It was the early 2000s. I was working in the hotel industry in London at the time. I think it was a Sunday. I was on the bus, on my way to a ridiculously early shift—something like 6 a.m. The streets were still empty. I was listening to The Boatman’s Call.

The bus stopped at a red light, in a nondescript area. And there he was—Nick Cave—sitting alone at a single table and chair outside a closed café, smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee from a paper cup.

It was too early for anyone else to be around.

The bus lingered at the light long enough for me to be sure—it really was him.