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Conrad Botes Satan's Choir at the Gates of Heaven (review)

Say "angst " or "existential" and you get a picture of a sunless person of indeterminate sex, living somewhere on the border between teenage wasteland and ruined adulthood, hollowcheeked, eyes ringed either with kohl or the last attempted suicide, a figure slinking through the shadows of time and space, thin-legged, extravagantly shod in overlarge Doc Martens as it strives, apparently, to morph into a crow.