When I was twelve I claimed ownership of our family's motley old record player and the odd collection of records that lived with it. Along with “Alvin and the chipmunks”, “The ballad of Davy Crockett” and “Fleetwood Mac Rumours” (Every family home had that album like every family home has a dishwasher now), there was … “Elton John – Goodbye yellow brick road”. I wore it out! Oh, the homework I shirked!! I soon knew the words to the whole double album by heart from “Sweet painted lady”, to “I've seen that movie too” to “The ballad of Danny Bailey”. Such a world!! Heartbreak, homelessness, Saturday night ass-shakin' badness and seedy sex!! Really, it could have been any album with an ounce of depth.

What I fell into was a gigantic love of songs. The shape and size they can be, the way a beautiful story can fit into that package, the way it can raise bumps on my arms, and the way, if no-one is home, I could open my mouth, screw up my face and wail along … cos I knew all the words! Being a bit slow to think of things, it took me until I was twenty-four to pick up a guitar and a pen and try making my own … Wow!! I thought, This way I can put in all the things I like, like references to fruit for anatomical comparisons and rhymes that don't quite … and leave out things I don't like, like lame, dead lyrics that sound like they went there just because they rhymed … and write … The perfect song.

Now its many years later … and I believe I'm getting closer …