Amy was a neighbour of mine when I was at the end of primary school and for the first year or so and secondary school. We became very close friends indeed, despite (or perhaps because of) Amy's amazing habit of turning up at my house just as we were sitting down for dinner. She was vivacious and fun-loving yet strong-willed and with a surprisingly well-developed sense of ethics for a ten-year-old.
Observer Music Monthly - September 2006
David makes an unlikely rock star and a nervous interviewee. "I never expected to get here," he admits, plucking at his sleeve. "I didn't ever see it coming."
What, then, was his defining moment? What finally pushed him into this career?
"Well, it wasn't sheer talent. I've had to work hard. And it wasn't simple inspiration. I've struggled over every note I've written." He ponders the question. "I guess it was my first girlfriend. That's where it started."
Born and bred in Kent, David met Amy at the age of 10 and became best friends. By 16, friends and family had grown used to the idea they'd be together forever. "Part of that was the youthful belief that we were actually in love. Part of it was that we were too lazy not to stay together."
By the age of 20, the murmurs about marriage were becoming more insistent. "So we set a date," David says. "There was no reason not to."
But, unknown to David, all was not well. Amy had been seeing another man behind his back. "The truth is, you're always more attractive to the opposite sex when you're already in a relationship," he philosophises. "We were both tempted. Amy strayed first. I can't blame her for it. We'd been together so long we occasionally found ourselves sick of the sight of each other."
Amy's fling didn't last long. "She begged me to go through with the wedding. Her parents begged me. My parents begged me. And I was lazy, so I agreed."
Barely two months later, at the age of 21, David began an affair with a girl of 16. "No, it wasn't very clever," he admits now, blushing slightly. The incident led to a divorce after less than six months of marriage.
David hit the bottle, hard. "There were days when I would wake up in a big, stinking pile of rubbish out the back of some bar and convince myself that there was some explanation other than the obvious: that I hadn't been drinking, that I'd been mugged on the way home or something. So I'd nip inside for a drink."
With alcoholism came, in quick succession, depression, paranoia and homelessness. "I was a bum," he says, straight-faced. "I was arrested at least three-dozen times for disorderly conduct. I used to think people were staring at me, so I'd try to beat them up, only to miss them and get a good kicking myself." He laughs nervously at the memory, trying to exorcise these demons. "To say I was a mess was an understatement."
Eventually he was picked up by a group of Christian missionaries. "Have you ever seen Guys And Dolls?" he asks. "It was almost - almost - like that. This beautiful young woman nursed me back to health and I fell in love with her. Unfortunately, unlike Guys And Dolls, she didn't love me back. I walked out on the mission one day. Never went back. I don't know where she is now."
While convalescing, David had started teaching himself the guitar. "I'd already had a bit of musical training, I suppose. I learned to play the clarinet at school and had taught myself saxophone and harmonica. My harmonica was my only friend through my illness [alcoholism]. I must have looked like a right cliché sitting in the trash playing blues songs." But as well as learning, he was also dabbling with songwriting. "I guess I felt like I finally had something to say and a voice with which to say it."
David released his first album, The Grind, in 2003, to modest acclaim and some success. "Apparently, there was some record-shop owner in Greenland who loved it. He bought a thousand copies for his store. Didn't sell a single one."
His second album - an epic, strongly autobiographical work, entitled The King And I - did rather better. "I got to go to these award shows where they try to pump you full of champagne," he says, grimacing. "I had to tell them to go back and actually listen to the lyrics of King: 'Sitting on my debris throne / One thousand nights spent alone / Whisky is my one true friend / Can't wait for it all to end'."
Success meant money and money meant a big house and now, for the first time since his divorce, a relationship. "Yes, I'm seeing someone," he admits, blushing once again.
With the first single, Happy Now from his new album of the same name riding high in the charts (it debuted at Number 2 last week), David has had a distinct shift in style. "I like to think of my music as a cross between Nick Drake and Simon & Garfunkel mixed with the lyrical power of Aimee Mann - with a bit of Madonna kitsch thrown in," he says, seriously. Then he grins broadly. "Or maybe now it just sounds like the real me."
Remember, folks: This is a work of complete and utter fiction from start to finish. I haven't seen Amy since about 1991, when she moved to Bristol with her family. She got married last year. I've seen the wedding photographs: she's grown up into a beautiful young woman but still has the same cheeky, slightly crooked smile that I knew so well.
In case you're wondering, The Grind and The King And I are titles of films I've made.
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