This is my old friend Laura McDermott, one of the very best guitarists I’ve ever known.[‘Is that a bit much?’I say.‘No,’ says Tadhg.‘It’s just the truth.’]For the last week we’ve been writing songs together again for the first time since we were in a band in college.I’m really happy to be working with Laura again and I’d like to take this opportunity to discuss the stories about our creative partnership that have appeared in the media this week.These stories wildly misrepresented both Laura’s situation and our working relationship, and the statements by alleged sources from my team were absolutely not authorised by me.[‘I’d love to publicly blame Hugo,’ says Tadhg, ‘but I legally can’t because we’re still in the process of firing him.’]I’m asking you all to please respect Laura and her privacy and to understand how lucky I am to be working with her again.She’s an incredible musician and songwriter.[‘You don’t have to say that last bit,’ I say.‘But it’s the truth,’ says Tadhg.]Thanks everyone, and I hope I’ll see some of you at my soon-to-be-announced live dates next year.
‘I hope,’ says Tadhg, ‘the news of the gigs will distract the more, um, unhinged fans from going after you.’
‘What are the live dates next year?’I ask.‘Are you touring?’
I’m unsurprised but a little worried by how my stomach twists at the thought of him heading off on the road, far away from me.
‘It’s not finalised yet,’ says Tadhg, ‘but yeah, the plan is another big tour in 2020.For when the new album comes out next summer.’
I glance over at him.He’s looking down at his feet, his face set.
‘You don’t look hugely excited,’ I say.
He looks up and sighs.‘I’m not, to be honest.I love playing live, I really love it, but touring – it’s not so fun anymore.Itused to be fun, like a big working holiday, but I know that when I’m on the road next year I’ll miss home, I’ll miss my old friends, I’ll miss … I’ll miss everything.Fuck, I know I sound like an arsehole.Poor me, I don’t want to play some gigs for the people who paid for my house!’
‘You don’t sound like an arsehole,’ I say.‘I get it.’And I do.
‘You don’t think I’m an ungrateful shit?’
‘Of course I don’t,’ I say.‘I totally understand.And, you know, you’re not getting any younger …’
‘I’m only a month older than you!’
‘That’s what I mean!At our age … well, you don’t necessarily want to be out every night.You don’t want to be away all the time.You want the odd night out and then some, I dunno, peace and security.A home life.Wow, that sounds quite boring when I say it out loud.’
‘No,’ says Tadhg.‘It sounds pretty good.’
Neither of us says anything for a moment, and then Tadhg claps his hands together and says, ‘Right!Will we get a picture?’
‘You’ll have to take it,’ I say.‘You’ve got longer arms.’
‘Fine.’He sits down next to me on the couch.He get his phone ready, holds it out and looks down at me.
‘You ready?’he says.And then, ‘Oh bollocks, I think I took one by mistake.’
‘Oh dear,’ I say.‘Show me.’
I brace myself for a sobering experience as Tadhg hands over the phone.I’m sure we’ll look like a study in contrasts: thedevastatingly handsome rock star side by side with the sleep-deprived thirty-seven-year-old copywriter with a wonky fringe and considerably less Botox and filler than the gorgeous female celebs he’s usually photographed beside.By which I mean none at all.
But actually, to my surprise, we don’t look so wrong together.I’m looking up at Tadhg and he’s looking down at me and we’re each kind of smiling as if we’re sharing a moment of complicity.I look positively fresh-faced.Even my hair looks okay.It is, I realise to my surprise, a really, really nice photo.
‘I think we should use this one,’ says Tadhg.‘I mean, as long as you’re okay with it.’
‘Sure,’ I say.‘It’s grand.’I’m aware this good photo might have been a fluke and the next one might live up to my worst expectations.
‘We don’t have to post anything, you know,’ he says.‘Or we can wait and post it later.’
‘Let’s post it now,’ I say.And he does.
I’m not sure why, but I feel slightly better once the post has gone up.At least we’vedonesomething.We plug our guitars in, keeping the volume sensibly low so as not to disturb the neighbours, and set to work.We run through all the songs we’ve written over the last week, and I’m struck again by how good they are.Better than the songs we wrote for the band back in the day.And then we start on our song.For the umpteenth timewe run through that verse, chorus, verse and chorus.Over the next few hours we try lots of different things.But nothing is quite right.Our song is still incomplete.
‘For fuck’s sake!’I feel on the edge of tears of frustration.I throw myself back in my chair, clutching my guitar.‘What’s wrong with us?Why can’t we just figure something out?’
Then Tadhg says, ‘Maybe we shouldn’t.’
I sit up.‘Maybe we shouldn’t what?’
‘Maybe we shouldn’t figure something out.’
