Johnny Cash is dead and Tom Waits doesn't record much anymore. Luckily we still have Nick Cave.
Yes: the Anglo-Australian Man in Black — if we're allowed to use the term — is still going strong, gaunt, whiskey-voiced, sexy, vaguely threatening, the poet of four o'clock in the morning. Would we have it any other way?
He's a novelist too, you know. (Reportedly pretty good, too.) To anyone who knows the records this is no surprise: Cave is as much storyteller as musician, your guide through the filthy and the forgotten parts of yourself, an adventure and nightmare, a dark barroom of the mind moments from Lamar Union.
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