As Scott Walker publishes Sundog, a book of his lyrics, he talks about big-budget burnout, his debt to Britain, and why heīs a huge fan of FKA twigsA wintry afternoon and Londonīs roads are rammed with traffic. Mortifyingly, I am late to meet Scott Walker, the musical legend who rarely gives interviews, and ring, filled with apologies. No problem, assures his manager, Scottīs late too, heīs stuck on the bus. If rockīnīroll is the story of men who, in Bob Geldofīs description of Phil Lynott, `couldnīt imagine a life not in leather trousers, with a limousine taking him to work every day`, Walker is its antithesis. When we finally sit down, I could more easily picture the figure in front of me, snaggle-toothed and with a cap firmly pulled down over his eyes, as the protagonist of a Raymond Carver short story, about to grind his way through another day.Not that he isnīt perfectly cheerful, in his own fashion, with occasional hints of mischief and lugubrious humour. Of Sundog - a selection of his lyrics over six decades - he reveals that one of the challenges in assembling it was having to go back: `It requires listening - and I didnīt want to do that. Cos, you know, I donīt listen to anything Iīve done once Iīve done it.` Continue reading...
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