“The next day we had a late breakfast and Susie and Lucy began reminiscing. I excused myself and wandered around the grounds, eventually coming upon a high hedge that surrounded a swimming pool. I lay down on a lounger next to the pool and took out my pen and notebook to write, but it was hot, and I soon fell asleep.

After a while, I awoke to find Bryan Ferry standing in the swimming pool in his bathing trunks. He was white and beautiful and very still. He turned to me and said, ‘I haven’t written a song in three years.’ ‘Why? ’I said, ‘What’s wrong?’ He made a vague circling gesture with his hand taking in both of us, the swimming pool, the high hedge, the manor house, the apple orchard, the walled garden, the mare and foal, the swallows in the eves, our beautiful arboured wives, and the pure, blue sky itself and said, ‘There is nothing to write about.’ Then he pushed off into the water.

This is a much-treasured memory, full of sorrowing privilege, and I have tried to keep it as it was and not give it too much anecdotal polish. I’m not sure what happened after that, except that on the way home, Susie told me she had once been on a long country drive with Lucy and Bryan, and although Bryan said nothing, he whistled beautifully for the entire journey.

Bryan Ferry has the most unique and unearthly voice in rock ‘n ’roll. He has written some of our greatest songs, often deeply haunted things with the most astonishing and audacious lyrics. He was, and remains, a giant in my mind - a hero.

That brief encounter at the pool shocked and saddened me, though. The memory will remain with me forever, living beyond all expectations, if just for the melancholy, poetic drama of it all. But it is more than a mere story. This incident instructed me on the fragile and capricious nature of the creative spirit and reminded me of the necessity of constant daily work. I think of it when I struggle with my own vacillating creativity. Because deep in my heart, I know there is always something to write about, but there is also always nothing - and terrifyingly little air between.”

Nick Cave, The Red Hand Files

The Waste Land (Wisehouse Classics - Original Authoritative Edition)

Orpheus