A pop fan and traditionalist through and through, Weller has always shaped his trademark pulpit-thumpers, elegies and beady-eyed observations through the sounds of yesteryear. His attempt to switch the interview onto the offensive before it's even begun is easily parried because there is, in fact, a great deal to like about the record. "Well then," he snapped, "tell me what you liked about my record." But four hours earlier it had been a different, spikier story. They've already got their minds made up," he explains as our interview winds down with the late afternoon sun. People have so many preconceptions about me. "Maybe it's my complexes, but I get the impression that most people dislike me anyway, so I always start every conversation from that point. Nor, heralded by perfunctory handshake and a botched attempt to relax his frown muscles, does he slip into interview mode like a comfy pair of carpet slippers. He relaxes also when confronted by photographer and punk-era veteran Pennie Smith, though the on-camera Weller smile remains as elusive as ever. He derives no pleasure from making videos, or indeed any form of self-promotion, but the reassuringly familiar presence of his old chum, director Pedro Romahanyi, makes the day relatively painless. Installed in a grotto-like doorway under the cameraman's light-bouncing canopy, Weller strums an acoustic guitar and mimes to this gloomy yet oddly addictive bucolic lament. Clambering over stiles and wading through long grass, we make our way to a ruined Jacobean manor house whose roofless and crumbling walls have been reclaimed by the trees of old England. It is here he recorded his September-released second solo album, Wild Wood, and he's back to shoot the promotional video for the title song. We are at the Manor, the residential recording studio formerly owned by Richard Branson and now an EMI asset, an oasis of rural repose in deepest Oxfordshire that Paul Weller has almost come to feel is his second home. The tan, he jests, healthily confirms the popular belief that here is a white guy who wishes he were black. The desert boots are of a hue so subtle that they must have cost a fortune, while his sawn-off Small Faces haircut betrays the golden highlights of recent Spanish weekend break. He is tall, reed-slim and sheathed in navy cords and skinny-ribbed T-shirt. Reading on mobile? Click here to view Wild Wood videoĬalculated by mathematicians to be no less than 35 years old, Paul Weller in person appears to defy this fact by looking exactly as he did when he broke up the Jam over 10 years ago.
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