HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition)


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What Low Down lays bare is anti-glamorous Hollywood, the infernal wasteland none but the doomed have to negotiate. Joe Albany might have been a jazz giant, but he mainlined his way to the status of brilliant footnote. Infinite Jest is such a monster of a book, the pages devoted to inebriants of every flavor — and the people who love them — constitute a spectacularly weird and deep drug book of their own.

Nick Cave: 'I have to spend hours talking to fucking idiots like you' | Music | The Guardian

Here it is: the greatest American writer on the great American subject — addiction. Eddie Little was a real-life ex-dope fiend, ex-con, and bullet-scarred badass who turned the stories of his hard-fought life into a coming-of-age-on-smack crime classic. The young hero and his girlfriend attach themselves to an older thief and his wife, and the foursome careen on a dope-soaked cross-country spree of thieving, violence, and living the old-school gangster high life.

Along the way, the kid learns the ropes: how to crack a safe, set up phony checking accounts, and keep himself on heroin. Another Day enjoyed a spectacular first-book success that culminated with Larry Clark directing James Woods and Melanie Griffith in the movie version. Five years after the book came out, the author died in a motel room, at His dad was a tough act to follow — but happily, Bill Jr. He turned his experience mainlining meth into a novel that manages to be loopy, hellish, hysterical, and almost preternaturally evocative of a meth-heads state of mind — sometimes all at the same time.

Either eschewing commas for free-flowing speed riff or downshifting into a kind of pulp staccato, young Burroughs mines his overstimulated brain for one remarkably twisted sentence and situation after another. Including this gem, when he and his road dog are staying in the house of some straights, whom Bill Jr. That her alcoholic mania parallels her mother's is only one of the unvarnished truths infusing every sentence of this classic. Different times, however, require different medication. There are photographs in this collection so stark they make The Wire look like Green Acres.

Immersing himself in North Philly, East New York, and a Red Hook housing project, three of the most drug-ravaged patches of humanity on the planet, photographer Eugene Richardson got so inside the lives of his subjects, there seems no other explanation than the madness of their own addiction to explain why they would even let him in the room, let alone take pictures… One black-and-white, of a woman clenching a loaded rig between her teeth, stares up off the page with such bug-eyed, deranged happiness, you almost need to bleach your brain to get the image out.

This is the America you see when you turn over the rock. Iran-Contra may now seem like some musty, Ronald Reagan brain fart. He knew the truth about crack, and the powers-that-be made sure he paid for it. Like most junkies, Art Pepper was a multitasker.

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While keeping his veins filled, he was also a Peeping Tom, a thief, and generally regarded as one of the greatest alto sax players since Charlie Parker — even when he was playing in the San Quentin prison band. Rumor has it he never committed armed robbery because none of his criminal pals thought he was sane enough to have a gun. Never has a man spent so much energy trying to kill his demons with one hand while feeding them with the other. A classic. Just the fact that Cleopatra, Susan Sontag, Sarah Bernhardt, and Billie Holiday are between the same two covers tells you all you need to know.

Nick might feel sorry for himself beyond belief, but belief is often the problem, the search for or lack of it. That or Cupid's eyes poked out blind. His talent is he can tell fantastic musical stories that encapsulate those emotions. From the Boys Next Door, through the Birthday Party, to the present day Bad Seeds, Cave has often striven for things that can't be resolved: salvation and unrequited love. Along the way he has left a narrative trail of picaresque characters.

And so much for that.


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Up there with Dylan. Anybody you care to mention. Hey, but mention writers … because, as Nick is the first to admit, he's technically a lousy singer. Backstage tonight it's like a grave. There's no party. Kid Congo, now with a moustache, diligently packs his guitars while Mick Harvey picks up the takings and the rest of the band flop out. He's one of nature's organisers, with a Filofax in his head rather than his pocket, as well as a wicked wit.

It's a joke, that's why I set up the tours. It's not hard. I have this new system. I get everything organised in advance. Then when members of the band come up to me and say, 'Hey, have you seen this or got that? After all, they're big boys now.

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Cave, meanwhile, is slumped in his chair. He looks ash-grey with exhaustion. This is more than the result of tonight's exertion, it's a cumulative thing. Nick has been going through perhaps the most productive year of his life so far. Aside from writing and recording the exercise in musical styles that form the forthcoming album, he's virtually finished editing his novel And the Ass Saw the Angel, and had King Ink — a collection of lyrics, snippets of prose and short plays — published by Black Spring Press. The latter is the story of prison authorities deliberately making inmates' lives hell in order to instigate an insurrection which they then violently squash, thereby gaining legitimacy for increased penal powers.

In Ghosts, Cave plays a psychotic provocateur with a death wish. This simply involves a lot of swearing, rolling of eyeballs, gouging of flesh and spitting. Cave, on this appearance, doesn't seem to have the makings of a great thespian. The soundtrack parts provided by Bargeld, Harvey and Cave, are, however, fine. Back in the dressing room, Cave has been cornered by a piece of rotting flesh called Moan.

We're all fatigued. Somebody doles out that vitamin known as speed. I don't refuse the offer. Two days and one country later, just before a glass comes whizzing by my head and smashes against a wall, Cave will insist that "people don't bring us drugs … all that happens backstage at our gigs is that people drink our alcohol". Right now, though, our hearts are pounding like jackhammers. The world seems like a fine place, full of people to bore senseless with our speed-babble.

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As the sun comes up like a pat of rancid butter over the canals, it feels like we're engaged on a one-way trip to purgatory. Drugs can do strange things to people. Nick Cave's voice, late afternoon in the bar of Amsterdam's Museum hotel, is laced with humour. He looks sharp, dressed in an immaculate black evening suit topped off by a belt with a massive gaudy buckle depicting Christ.

He's just been doing television interviews. I told them, 'No way', and took them off to interview me among the prostitutes. I mean, can you see me on one of those contraptions? Publicist, photographer, Seeds piano player Roland and I crack up at the thought. Together we head off to eat. Nick escorts us to a Surinamese cafe. As soon as we're seated, he disappears off into the red-light district.

With Cave gone and Roland captive it seems a good time to interview the classically trained German keyboardist.

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Our conversation goes like this:. Stranger than kindness, the singer returns and takes us back to sample his go-faster vitamins at the hotel. Thirty minutes later he's onstage at the Paradiso Club.


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As the Bad Seeds' rhythm section of Harvey and drummer Thomas Wydler deliver the uppercut of another new song, Oh Deanna, Cave jack-knives around the stage. Nick's lyrical concerns might sometimes rattle like skeletons in shallow graves, but his current band set his prayers on fire like no other.

Riding on the wave of energy, with typical perversity Nick rasps. We played here when we were the Birthday Party. I remember smashing somebody's teeth in with my microphone stand. Three in the morning. Night hangs like a lead shroud. Nick Cave's voice speaks in quiet, measured tones in the hotel lounge. Any hesitation is due, not to inarticulacy, but to wanting to frame precise answers. I had hoped that Bleddyn would be here. Aside from being a fine photographer, Butcher is a long time friend of Nick's who takes most of the shots for the Bad Seeds' record covers.

Between us we hoped to map the definitive guide to Cave's creativity. The only problem is not even Jesus could raise Bleddyn from his bed. No problem. A tired Antipodean snapper? Well miracles take a little longer. Nick says he often comes over as retarded in interviews because he can't trust journalists, especially English ones, who nod in agreement to his halting answers and then ridicule him in print. He cites two interviewers who've recently grilled him for another British paper as a case in point.

Nick Cave is a journalist's nightmare. An artist, who through such emotional blackmail tactics, expects a writer to snip off the barbs of their questions and place their tamed tongues in his rectum. He wants respect but doesn't seem to respect a journalist's freedom to inquire. Cave has even written a song about two ex-NME writers called Scum. It bookends his anthology King Ink.

HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition) HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition)
HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition) HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition)
HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition) HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition)
HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition) HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition)
HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition) HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition)
HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition) HOTEL JUNKIE HOTEL JUNKIES COLLECTION (Japanese Edition)

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