Pitchfork

It's Sunday night and Nick Cave, Will Oldham and Ian Curtis are playing a game of poker at a local pub in Scotland. The locals, in awe of the assemblage of dark rock talent, are silent, and watch the tense proceedings from a respectful distance. Oldham is ahead $50. Cave is scratching the jeans covering his privates and nervously glancing across the room.

In waltz Aidan Moffat and Malcolm Middleton. The crowd collectively gasps.

"Hey, I know you," blurts Moffat, visibly drunk. "You guys have all been in bands that my band gets compared to." Middleton winces, embarrassed for his bandmate.

"Who the fuck are you?" mutters Curtis, thinking of his lost earnings and his love of Margaret Thatcher.

"I'm Aidan and this is my mate Malcolm. We play in Arab Strap."

"I've heard of you," responds Oldham, peering over a full house. "You're that new Matador band. You've been around forever and your latest record, Philophobia, is being lauded as new best thing in self-loathing rock."

Cave, leaning forward, so as to allow a card to fall into his lap asks, "Yeah, didn't they reissue your last record? And isn't it not as good as Philophobia?"

"Well, it goes like this," interjects Middleton, feeling more at ease with himself now that Moffat has broken the ice. "That last record, The Week Never Starts Round Here, kinda lays the groundwork for the new record, really. I mean, we had some moments on it, yeah, and we had the whole gloom-and-doom thing down, and all the songs are about birds that have screwed us over or ones that we screwed over. But, I mean, like, yeah, maybe it's not as good. Like, the songs aren't as fully developed. And the singing is kind of buried in the mix. But that's just the way it is, right? I mean, your first records weren't all that great, right?"

"My first record, There is No-One What Will Take Care of You, was brilliant," replies Oldham.

"Oh."

There's a silence. A man begins coughing and is quickly dragged out by his mates. Moffat, wanting to the change the subject, clears his well-lubricated throat.

"So you're playing some cards, yeah? Can we join?"

Moffat and Middleton are later seen stumbling out of the bar, their shirts bloodied. Witnesses say Middleton was seen whimpering as he clutched his nose.