Marc Almond is slippery when wet. He cruises mercilessly the thin (painted) sideburn dividing cosy homo-nostalgia and the deviant undergound; camping it up with the best of them on TOTPs and then dropping down to Stevo's So Me Bizarre offices to be dragged around in chains by Gen and the PTV wolf-pack. Marc always sounds like he means it; no amount of postmodern irony can drown out the gutterheart within.
When he sang Gene Pitney it sounded like Bataille.
He played around in Coil, adding arabesque flourishes to even the bleakest songs, sidestepped with English Faggot baiting Foetus in the Berlin cabaret of Slut and hooked up with the Mambas to send out tales of terror and woe that must've confused the hell out of his record companies. As soon as anyone found him a comfortable niche he somehow manages to slide back out of it, leaving a thin trail of sparkly mucus wherever he's been:
Cheers for not dying in that crash, Marc. Get well soon...