Lawrence would be a living legend if he’d only ever released a single. Rivalling the Smiths’s “How Soon Is Now” as a classic statement of maladjusted misery, Felt’s 1985 song “Primitive Painters” topped the UK indie charts. “If we’d been on a major label, it would have gone Top 30,” says the surname-less singer ruefully.
Formed in 1980 in Birmingham, England, Felt released ten albums—one for every year of the decade—of delicately dreamy jangle, with Lawrence singing alternately poetic and funny-sad lyrics in a one-note speak-sing drone. And then, as he’d planned all along, Lawrence ended the band. The only thing that didn’t go exactly to plan was the massive fame. “I imagined Felt would be really big and that when we split, it would be on the news, and you’d have people on TV with tears in their eyes.”
His next venture, Denim—a twist on the fabric-related name of Felt—couldn’t have been more different. Where Felt drew on supercool sources like Velvet Underground and Television, Denim’s sights were set on the pop mainstream, albeit the UK mainstream circa 1974. Bunched together with ‘90s nu-glam outfits like Pulp and Suede, Denim watched their peers make it big. But although they did get signed to a major label, Denim themselves were never summoned to appear on Top of the Pops, the UK’s weekly chart run-down show.
Returning to the indie sector and former label Cherry Red, his next outfit was called Go-Kart Mozart, after the line in “Blinded By The Light” (the Manfred Mann’s Earth Band hit version, not the Springsteen original, Lawrence emphasizes). But while the records were as clever and catchy as ever, his career seemed to dwindle into ever-decreasing circles.
Then something unexpected and marvelous happened: The singer became a legend precisely for underachievement and for dogged persistence in dreaming. First, there was a 2011 documentary, Lawrence of Belgravia, named after the exclusive and ultra-expensive area of central London where he somehow managed to live. The comeback climaxed last year with a best-selling biography Street-Level Superstar, for which writer Will Hodgkinson followed Lawrence around for a year, documenting the lifestyle of an impoverished rock genius living on £10 a day. Capping it all off, a well-known sculptor even made a statue of Lawrence.
Meanwhile, Lawrence’s two albums in his latest guise, Mozart Estate—Pop-Up! Ker-Ching! and the Possibilities of Modern Shopping and the new Tower Block In A Jam Jar—feature some of his finest tunes and comic-depressive lyrics. In a strange, wonderful twist, the dream expressed in “Primitive Painters”—“I wish my life could be as strange as a conspiracy”—came true.
Lawrence: It’s just the idea that I’m tramping around, this accessible figure. Like, “He’s the Picasso of pop, what's he doing out here on the street?”
Corin Johnson, this respected sculptor, came to one of our shows. He said, “I’ve got this giant piece of marble, really expensive, that was gifted to me and I want to do something really special with it. I'd like to do you.” I had to pose for such a long time, in the freezing cold, because he doesn’t have a fire in his studio. He was chipping away with a chisel, chit-chatting. It’s strange seeing yourself emerge from this block of marble. Then I did the unveiling at the Fitzrovia Chapel. I pulled the shroud off it—everyone gasped. It looks exactly like me. It’s beautiful, like a Caravaggio. It has a religious aura.
All these things, the documentary, the sculpture, and the book, they’ve enabled me to climb this imaginary ladder of fame.
I’d read about Marquee Moon without hearing it. NME put Television on its front cover, but inside there was no interview, just a long rave review. Then, a bit later, I turned the radio on one night in the middle of John Peel’s show, and I heard this long song. I thought, “That's ‘Marquee Moon.’” I just knew. Afterwards, Peel said, “It reminds me of 1967.” I thought, “What are you on about? It’s totally new.” When I got the album, I was even more convinced Peel didn’t know what he was talking about. There's nothing old-fashioned about the record. Nothing ’60s. It’s the start of a new genre.
Cherry Red, our label, sent him a demo tape. Apparently, Verlaine said, “The songs just start and nothing happens.” My reaction was, “That’s why we want him! To help us structure our music. Make suggestions.” I don’t know why he didn’t dig what we were doing—that endless, rolling sound, not many people were doing that then. I think he would have enjoyed working with Maurice Deebank, our lead guitarist, who was a great player and similar in style to Verlaine. When I met Maurice, I saw the potential—that we could actually have a band like Television. Funnily enough, Maurice didn’t like Television! Still, I steered him into doing lots of solos.
We had this amplifier that reggae bands used; it had the cleanest sound. This amp had two modes, Rock Sound and Light Sound. One day, we were playing, and I flicked the switch to Light, and I said, “That’s our sound.” Maurice liked it because you could hear every note. No distortion at all.
I was using the lyrics to paint a picture of an imaginary world. That we could live in, instead of the real world. I never read a newspaper. Never watched the TV news. I was completely enclosed in this world.
I was obsessed with American things. Kerouac. The Warhol scene. We used a poster for the London showing of Warhol’s Chelsea Girls on our second album, The Splendour of Fear. America, and especially New York, was a different world. That’s what Felt was all about. I was staying in, consuming all these books and records, and not being part of the real world. I didn’t want a band that would have a massive following of ordinary kids on the street. I wanted to be really famous, but I didn't want ordinary people to buy my record. Crazy!
I bought a one-way ticket to New York in 1990. And it was like, “Wow, God, this is not happening. There’s no scene.” Meanwhile, it’s all suddenly happening in Manchester and London. Stone Roses seemed to be always on the cover of the music papers. So I decided to get back to England quickly. I was only in New York for four months but I got all nostalgic—and started thinking about the 1970s. I went to a pawn shop, bought a guitar, and then I wrote songs like “The Osmonds.” The whole Denim album was basically written in a studio flat on Sullivan Street.
I decided I was going to do the complete opposite of Felt. In Felt, we never talked to the audience, never interacted. But Denim, I thought, “We’ll put on a show.” But I didn't want to play live until we had a hit. I was waiting until I had the budget to do a proper show. But we never had the hit single.
I felt like there must be loads of people like me who don’t like early Bob Dylan or Jerry Lee Lewis—all that stuff you’re supposed to feel reverential about. The song was me saying, “I'm not scared to admit I like middle-of-the-road pop.”
Lionel Bart is my hero. My generation, we all love Oliver!. When I started to read up on him, I thought, “Gosh, I feel pretty close to this guy.” Because I'm not a great musician, and he couldn't play piano properly. He wrote all his songs on the black notes.
A lawyer told us you’ll have to change the title, as Poundland love going to court. But I wasn’t making fun of the store—I love the place. Although they’ve started to have things that sell for £2, which made some people angry!
In 2005, at a time when I couldn’t get arrested, Go-Kart Mozart did an album called Tearing Up the Album Chart. It only came out on CD, and if it’s not on vinyl, it doesn’t feel like a real release to me. But I always thought those songs were neglected.
This album is for people who read Street-Level Superstar and thought, “I really like that guy. I like the idea of what he's up to.”
I just never grew up. I still think I’m 15. I’m not interested in people my own age, like politicians. I’m interested in teenagers and what they get up to. This song is making fun of them because they think they are so tough. A guitarist I know worked as a social worker at a home for bad boys. He told me one time they went on a trip to the seaside and the kids, to get high, sprayed the deodorant Lynx on their tongues. They go crazy on it.
Actually, I had a great job in the early days of Felt, working in a theatre in Birmingham. I was what was called a cellar man, working in the bowels of the building. I actually think having a job and doing a band works really well at the start, because it focuses you. It really sharpens you in terms of how you use what time you have.
But all I have ever wanted to be is a professional musician. And I kind of am now, but it’s taken me many, many years.