William Boyd: Why I love Keane
The bestselling author was entranced the first time he heard them. This passion was reciprocated when Keane wrote a song inspired by his novel Any Human Heart. Here he talks about their relationship and the short story, The Sovereign Light Cafe, that he has written for their No 1 album, Strangeland, and which we will publish here on Saturday
In the broad spectrum of the arts, two worlds rarely overlap – the literary world and the world of rock music. There are exceptions, of course – Salman Rushdie has written the lyrics for a U2 song; Nick Cave has written two fine novels – but these instances are unusual interminglings, I would suggest. My own case is typical. Even though I've been an avid consumer of contemporary music since my early teens, the world of rock music has always been at something of a distance – I listen to it, read about it, I talk about it, but I've had little or no contact with its denizens. It's like the world of astrophysics or the armaments industry, say: I'm aware of these zones of activity but we haven't really bumped into each other, so to speak. Bizarrely, I did get to know David Bowie because we both joined the editorial board of an art magazine at the same time, Modern Painters. We used to sit beside each other – the new boys – at editorial meetings. I've briefly met other rock icons at social occasions but these encounters have been entirely random – and all the more enjoyable for that fact. But the case of Keane and I is different.
In the 1980s and 90s I took something of an aural sabbatical from Anglo/US rock music. Tastes change, I suppose, but I found the rhythms, energies and melodies of Latin American and African music far more beguiling than anything the west was serving up. The music of Elis Regina, Milton Nascimento, Jorge Drexler, Cheikh Lô and Fela Kuti were more familiar to me than Bruce Springsteen and Oasis, for example. I didn't abandon western rock entirely – I kept half an ear open and it was voices that slowly lured me back. Björk started it, then artists such as Polly Paulusma, Fiona Apple, Thea Gilmore began to beguile also – something idiosyncratic and haunting in the voice had to make me want to investigate the music further. And then, in 2003, I heard Keane's debut single, Everybody's Changing, and the voice this time was Tom Chaplin's.
I bought Hopes and Fears, the debut album. It wasn't just Chaplin's ethereal, plangent voice that won me over: Hopes and Fears is an unequivocally great album – not a dud track and with a melodic generosity that was astounding in contemporary British rock. Tim Rice-Oxley's fuzzed keyboards may be the default Keane sound but his gift for writing great three-and-a-half-minute rock/pop songs is prodigious. The album came into the charts at No 1 with a bullet – the first of their five consecutive No 1s. Keane's output is not prolific, it should be stated – four albums and one EP in eight years is almost costive by the standards – and the demands – of the rock-music industry.
So far, so relatively normal. An enthusiasm was born. But one of these strange six-degrees-of-separation moments happened next. The parents of a friend of mine knew Chaplin's parents. Word filtered back that Keane had written a song called Any Human Heart, inspired by my novel of the same name. I think I then selected Hopes and Fears as the one British rock album I had truly enjoyed in a national newspaper Christmas roundup. Did word filter back to Keane? I wondered if it had because out of the blue I was asked to present the band with an award at an MTV ceremony in Amsterdam – I demurred. An invitation to a gig ensued – I couldn't make it. In another newspaper roundup I mentioned Keane as one of my favourite bands. Clearly our orbits were beginning to approach each other, if not intersect. I found it curious how, with no real effort on my part, or on the band's, we seemed to be becoming mysteriously in contact.
I duly bought all their other albums as they were released – Under the Iron Sea, Perfect Symmetry, Night Train – and observed Keane flexing different musical muscles, exploring other musical byways. Finally, eventually, Rice-Oxley and I contrived to meet. We talked about the song Any Human Heart, which, alas, never made the cut for an album. I asked him if he was interested in scoring films – he said he was. We discovered that we shared a near-reverence for the songwriting talents of Paul Simon.
Rice-Oxley and I met again for lunch. By now the band's fifth album was taking shape – Strangeland – a title inspired by the curiously isolated corner of south-east England (East Sussex/west Kent) where Rice-Oxley and Chaplin were born and grew up. South-east England is one of the most heavily populated parts of Europe but there is a significant patch of countryside on either side of the Sussex/Kent border that is strangely remote, both inland and on the coast, even though you are only two hours from London. By another coincidence a significant portion of my new novel, Waiting for Sunrise, also took place in that hinterland and along that coastline. Hastings, Rye, Winchelsea, Deal, Hythe, Battle and Romney Marsh all featured strongly in my narrative.
So when it was suggested that I write a short story to be included in the deluxe CD package of the new album it appeared to me the most natural consequence in the world. It was an interesting challenge, however. It was clear that I couldn't write a kind of fictional "video" of one of the songs. The lyrics did that anyway and a longer, more detailed version of the song would just be redundant. The inspiration had to be more oblique. I decided to choose the title of one of their songs, The Sovereign Light Cafe, as the title for my short story and simply start from there.
The story I wrote isn't remotely a reflection of the song but it is rooted in Bexhill-on-Sea where the action of the song takes place – another of those quintessentially English resorts that line the coast from Brighton to Margate. Bexhill is unique in that it has an art-deco masterpiece parked on its seafront – the De La Warr Pavilion. The Sovereign Light Cafe actually exists further up the promenade from the pavilion and is a classic seaside caff named after the vast, towering lighthouse platform of the Sovereign Light, whose intermittent beam can be made out, as night falls, on the Channel's horizon, many miles offshore.
I went down to Bexhill to savour the atmosphere. Keane were due to play the De La Warr Pavilion as a kind of thank you to the locale that had nurtured and inspired them. The modest front at Bexhill is well tended and somehow has managed to avoid the tawdry seediness that some of the old resort towns have succumbed to. The shingle beach is clean and the flowerbeds are weeded. The place is redolent of a form of timeless English holiday. Seagulls squawk, kids bicycle, old-age pensioners look out at the limitless horizon and contemplate eternity. I wandered up the promenade and had a sausage sandwich and a glass of chardonnay in the Sovereign Light Cafe. I mooched around and took some photographs – ideas for a short story that ended here in Bexhill were beginning to form, almost unbidden.
It goes without saying that Bexhill is very English and Keane's new album (straight to No 1, again) is rooted in this part of England. It's not parochial in any sense: it's more celebratory of the fact that life goes on here – in these out-of-season resorts – with the same intensity and passion, the joy and tragedy, the same mundanity and tedium, as it does anywhere else in the country – or in the world, come to that. Rice-Oxley's rich, melodic gift and his amazing capacity to surprise in the three-minute song is as finely honed on Strangeland as it was on Hopes and Fears. Chaplin's voice is, if anything, displaying more unfettered virtuosity than ever (I recommend a live performance to hear it in its potent, unbridled freedom), Richard Hughes and Jesse Quin form the rest of the tightest of ensembles, developed through years of touring.
Keane are a great British band – honest and dogged in the pursuit of their own particular vision. I feel strangely happy that our slow, serendipitous encounter has, if nothing else, brought the literary world to the world of rock music. Perhaps the meeting will be fruitful in the near future – we wait to see what new dividends may ensue.
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