There are those who when they walk down after you call it after them. On Cave Street the spirit is weak and the smell is strong. You don't look people in the eye and you never give anyone the time. On Cave Street you won't find what you're looking for – you'll find more. On Cave Street you're a fool. There's a house on Cave Street where sack cloth is draped where the panes of glass once were. And the cloth bobs to the noise that comes from inside. Let's go inside.

A hell-glow of red, from flickering bulbs, chase the shadows round. Every corner has a table and every table will tell you stories you mightn't want to hear. You'll ask anyway because you're a fool. Sit down but mind that chair, its back leg is short. Here, use the bandstand? Well, that's John Finn's blood. I'll go up and get some drinks from henry. Yeah, that's Henry. And this is Henry's Dream. Didn't you see the sign above the door? I bet you're glad you're with me now.

You can't make a Nick Cave album without breaking heads. From the open-nerve surgery of 'From Her To Eternity' our Nick sets off with a funeral convoy long enough to keep any gravedigger happy. I thought something had happened to him on his last outing. 'The Good Sun'. It was almost mellow, almost – dare I say it – user friendly.

Henry's Dream is not an album for those who like their music disposable. The only thing disposable here are the characters. (There's hardly one that gets out alive when this journey is done). Having said that, it hides its intent well. There's enough sweet-lipped melody to fool. There's more than enough tunes to set you humming, to set your foot tapping. The Bad Seed choir is in full bloom, spreading out a deep pile of colour on which he rests his sand-pit voice. A richly layered acoustic stroll and organ swirl have replaced the old desert sound of strangled Bargeld guitar and humping Adamson bass.

Nick Cave has not mellowed! Hell no. He may be sounding more and more like his idol, Elvis, but where he goes "the slum dogs, they are barking". And he wakes "with a hatchet hanging over my head". He is still a master of imagery that dips its face into a sack of vipers: "And I entered through, the curtain hissed/Into the house with its blood-red bowels/Where wet-lipped women with greasy fists/Crawled the ceilings and the walls". ('Papa Won't Leave You, Henry'). The souls that prowl his tales will never be model citizens: "I search the mirror/And I try to see/Why the people of this town/Have washed their hands of me". ('When I First Came To Town').

Yes, when a Nick Cave character comes to town the house prices plummet. Now that I think of it, I'm not so sure if I'd like to see any of them move in next door to me. But Henry's Dream? Well, Henry can live in my ears as long as he likes.