I wouldn’t describe myself as a Nick Cave fan; I know far too many folk who are deeply into one or more of his various phases of work to claim that I’m anything more than aware of his position in the cultural landscape.

(It probably dates me pretty clearly if I note that, for me, Nick Cave will always be first and foremost the droll yet terrifying cranium-and-curtains that loomed over Kylie in the rinsed-on-MTV video for “Where the Wild Roses Grow”.)

So, yeah, I’m aware of the guy’s position in the landscape—and aware that you don’t get to such a position without having some sort of artistic mojo, even if it’s not to everyone’s taste. I’ve heard some of his music, which is enough to know he has a knack for narrative, but I’ve never read any of his fiction.

Having read this recent tall-tale anecdote about him meeting Nicolas Cage, however, I find myself thinking I should give his writing a try: it’s a brilliant little story, well-paced, making best use out of the eccentric reputations of both major characters, and full of the sorts of telling details and self-deprecation which make even an admitted (partial?) fabrication into something that you dearly want to believe. If I were teaching creative writing, I think I’d put it on the syllabus.