As I sit down to write this I note that it’s the five-year anniversary of the start of lockdown, and I’m reminded of the miserable day when Ben had to cancel all his touring, and how it marked such an abrupt end to that period of his work.
In the interim, a couple of years ago, he and I made a return to recording as Everything But the Girl, and I’ve written here about the experience of reuniting after a long period to make an album together. Now, as this lockdown anniversary rolls around, we find ourselves in another unexpected place – down in our basement studio rehearsing for two small London gigs in a few days’ time.
We didn’t really expect this to happen, and we’re not entirely sure how it has, so I will steer clear of long-winded rationalisations. Given that we haven’t played live together for 25 years it feels like Quite A Big Deal to both of us, but we are trying not to spook ourselves by looking in that direction. Instead – and this is what I really want to write about – we are having fun.
This basement studio of ours is a tiny space, and has a chequered history. In the past it flooded badly, rainwater leaking in from above, and for a long period while we tried to get the problem fixed, it was more or less unusable, sitting empty and unloved, equipment covered with plastic sheeting, buckets on the floor to catch drips, a permanent faint smell of mould.
But now, watertight and redecorated, it has come into its own and feels like it has just been waiting for this moment. We are down there all day, with cups of tea and sheets of paper, working out chords and lyrics to songs we wrote years ago. And we’re surrounded by our own history, our own inspirations.
One corner that survived the flooding still has random pictures stuck haphazardly on the wall: a black-and-white photo of John Coltrane, and another of Miles Davis; a Polaroid of me sitting in the garden of our old house; a snap of Joni Mitchell smiling widely. There’s a vintage poster of Al Green playing at the Longhorn Ballroom in Dallas; a picture of Sylvia Plath and Ted Hughes; a ticket to see Jeff Buckley at Shepherd’s Bush Empire in 1995 (doors 7pm, £8.50 in advance). Another wall is taken up with shelves full of vinyl, much of it Ben’s collection of 12-inches from his DJ days – and there’s a poster from that same era, advertising a Buzzin’ Fly night on a spring bank holiday weekend at his old club Neighbourhood in Ladbroke Grove.
Do these things sum up who we are? Or who we were? They certainly provide clues. We’re trawling through our back catalogue, uncovering things we’d forgotten, like being on an archaeological dig. One night we try a song we wrote in 1983 and just can’t remember it, so we unearth an actual printed songbook with the sheet music, and we follow the chords and notes obediently, feeling a bit like buskers on the Tube, learning our own material.
So far the whole experience has felt quite free, reminding us of our DIY roots. We have no expectations, and no obligations to anyone else. We’re just pleasing ourselves; not aiming to get anywhere in particular, just to create something, to connect, and to share. Down in this tiny space, hemmed in by a piano, a couple of Fender amps, microphone stands, pedal boards and a vocal monitor, we are trying to stay in that sweet spot before play becomes work; trying to hold as lightly as possible the knowledge that doing these gigs will be meaningful and significant for both of us. It’s a balancing act, as creativity always is.
In all honesty I’m terrified, but also quietly determined, in a way I haven’t been in a very, very long time. I feel uncomfortable, but energised. I’ve stepped out of my comfort zone and into the rehearsal room. I’ve no idea what might happen, but the wheels are set in motion, and we’re moving towards it, whatever it might be.
[See also: The Yoko Ono problem]
Content from our partners
This article appears in the 02 Apr 2025 issue of the New Statesman, What is school for?