Singer Sarah-Jane Morris can lay serious claim to being the world's most expensive telephone interview, she may also be the best.
When she climbed on the transatlantic line from her English country home recently, it was 9pm local time, and husband, ex-Pogue David Coulter, was manfully putting their young son Otis (for Redding) to bed. Morris had curled up with a cup of peppermint tea and was looking forward to a planned 20 minute conversation with a Montrealer she'd never met. 90 minutes later she was still talking and listening.
This is a barely quantifiable fraction of an interview that cover her tumultuous career, management adventures, eccentric family, British politics, musical influences, the joy of motherhood, the thrill of performance, Tom Waits, Janis Joplin, tonight's festival concert, with guitar genius Marc Ribot and the messy business of life in the real world (a series of books to follow, publisher enquiries welcomed).
For those on this side of the pond understandable unsure of her identity, Morris is a singer's singer of some 20 odd years standing overseas, from the punk and lefty Communards in the 1980's to a solo career now. She's a legend in England, where her stands at the equally legendary Ronnie Scott's club in London are instant sell-outs, and she regularly flees adoring fans in Italy, where she plays for weeks on end. They love Morris not because she is a technical virtuoso with a 3.5 octave range and fluency in most global musical styles, but despite it. Morris does not interpret soul. She is soul, with all its passion and pain, joy and sorrow, hard times and high. Whether singing Nick Cave, Curtis Mayfield, Leonard Cohen or Johnny Thunders, as she does on her genuinely wonderful new album, August, Morris cuts to the meaning between the notes and lines. If she occasionally sounds over-wrought, it's only because she is. 'Music is in my veins' she says 'it's not a question of wanting to sing, but having to'.
This need has left her vulnerable to unscrupulous biz vermin who have, in her words, regularly 'built me up for world domination, only to drop me form a very great height'.
After the fourth such experience of serial mismanagement she fought back, recovered some of the swindled money and set up a label, tellingly called Fallen Angel. August is its first creation.
'It's been a very interesting journey. I knew nothing about agency, management, record companies, or setting up a web site but it wasn't really a risk because I'd already lost everything. To my mild amazement, it's turned into a success story.'
August consist of one take interpretations for her voice and Ribot's guitar, with songs pulled from Morris and Coulters extensive CD collection.
Marc called (in August 2000) and said he was coming to London next week and had three days free. Did I want to do an album? This was on a Friday. He was coming on Monday. Some panic sets in.'
The perspiration produced inspiration. A lack of time and modest budget set them free. Ribot worked on the chords, she wrote down the lyrics and they went straight to one take, with no rehearsal. You can - and really should - hear variations on the results tonight, when a new and enduring festival star is very likely to be born.
When she climbed on the transatlantic line from her English country home recently, it was 9pm local time, and husband, ex-Pogue David Coulter, was manfully putting their young son Otis (for Redding) to bed. Morris had curled up with a cup of peppermint tea and was looking forward to a planned 20 minute conversation with a Montrealer she'd never met. 90 minutes later she was still talking and listening.
This is a barely quantifiable fraction of an interview that cover her tumultuous career, management adventures, eccentric family, British politics, musical influences, the joy of motherhood, the thrill of performance, Tom Waits, Janis Joplin, tonight's festival concert, with guitar genius Marc Ribot and the messy business of life in the real world (a series of books to follow, publisher enquiries welcomed).
For those on this side of the pond understandable unsure of her identity, Morris is a singer's singer of some 20 odd years standing overseas, from the punk and lefty Communards in the 1980's to a solo career now. She's a legend in England, where her stands at the equally legendary Ronnie Scott's club in London are instant sell-outs, and she regularly flees adoring fans in Italy, where she plays for weeks on end. They love Morris not because she is a technical virtuoso with a 3.5 octave range and fluency in most global musical styles, but despite it. Morris does not interpret soul. She is soul, with all its passion and pain, joy and sorrow, hard times and high. Whether singing Nick Cave, Curtis Mayfield, Leonard Cohen or Johnny Thunders, as she does on her genuinely wonderful new album, August, Morris cuts to the meaning between the notes and lines. If she occasionally sounds over-wrought, it's only because she is. 'Music is in my veins' she says 'it's not a question of wanting to sing, but having to'.
This need has left her vulnerable to unscrupulous biz vermin who have, in her words, regularly 'built me up for world domination, only to drop me form a very great height'.
After the fourth such experience of serial mismanagement she fought back, recovered some of the swindled money and set up a label, tellingly called Fallen Angel. August is its first creation.
'It's been a very interesting journey. I knew nothing about agency, management, record companies, or setting up a web site but it wasn't really a risk because I'd already lost everything. To my mild amazement, it's turned into a success story.'
August consist of one take interpretations for her voice and Ribot's guitar, with songs pulled from Morris and Coulters extensive CD collection.
Marc called (in August 2000) and said he was coming to London next week and had three days free. Did I want to do an album? This was on a Friday. He was coming on Monday. Some panic sets in.'
The perspiration produced inspiration. A lack of time and modest budget set them free. Ribot worked on the chords, she wrote down the lyrics and they went straight to one take, with no rehearsal. You can - and really should - hear variations on the results tonight, when a new and enduring festival star is very likely to be born.