“Seems we can be happy now; it’s late but it ain’t never”
You may ask me why, even in the cold light of adulthood, my romantic imagination revolves around Nick Cave. He’s a problematic, bad man – you say – who writes about terrible, terrible things. Well, yeah, I like all that, and if you think that writing about bad things makes a man bad, then I can show you a great many bad men who wrote about very nice and pleasant things. But may I direct you to songs like this one, purely romantic and heartfelt, with no trace of villainy. There’s no literary fronting or ironic remove. It’s just a love song, but the kind that only comes from a history of dark places. If I have any faith in love left – and I don’t! – it’s my fervent wish that if it comes, it comes from the ashes of every trashcan fire and Molotov cocktail of a failed romance that came before it. So it can be well-earned, you know.