The world as circus geek gawker and high priest of the darkness down under, chronicler of the chronically broken hearted, mere cat passing through, neither here nor there, amusing oneself while waiting for goddamn what, imagining the secret lives of one’s fellow passengers, perhaps while strumming a guitar, or through the viewfinder of a film camera, weary-eyed and jaded but still here still here still born and still undecided because of the way the light moves upon her skin and the night proclaims infinite possibilities and isn’t that the embrace the rock ’n roll dandy has on us - a black mark on the stage, a line in the mirror, a door to perceive a reason to believe and an exit to leave by - there in is the carefully pressed Nick Cave, all love and crumpled white shirt, - I have been living with his Lovely Creatures for days and more to the point the afterhours. He helps the night lovingly to its feet and to bed to retire. The Lovely Creatures from the year of Orwell and for the next three decades - are here recorded for your ears lonely. Dig deep Lazarus dig deeper.