Spent a weird hour once at the Wiltern utterly bored by Nick Cave while in every direction around me women had orgasms. He would sing about death and drunkenness and being naked and they would squeal and gasp and want him. He pounded a piano and groaned and recited bad poetry and they squirmed in their seats and wanted him. He looked like a weathered old junkie in a nice suit and they ignored their boyfriends and wanted him. He sang about negroes and blues and corruption and love gone horribly, tragically bad. Knives and guns and Stagger Lee and the gallows. Death and despair and doom and damnation. Beautiful dames who’d plunge a knife right in your back. Still, they wanted him. They quivered. They gasped. They ran their fingers through their hair. He would sing about murder and they could discuss Jacques Derrida and oh how they wanted him. I fled to the lobby and waited for the after party. It was dull. Outside the fans lined up along the driveway to the underground garage. A black limo emerged, and they squealed.