled from. Those who did get what Cave and co. were getting at with their primal-to-the-max swamp-blues got it in a big way, however, creating a small but feverishly devoted core audience that sustained Cave and the earliest incarnations of his ever-mutating band/gang The Bad Seeds through a string of rough if increasingly surefooted albums in the early to mid-80’s. Despite the jaw-to-the-floor brilliance of early gems ala ‘Tupelo’ and ‘Your Funeral, My Trial’, Cave entered the latter half of the decade as a thoroughly marginal act, dogged by a reputation for dope-addled Goth gloom-mongering that somewhat overlooked the complexity and expressive powers of his best writing, not to mention the fearless experimentation and growing subtlety of The Bad Seeds’ music.

‘Tender Prey’ (****) created the first ripples of the momentum that would gradually catapult Nick Cave from a semi-obscure cult to the type of high-profile artist who merits an extensive reissue/remastering/re-evaluation programme. The 1988 album was created in chaotic circumstances, even when compared to the messiness that hovered around the Bad Seeds at the time like a dense fog comprised of unhealthy lifestyle choices. Deeply immersed in the writing of his first novel ‘And the Ass Saw the Angel’, Cave entered the studio with few finished songs and little idea where the album was heading. The Bad Seeds’ allocated time at Hansa studios in their then-hometown Berlin ran out, forcing the band to complete the record in piecemeal style in various locations around the globe. Barring a general sense that the wildly disparate elements are hanging together by a thread and could just as well have collapsed into an incoherent mess, little of these trying times and confusion can be detected on ‘Tender Prey’, the vast majority of which packs a bone-crushing punch. The uncontested champ here is the titanic death row drama of opener ‘The Mercy Seat’. Many might associate the song with Johnny Cash’s stately interpretation, but the tense, hypnotic clatter of the original remains the definite reading, The Bad Seeds’ relentless rhythmic repetition generating exactly the correct high-voltage current for Cave’s chilling recital of an unrepentant murdered entering the last minutes of his blood-splattered life. Much less celebrated but almost equally mighty, the slinky blues groove of ‘Up Jumped the Devil’ leavens the horror with some gallows humour and couplets sharp enough to slice diamonds. Enduring live favourites ‘Deanna’ – adrenaline-soaked rockabilly – and the hymn-like directness of ‘New Morning’ complete the thrills on offer.

1990’s graceful ‘The Good Son’ (*****) couldn’t be further removed from the murky racket that characterised its predecessor. Some saw the album’s string-heavy arrangements and general sense of calm as damning evidence of Cave having sold out, a claim that conveniently overlooked how uneasily these sweeping, timeless ballads fit the musical landscape of 1990 – or any other year for that matter. Inspired by Cave’s new life in Brazil, where the album was recorded, ‘The Good Son’ is his first masterpiece, a seamless collection of magical tunes that proved Cave didn’t have to batter listeners with gory tales of murder and mayhem to capture their undivided attention. The Bad Seeds, meanwhile, proved they could swing, swoon and soothe just as well as they could unleash instrument-torturing lashings of raw power. Yet this is far from a one-dimensional expedition into lovelorn croonerland: for every declaration of devotion such as ‘The Ship Song’, there’s a brilliant half-comic drama of ‘The Weeping Song’ (including its unforgettable, ultra low budget video on the accompanying DVD), a feverish slab of ramalama (‘The Witness Song’) and a claustrophobic Hammer horror thriller of a song (‘The Hammer Song’). The compelling extras include the lovely B-side ‘The Train Song’ and a reverential take on Neil Young’s evergreen ‘Helpless’.

According to the principals themselves, The Bad Seeds’ collective admiration for the aforementioned Young nearly proved the undoing of 1992’s ‘Henry’s Dream’ (****). Urged by their label to work with a “name” producer for the first time, the band opted for the Canadian legend’s trusted collaborator David Briggs. Alas, Briggs’ Californian hippie die-hard rock dude-isms – enthusiastic air guitar demonstrations and all – clashed profoundly with The Bad Seeds’ sharp-suited cool. Whatever the band’s misgivings about the finished album (and they are many and varied), an impartial listener can’t argue with an indisputable fact: Briggs made The Bad Seeds sound meaner, louder and leaner than ever before. Throbbing tracks like the epic opener ‘Papa Won’t Leave You, Henry’ (apparently written as a lullaby for Cave’s young son but sounding more like a nightmarish vision built for scaring children and adults alike half to death with), the gritted-teeth menace of ‘I Had a Dream, Joe’ and the thoroughly unhinged ‘Jack The Ripper’ – in the absence of a more appropriate term – rock like an absolute bastard, despite featuring predominantly acoustic instrumentation. Add to this the majestic ballad ‘Straight to You’, the tear-stained ‘When I First Came to Town’, an inspired reworking of traditional lament ‘Katie Cruel’, and the best extras of this trio of reissues, including half a dozen live cuts which suggest what the world’s really crying out for is a Nick Cave & The Bad Seeds live box set, and you’ve a genuine one-off: a folk record that rocks harder than 99,9% of over-amplified foot-on-the-monitor fare, or a rock ‘n’ roll album that proves equally explosive when denied access to the mains. In either case, another bull’s eye for newcomers to investigate, and old fans to get reacquainted with.