Nick Cave.

So, I’m finally reading The Death of Bunny Munro by Nick Cave.

I wanted to since I read a review when it initially came out in 2009. If you are familiar at all with Nick Cave, you will not be surprised by this book. It is haunting, crude, emotional, tender, sexual, dark, disturbing and highly addictive. It is currently my commute-book, meaning I’m reading it on a light rail and hoping that no one is reading over my shoulder, but I nearly miss my stop every single time.

I’ve been a fan of Nick Cave ever since my sister introduced him to me in middle school. She had just gone away to college, and made me a mix tape that had Henry Lee on it. I love PJ Harvey, and together with Nick Cave, it just blew me away. I immediately started seeking him out in my music dives – back then it was at Uncle Johns, the local record store – the internet barely existed, and few people had email. Damn, I miss those days.

But I digress. Ever since hearing that one song, I have continually been surprised by Nick Cave, but also in a way that clearly made sense for him. No one else has his presence, or style, or grace, or perspective, and he never deviates from being himself. He is so comfortable in his skin that he can break the mold of what people expect from him, but always produce something beautiful. It is a rare gift.