lost in the Cave man's land

This Sunday I delved into a dark and delirious world. I spent the entire day deep inside the place where genius creativity happens. And all inside a book.

My "contemporary publishing in Australia" assignment gave me several options for a case study. I could have chosen Penguin, or May Gibbs. I could have gone tame. Instead I chose the dark prince, Nick Cave.
Of course, my love of his music was the reason for my choice. I never once considered the difficulty in researching how he has impacted Australia's literary and publishing world, or the fact that everybody likes to review his music rather than his two novels. He was a musician first, so I guess I can forgive on this occassion.

I have a great passion for music, and my passion for books only claims first place in my heart because of my ability to craft a narrative. While not entirely musically talentless, it is not as natural an expression for me as writing is. Even writing poetry does not come as a naturally as the epic tales that seem to spill onto my pages. In regards to music, I am neither a lyrical fanatic, nor a noise enthusiast. It is generally the combination of both that cause a stir in my heart, with a few exceptions.

Nick Cave is, of course, one of those exceptions. I must admit, though I listen to a lot of his music, I have only ever vaguely heard his lyrics. I have never contemplated his words, or the meaning behind them, as I have with other musicians. I am constantly drawn in by his smooth voice that is for my ears the same pleasure as eating Belgian chocolate is for my mouth.

An ex-boyfriend of mine once made me sit and listen to every single word of "Stagger Lee". Not wanting to give too much away, it is essentially the tale of a murderer and his actions. The song contains swear words and violent sexual connotations, and is probably not for the weak hearted. What is most curious is that upon understanding the story of the song, I dismissed it as a one-off. I knew that the Cave I listened to wasn't like this. What I listened to was all beautiful, sweet, and sometimes dark (musically, not necessarily lyrically).

How very wrong I was. How very wrong indeed. This Sunday I dived head first into the biography of a man deeply interested in all things taboo. And while I am still only in the beginning of my now impassioned research into the Black Crow King, I am suffused with creative intent. I want to live like him, in East Berlin (minus the heroin), in my own invented world. This is the haven I seek in my writing, and with the music I listen to. Now I seek to create a world. Does anybody have an attic they would be willing to let me use?