It has been twenty years since cult ‘I-do-everything’ artist Nick Cave wrote his first novel And the Ass Saw the Angel (1989), a slack-jawed exploration of Southern American mentality. Several albums, scores, films and other random artistic discharges later, Cave has pulled another one out of the hat, set for release in September this year.

The Death of Bunny Munro is the story of one man and the three things that define his existence: his cock, his job and the unavoidable feeling of his imminent death. Strangely set on the sunny beaches of Brighton town (Cave’s recent residence), Bunny and his son must cope with the recent suicide of Mrs. Munro and with Bunny’s own nymphomatic self-destruction. He is a man totally obsessed with the anatomical phenomenon of the vagina who in turn takes casual interest in hard drugs, parenting and being as abrasive as possible. For Bunny, every avenue leads to death and it is put to us, cringing at every page, whether Bunny Junior will repeat his father’s mistakes.

Cave’s style is complex, engaging and with descriptive detail that colours an otherwise straightforward story. Other than ending every other sentence with the increasingly upsetting ‘he looked like a boiled egg, or something’, the writing is very natural and in places surprisingly joyful. As Bunny cruises his Punto down Brighton Beach howling animal-like at every arse-curve, cleavage and camel toe, we find ourselves also in a macho celebration of a character who, though lovable, is essentially a chauvinist, neglectful, psychotic phallus. Fans of Cave will no doubt enjoy this further twist in the emotional journey into this complex artist’s psyche, and so might those rest of us who find him mildly twattish. Either way, it is highly possible that The Death of Bunny Munro may prove to be the underground hit of this coming autumn. Or something.

Words > Joe Bedford