It's a vaguely disturbing silhouette, like that of the Reverend Harry Powell played by Robert Mitchum in The Night of the Hunter, but the comparison stops there: the overactive singer-songwriter Nick Cave offers an emaciated face and a slender body wrapped in tailor-made costumes that give him the air of a bounty hunter fashioned undertaker by some fabric sculptors of Jermyn Street.
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There is soul preacher in the Australian rocker capable of captivating concert halls and leading his audience, for hours, in sarabandes of mystical convulsions. Nick Cave or the funeral incantation on the rocks, splinters of guitars, heart rate of the bass mixed with that of the drums, which comes to cover his baritone voice of smoky saloons. Solitary minstrel kneeling in the ditches to contemplate "the black sun as silent as the moon".
Constantly torn between the rational and the sensitive to...
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