Nick Cave

Nick Cave portrait illustration
Every word that Nick Cave sings drips with sex and death.

If I had a teenage daughter I would live in constant fear of her ever coming into contact with Nick Cave. 

He's like a gigantic horny gecko in a suit and an open collar. The greasy slipperiness of his skin sends anyone who comes into contact with it into a desperate K-hole of softly buzzing grimy neon decrepitude.

He is Satan's sleazy uncle with a hangover, a hypnotic funky Dracula, the smoke-damaged red plush of a seedy Vegas nightclub made animate, a zombie lounge crooner growling out slow death to an audience of the smooth and the damned.

The street value of his moustache is higher than the GDP of Sweden and he will fuck you and kill you without spilling his drink.

If you look into his eyes then you'll wake up in a cold sweat four years later working the pole in a backlit backroom unable to ever wear white again.

And also, the last Bad Seeds album was pretty good too.

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