The noise was hypnotic. It sounded almost orchestral. The drums sounding like trumpets. Krz and Brett, their hair sweaty & stringy, looked like swamp creatures.
King Ink, a compendium of lyrics, prose and playlets, is a testament to Cave’s progression from crazed Dionysian splatter-poet to classicist Bard of the Bleak.
Hey, Republican leadership, just because the liberal media is out to get you doesn’t mean you’re not the sorriest collection of the undead since Dark Shadows.