|
while it is a rare thing to be able to
gauge someone’s true personality after only a few hours of their
company, anderson does at least display the requisite celebrity
persona. in order for people to want you, buy your records, chase
you across crowded railway stations and throw flowers at you on
stage, you must have charm and magnetism. so far he appears to have
both in spades. in the flesh he is far a more masculine than he
looks on stage or in pictures, yet the accoutrements are all there:
black crew-neck sweater, black flared jeans, black socks, black
clumpy shoes. black! the colour of angst. he sports two earrings
(one very large, one tiny) and a blonde streak crawls from his
trademark curtain of lank hair. he might sometimes talk like a
stroppy undergraduate – hasty, tart, optimistic – but he looks
like the consummate neurotic boy outsider, an impression exacerbated
by the asthma inhaler on which he sucks repeatedly throughout our
interview.
the
four members of suede are true suburbanites: while bernard butler
comes from leyton in east london, and 28-year-old drummer simon
gilbert from stratford-upon-avon, brett anderson and 26-year-old
bassist mat osman grew up in haywards heath, a drab dormitory town
40 miles south of london, five train stops from brighton. it is
almost generic in its dreariness, the most intoxicating thing about
the place being the backlit perspex shop signs along the high
street. the son of a taxi driver (confounding stereotype, one who
listens devoutly to liszt, mahler and berlioz), and an artist who
painted right up until her death in 1989, anderson grew up on the
end of a short terrace of council houses, next to a disused rubbish
tip which has slowly turned into a small wood. it was an atypical
existence: tchaikovsky and berlioz were rarely off the sitting-room
turntable, there were aubrey beardsley prints on the hall wall. “i
had classical music force-fed me as a kid and i absolutely hated it.
[his father wanted him to train as a classical pianist.] i was saved
by dirty loud music,” he says now. it was in this little house, up
in his room listening to kate bush and the sex pistols, his walls
covered with pin-up posters of bowie and morrissey, that anderson
first began defining himself, that he first started to believe that
he could have an effect on things beyond his flimsy bedroom walls.
|