Of all the inane questions to ask Nick Cave, this one tops the list lately: “Is Grinderman a return to The Birthday Party?” Who could blame the man if it wears on him? (For the uninitiated, The Birthday Party predated the Bad Seeds as a vehicle for onstage and vinyl angst and mayhem, with Cave at the wheel.) Sure, Grinderman is a return to The Birthday Party, in the sense that today is a return to yesterday by virtue of being another day.

No, in other words. It’s not. Let’s move on, shall we?

Grinderman is a band of four growling (or at least mysteriously snarly-looking), grown-ass men whose musical chops are as strong as the trust they have for one another, creatively speaking, and at least as strong as their love of performance. November 30th found them at The Music Box in Hollywood, in a fittingly gritty part of town. The crowd, mostly aging post-punk hipsters, was subdued in that I-may-wet-my-pants-from-excitement way that a certain segment of music lovers employ. For once, it was faintly touching, rather than pretentious: the love and reverence for the main attraction was palpable.

After a ragingly irritating opening act, comprised of a very beautiful man who played theremin solos for the better part of an hour -- hilarious for about thirty seconds; not so much once into the second stanza of “Ave Maria” and/or the theme from The Godfather -- the lights went down and Grinderman took the stage. Kicking off with Mickey Mouse and the Goodbye Man, the poundingest, most visceral blues song ever to be played on electric guitars, they started the show cranked up to 11, and just never let up. Each man was utterly relentless. Martyn Casey, in his white suit, never appeared to move more than two feet in any direction, and certainly he didn’t appear to work up any kind of a sweat, but his bass kept going, going, going. That, and Jim Sclavunos’s pounding, masterful drumming (sometimes with maracas, rather than drumsticks) created the backbone for the Grinderman monster.

Warren Ellis, who amazes simply by not sounding anything at all like Charles Manson when he speaks, is one of the most talented and fascinating musicians around today. Playing heartbreaking violin pieces (and sticking the bow, broken strings a-flapping, into the back of his shirt for no particular reason), beating the living daylights out of a snare drum with a maraca, or doing modified sit-ups and shouting “EVIL!” into a very low microphone with each execution, his performances are equal parts whirling dervish, military drills, Salvador Dali and Iggy Pop.

Then, of course, there’s Nick Cave. One reviewer referred to his ability to make the tambourine seem like an extension of his virility -- an apt observation. Cave was not born a golden-throated singer, but his charisma is nothing short of commanding, and his ability to manipulate a crowd is masterful, to say nothing of his absurdist sense of humor. One minute he crooned a love song written for his wife [Palaces of Montezuma]; the next, he bent down and went nose-to-nose with members of the audience to plead, “I’m just tryin’ to relax! I’M JUST TRYIN’ TO RELAX!” [Kitchenette]. In between songs, he addressed the audience in a very polite and courteous manner. With his gaunt frame, bobbed and thinning hair, and exquisitely tailored shirt open nearly to his navel, revealing a gold chain, nothing about Cave’s appearance, as my companion that night noted, should work. But it does.

The show closed with a slowly-building rendition of Grinderman, during which the band’s considerable talents were more obvious than ever. In a way I’ve yet to sort out, they began the song as four separate entities, none of them doing anything that seemed to sync directly with any of the others. But where there should have been a cacophony, there was instead a syncopation, an almost visual representation of each instrument, each individual. Gradually, the song grew recognizable as the instruments made their way onto the same path. And then Cave turned up the charm, turned up the command, turned up the performance. If the show began at 11, it closed at 25. Ad-libbing parts of the song, he sang, I wanna be your man/I wanna hold your hand in that way of his, evocative of a little-boy-lost-cum-Crawling Kingsnake.

Particularly in this age of bands comprised of nothing more than a couple of schoolmates armed with an angsty diary, it’s a rare treat to see real musicians giving it their all, totally cognizant of the strange alchemy that music is, a blend of mathematics and magic. Grinderman have it all. And so they should. It’s good to know that there’s still something to be said for years of hard work and dedication.