• “Heat of the Night” is described as a definitive shift toward a driving, cinematic rock sound after a period of more intimate acoustic releases. What pulled you back toward rock — and what made this the right moment for that return?

Rock has always been in my DNA, but music, to me, is about seasons and storytelling. After focusing on intimate, acoustic releases like ‘If you knew what I knew’, where raw emotion and storytelling stood at the very center, I felt this intense surge of energy again. I didn’t just want to tell a story; I wanted to build a massive, cinematic landscape. ‘Heat of the Night’ required that driving, heavy rock foundation to capture the exact tension and atmosphere I had in mind. It’s powerful, it’s unapologetic, and after the quietness of the acoustic tracks, this was the absolute perfect moment to break the silence with a bang. It shows the full spectrum of who I am as an independent artist and producer—sometimes quiet and close, and sometimes explosive and cinematic.

• The song’s message centers on that moment in the dark when you finally shut out the world and find yourself again. Was there a specific personal experience that sparked this song, or is it something you’ve been carrying for a while?

This song actually brings together both: a deeply rooted feeling I’ve carried for a long time, and a very specific, quiet realization that brought it all to the surface. For a while now, my musical journey has been focused on an empowering theme—creating music that feels strong, intentional, and resonant. But true strength isn’t just about being loud or constantly pushing forward; it’s also about the resilience it takes to look inward. The spark for this specific message comes from that contrast. In the middle of managing independent music production, building a brand, and navigating all the noise that comes with putting yourself out there, you realize how easy it is to give pieces of yourself away to the world. The true turning point happens when you step into the quiet. That moment in the dark—when the screens are off, the external expectations are shut out, and it’s just you—isn’t about loneliness. It’s an empowering, sacred space where you reclaim your identity, ground yourself, and find your center again.

• Your “Vocal Kinship” project draws a deep artistic alignment with the energy and grit of rock legends like Bryan Adams. What does “vocal kinship” mean to you as a concept — and how does it shape the way you approach writing and performing?

As a musicologist, I’ve always been fascinated by voices that carry a certain raw truth, power, and vulnerability—much like rock legends such as Bryan Adams. For me, “Vocal Kinship” means recognizing that same fire in my own voice and building a bridge between the timeless spirit of 90s rock-pop and modern production. I don’t look for flawless, polite melodies. I write honest stories that give the voice room to breathe, scrape, and deliver massive but deeply personal hooks. It’s my guiding light for authenticity. It forces me to perform from the gut, leaving perfection at the door to chase the actual feeling instead. Whether it’s an up-tempo rock track or a ballad, my goal is to strike a chord directly in the listener’s heart.

• You studied music theory at the University of Heidelberg and have developed serious studio craft as both an artist and producer. How does that academic and technical foundation coexist with the raw, emotional energy that rock music demands?

It’s the classic tension between the mind and the heart, but for me, they don’t just coexist—they actively fuel each other. My time studying in Heidelberg gave me a deep structural understanding of music theory, while developing my studio craft as a producer gave me the technical tools to build those sonic worlds from scratch. However, rock music isn’t a science experiment; it’s a lightning strike that demands raw, unfiltered emotion and grit. For me, the technical foundation is the architecture, and the emotion is the performance. Knowing how to construct a powerful arrangement ensures the house is solid, which actually gives the emotional chaos of rock a safe place to explode. Because I am deeply familiar with my studio tools, the technical execution never interrupts my creative flow. Ultimately, theory gives me a map of the rules, but true rock thrives on rebellion. Having that foundation simply means I know exactly how to break those rules intentionally to catch the listener completely off guard.

• The lyrics of “Heat of the Night” paint a very vivid picture — shadows, open doors, locking gates, leaving town. Are you a visual writer, and how do you build that cinematic quality into a song from the ground up?

Yes, I absolutely write visually. For me, a song shouldn’t just be heard—it should feel like a movie playing behind your eyes. When I build a track from the ground up, I treat the music like a film score and the lyrics like a script. I swap abstract emotions for concrete, physical imagery like locking gates or open doors. These elements act like a camera lens, shifting between tight, tense close-ups and wide, panoramic shots that create real momentum. Relying on an archive of over 300 original lyrics has taught me to trust these vivid flashes. By blending this visual storytelling with a driving rock foundation, the cinematic quality comes alive naturally from the very first beat.

⇒ Read our review for “Heat of the Night” here. 

• You’re specifically targeting the Canadian, UK, and US rock scenes with this release while maintaining your European foundation. What does a truly global rock audience look like to you — and what bridges are you actively building to reach them?

A truly global rock audience is bound by a shared mindset, not geography—it’s a collective craving for raw authenticity and that timeless rock energy. By blending my musical background with a powerful, modern vocal approach, I create music that feels deeply familiar yet fresh across borders. While my roots remain firmly planted in the rich European tradition, I am actively building bridges through targeted digital campaigns and direct playlist curation tailored to the vibrant rock scenes in Canada, the UK, and the US. For me, reaching a global audience means bypassing traditional gatekeepers, connecting authentically on social media, and uniting rock purists worldwide through the universal language of a great, honest song.

• “Heat of the Night” carries a strong message about empowerment — saying no to the world in order to say yes to yourself. How much of that is autobiographical, and how much do you think it reflects something universal that listeners are hungry to hear right now?

It’s deeply autobiographical, yet I believe it taps into a universal truth. For a long time, especially as a female creator, I found myself trying to meet everyone else’s expectations. But true empowerment begins when you stop looking for external permission. Writing ‘Heat of the Night’ was my personal turning point—a conscious decision to say no to the world’s noise so I could finally say yes to my own vision. Right now, people are exhausted from constantly performing and putting on a mask for society. Listeners are hungry for authenticity. It is an anthem for anyone reclaiming their power, stepping out of the shadows, and choosing their own path.

• You’ve described this as your most prolific era yet. What does the creative pipeline look like beyond this single — are there more releases already taking shape, and is a full project on the horizon?

Absolutely! I’m currently in a very inspired flow, and the creative pipeline is moving fast. Following my recent singles like ‘Falling back in Love’ and ‘Heat of the Night’, I’m preparing a very exciting shift in gears. Next up is ‘Taormina’, a vibrant summer song that captures a warm, beautiful Italian flair—showing a completely different, non-rock side of my artistry. Right after that, I’m returning to heavy guitars with a massive rock track called ‘Tonight’. All these releases are pieces of a larger puzzle. A cohesive, conceptual body of work is absolutely on the horizon, moving toward a strong, empowering narrative.

• In such an AI-driven era, how do you see the future of indie artists in particular — and the music industry in general?

I see AI as a powerful technical tool, but it will never replace the human soul. AI can analyze structures and generate clean tracks, but it cannot duplicate a lightning strike of raw, unpolished emotion, grit, and vulnerability. The future of the industry belongs to absolute authenticity. Because the digital space is flooded with perfect, automated content, listeners are becoming hungry for the opposite: real human stories and genuine flaws. By relying on concept-driven artistry and honest vocal performances, indie creators can build deep, organic connections that algorithms can’t replicate. AI handles the data, but humans still hold the heartbeat of rock ‘n’ roll.

• For someone discovering Kat Madleine for the very first time through “Heat of the Night” — what do you want them to feel, and where would you send them next to understand who you truly are as an artist?

Through ‘Heat of the Night,’ I want new listeners to feel an immediate, electrifying surge of empowerment—the absolute freedom of reclaiming your own power. To truly understand my artistic depth, I’d then send them on a journey through my musical spectrum: first to my intimate ballad ‘If You Knew What I Knew’ to experience the raw vulnerability, and then straight to my upcoming summer track ‘Taormina’ to feel that sun-drenched, melodic warmth. Moving from the cinematic storm of rock into these different acoustic and atmospheric spaces shows the full spectrum of my world, where the grit, heart, and independent production craft always take center stage.

It begins, as the best stories do, with a coincidence and a missed connection.

Jason had two expensive VIP booth tickets to a Spiderbait gig at The Forum Theatre in Melbourne. He had been stood up for a date. He went anyway — if only to collect his VIP merch pack, which contained a limited edition vinyl 7-inch collection of Spiderbait singles he wasn’t about to leave behind.

Across from him sat a girl named Lisa.

1 of 4

Blonde. Dimpled. Wearing a power suit. Friendly in the way that makes a room feel smaller and warmer at the same time. At some point during the gig, Jason raised his camera to photograph the stage. Lisa stepped in front of the lens as a joke, waving — and the stage lights behind her formed what looked like a halo, or a sun, blazing around her head.

Jason’s imagination ignited. He became obsessed with finishing a song — right there, in the venue, in the middle of the gig. Lisa leaned over and asked what he did for a living. He was embarrassed to admit he was a music arts student and an aspiring musician. She asked to hear a song. All he had were voice notes on his phone.

The embarrassment was clarifying.

They talked. They laughed. The night moved on. Then the last song of the set began — “Old Man Sam” — and Lisa said, “Sorry, I have to dance to this one,” and disappeared into the crowd. After the show, Jason made his way toward the stage to get his vinyl box signed by Kram. By the time he looked up, Lisa was gone.

He walked home to Southbank through the Melbourne night. By the time he arrived, he had made two decisions: he was going to call producer Simon Moro. And he was going to quit university.

His musical journey — properly, seriously, without apology — was beginning.

That was the night “The Lisa Song” was born. And it is the song that made everything else possible.

Reetoxa are a Melbourne band fronted by Jason McKee, who after thirty years of songwriting teamed up with producer Simon Moro to finally bring his vision to life. The duo are responsible for the sweeping double album Soliloquy — a record featuring a European Budapest Orchestra and some of Melbourne’s finest session musicians — and now, with “The Lisa Song,” they return to the very beginning of that story to honour the moment it all started.

As for Lisa — a search has come up empty. But Jason keeps an eye out at every gig. Especially the ones at The Forum.

Musically, “Nightlight” clearly showcases Rivermind‘s style. The verse has an incredibly tight groove with the bass keeping the pulse in a way that keeps the ear engaged masterfully, while in the chorus, the bass takes a backseat and the dream-pop aesthetic takes over to create a bigger sound for the vocals to shine. The arrangement is clever and tasteful, but what really makes it work is the high-quality sheen on the production side – everything sits in the right place, and the mix has a clarity that gives each element room to breathe without crowding the vocal.

Two more singles – “Sunfire” and “Honey” – are still to come before the EP lands. Based on “Nightlight,” the full release is shaping up to be a strong debut from a band that has clearly been doing the groundwork long enough to know what they’re doing when the cameras are on.

Up to the Old Tricks opens the EP like a half-remembered reverie. Drum machines click nervously beneath reverb-washed guitars, while the duo trade vocals like conspirators daring each other to blink. It’s over quickly, but the chorus lingers, a ghostly echo that invites immediate replay.

Ice Block slows time. Sparse percussion and crystalline synths carve a frozen space where Flores’ voice drifts like frost on glass. The track feels fragile yet hypnotic, perfectly capturing mono no aware: the awareness of beauty in its fleeting, transitory form.

By the third track, As the Camera Shuts, West Wickhams have sharpened their spectral palette. Lurking synths flicker like dying bulbs, the beat hesitates and sways, and the vocals flit in and out of focus as if being observed from a distance. The tension never explodes, but the restraint is hypnotic, and the track feels cinematic in miniature.

EQ The Viper coils and writhes. Basslines slither, synths twist like restless shadows, and whispered textures emerge from the mix, making the song feel alive, venomous, and unpredictable; a moment of full-throttle unease in an otherwise measured, melancholic EP.

Closing with Save Yourselves, the duo returns to gentle reflection. Organ tones creep in, layered drones stretch the soundscape, and the song drifts to a quiet, unresolved ending. It’s a soft warning, a final reminder that beauty is fleeting, fragile, and worth lingering in, even for a moment.

Sakura is as much an artefact as a record. The limited-edition CD, Japanese obi strip, and whimsical trinkets mirror the music’s delicate, ephemeral quality, insisting on tangibility in a streaming-dominated world. Fourteen minutes of frostbitten, hand-crafted post-punk synth pop, this EP is intimate, enigmatic, and quietly unforgettable; a velvet drift through shadowed, fleeting moments..

In Camera Obscura, this unity is palpable. The trempette strides into the mix with a crisp brilliance that effortlessly slices through the heavy, almost metallic guitar riffs, as if declaring itself the compass of the entire record. Glittering chimes fracture around the edges, giving the music a cinematic depth, and the electric guitar solo arrives not as a contrast but as an extension of the same emotional space. When the trempette returns with a virtuosic solo, it feels like a statement of intent: technical command, yes, but also a sharp sense of narrative direction. The band sets the tone here, proving that even in dense textures, clarity can reign.

That clarity continues in BVFP, though the mood shifts entirely. A drum-forward opening tumbles unexpectedly into a breezy, beach-tinged groove, effortlessly light yet rhythmically grounded. The trempette floats through the melody with ease, reshaping it through different scale degrees as if turning a familiar phrase inside out. What’s striking is how the groove relaxes without losing precision; the band plays with freedom, but the identity remains intact, cohesive, unshaken.

Their re-imagining of Coltrane’s Naima reveals their emotional intelligence. The track widens the atmosphere, taking the original’s suspended hush and blending it with the album’s textures: chimes, understated drums, guitar bends that ripple like softened glass. It shifts the piece from solitary contemplation to a shared, collective breath. The trempette solo is tender but confident, elevating the emotional warmth of the composition and giving the ending a luminous glow that dissolves into fading chimes. It is homage and reinvention at once: respectful, yet unmistakably theirs.

Then comes Man in the Box, where the album bares its teeth. Here the trempette becomes something entirely different: edgy, defiant, almost insurgent, pushing back against the heavy rock instrumentation that surrounds it. The reinterpretation holds onto the tension of the original, not through mimicry but through psychological fidelity. The rhythmic tightness gives the track a coiled power, and the trempette’s refusal to “stay in the box” becomes the narrative conflict. It’s a musical struggle rendered with such focus that even the intensity feels controlled rather than chaotic.

Cactus offers a complete shift in scenery while maintaining the band’s unmistakable cohesion. The opening snare flicks like the sting of cactus thorns, mirrored by the trempette’s staccato – tenuto phrasing. There is Americana warmth here, a dusty glow under the subtle textures, yet the track never dulls its edges. The trempette plays with mischievous sharpness, emerging like a playful antagonist before the ending slips away unexpectedly, as though the cactus simply pulled back into itself.

In Lullaby for Zoey, the band leans into spaciousness: soft, dreamlike expanses where wide rhythms drift like slow-moving clouds. The trempette shapes emotion through delicate dynamics rather than virtuosic leaps, giving the piece an intimate glow. It rises toward the end, figuratively and literally, as if offering a final, gentle ascent before letting the dream settle.

Kasbah Knights jolts the album awake again: fiery, overdriven, charged with hints of Middle Eastern color. The trempette and guitar converse like two seasoned warriors sparring with mutual respect. Their interplay builds momentum and tension until a sudden moment of quiet enters: light percussion, a subdued breath before the final burst. The track feels like a cinematic chase, an adventure rendered with precision and narrative flair.

Their take on Riders on the Storm keeps the mysteries of the original but strips away excess. Clean, simple guitar lines drift under a quiet rhythmic pulse, allowing the trempette to glide through the melody with gentle restraint. Nothing is overworked; the band trusts the atmosphere enough to leave space, letting the calm breathe.

When In a Silent Way begins, a serene wave of sound unfurls: vast, sustained, meditative. The shift into the more upbeat passage feels like motion after stillness, brightening the sonic horizon before returning once more to introspective calm. The piece honors Miles Davis while interpreting the concept through the band’s own language: wide, luminous, and grounded in their distinct palette.

Finally, Tall Shoes Mary closes the album with its only lyrical moment. Americana warmth blends with rock guitar textures and jazz-tinged trempette lines, while the vocals, supported by soft, beautifully layered backing paint scenes of wandering cities, near-misses, fog, infidelity, unburned bridges, countless lifetimes, want, timing, and longing without collapse. The lyrics drift between clarity and fragmentation, like memories revisited in flashes, and the song wraps the album in storytelling that feels lived-in, tender, and real.

Across these ten tracks, the through-line is unmistakable: a sonic identity crafted with confidence, depth, and unmistakable mastery. No matter how far the album travels: across genres, reinterpretations, moods, or emotional terrains, it always returns to itself. And that is the brilliance of Baron von FrankenPaul: a sound so coherent, so intentional, that transformation becomes a form of continuity. This is not just fusion. It is authorship. It is a musical voice speaking ten different dialects with the same unmistakable tongue..

Izzy, the ringleader and storm center of this sonic assault, is what you’d get if Patti Smith and Joan Jett collided in a blackout poetry slam and left their DNA in a guitar case. She’s loud, she’s smart, she’s tired of your bullshit, and in “The Menu,” she’s shaving her freaking head on camera to prove it. This is not some posturing, eyeliner-drenched performance art piece. It’s real. It’s raw. And it’s razor-sharp—no metaphors spared.

The track opens with a guitar riff so jagged it could slice through your self-doubt. You feel it in your teeth. It’s not clean, it’s not polished—thank God. It’s saturated in everything that made the 80s godmothers of rock dangerous: conviction, blood, soul, and distortion cranked past comfort. There’s a bassline that lurches like a pissed-off heartbeat, drums like demolition charges, and then there’s Izzy, singing like she’s been holding her breath for two decades and is finally screaming underwater to break the surface.

And that’s just the audio. The video, directed with feverish flair by Ava Taulere, is visual poetry filtered through punk rage. It doesn’t “depict” vulnerability and rebirth—it IS vulnerability and rebirth. There’s no veil here, no sleight of hand. We see Izzy’s hair slowly be cut away with a scissor’s hesitation that lasts a breath, then—buzz. And with that, the old versions, the expectations, the baggage, the bullshit, all fall to the floor. What grows in its place isn’t meek or market-tested. It’s power, earned and feral. It’s the kind of strength that makes you reach for your own damn scissors.

What makes “The Menu” essential listening isn’t just the noise—though it’s glorious noise, trust me—it’s the way it makes you confront the menu you’ve been handed. Beauty standards. Gender roles. Cultural complacency. Izzy and the band ain’t just saying, “we’re not ordering from this.” They’re saying, “We’re flipping the table, lighting the tablecloth on fire, and dancing in the ashes.”

Jane Doe is not a band made for easy consumption. They’re a jagged pill, wrapped in guitar fuzz, swallowed with a shot of tequila and a scream. They’re a square peg in a round algorithm. But in a world addicted to polish and pretense, this kind of raw, blistering authenticity is a revelation. They are the band you didn’t know you needed until your heart started pounding to their frequency.

So go ahead. Put “The Menu” on repeat. Shave your illusions. Scream into the void. Jane Doe already beat you to it—and they did it with soul, sweat, and a power chord to the face.

Filmed in Seoul after a personal heartbreak, the video is an introspective wander through emotional recovery: no drama, no excess. Just SORE, often alone, drifting through the city’s nighttime calm and neon breath. There are no choreographed breakdowns, no staged catharsis: only honest movement. The grainy, shadow-tinted palette of the video resists glamour, capturing the raw moments of solitude and reflection that follow emotional collapse. It’s not performance; it’s presence.

Visually, the camera lingers. SORE leans against tiled subway walls, rides escalators, and pauses mid-crosswalk as traffic lights flicker against the lens. You feel time stretch. And in that slowness, something happens: healing begins to take shape. There’s something hauntingly powerful in how these mundane scenes accumulate into emotional texture, like scars forming skin.

The track itself, already available on all platforms, is a slow-burning blend of alternative rock, gothic overtones, and post-punk pulse. But it’s in the video where the emotion finds its body. The song’s shimmering synths and aching vocals dissolve into the Seoul skyline, and suddenly it’s not just SORE’s story; it’s anyone’s who’s ever been broken, left, or lost.

“NOW IM MUCH BETTER” doesn’t really need glossy edits. No overexposed light leaks. Just one artist, grieving and growing in real time. It’s a visual letter to the self: You were hurting, but you kept going.

And that’s what makes this video unique. It doesn’t show strength as fire, but as motion. As breath. As the simple act of walking forward, even when it still hurts to move.

So if you’re feeling fractured, this one’s for you. Not to fix you, but to remind you that survival is its own kind of masterpiece! 

Energetic and vibrant, the New Yorkers Yacovelli have unveiled their debut single, “Red Eye,” showcasing an impressive skill level right from their first release. Let’s explore this further below.

“One of the most compelling and complex releases of Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry’s post-Black Ark canon, Mercy is the fruit of a long and complex working process that has yielded exceptional results. Spearheaded by the maverick artist and musical outlier Peter Harris with Fritz Catlin, the drumming co-founder of industrial funk dub act, 23 Skidoo, Mercy’s experimental sonic occupies its own space.”  David Katz (People Funny Boy: The Genius of Lee “Scratch” Perry)

Dash the Henge are excited to announce the vinyl release of Mercy an innovative record featuring the legendary Lee ‘Scratch’ Perry and the work of Peter Harris and Fritz Catlin, out on the 28th of February 2025, pre-order here. It will be preceded by vibrant visual representations of key tracks ‘Reggae Poison’,’Whale/Fisherman Song’ and ‘This is Hell’ created by Peter Harris and Llyr Williams.

“I always saw Lee as a performance artist rather than a musician in the traditional sense, so this conceptual backing feels like a more accurate setting for his stream of conscious performance art,” Peter Harris explained.

• What inspired you to embark on your journey as a singer-songwriter, and how did you develop your distinctive style that blends pop and rock elements so seamlessly?

It all happened in stages as originally at fourteen my trajectory was playing lead guitar in a band and I wasn’t interested in singing because that first band was an instrumental combo. After a couple of years the band changed course and brought in a singer who whilst being a good front man would never know all the words to the songs we played so it fell to me to spend hours with my ears pressed up to the little speaker on my Dansette record player listening and learning the lyrics for him to sing. I would eventually sing backing vocals with one of the other guys in the band and in so doing picked up a little confidence and realised that I could carry a tune. We were starting to get a good reputation and a bit of a following locally with plenty of gigs coming in. We also had a residency every Friday and Saturday night at 11pm in a local club called The Tahiti club in Leeds which allowed us to do doubles by playing pubs and workingmen’s clubs earlier on. One night the singer never turned up for the late show and the others in the band suggested I take the lead vocals on a few songs which I did reluctantly and was relieved and pleased to see that there were no boos and a fair amount of applause which gave me more confidence with lead vocals. The singer missed rehearsals a few days later and the group decided that we’d continue without him as his unreliability was just holding us back. As we progressed and had a couple of personnel changes with me doing most of lead vocals now, we then set our sights on trying to get a recording contract. We failed a couple of auditions and I remember distinctly after one of these auditions the A&R man said the group was good but we needed to write our own songs if we wanted to get a record contract. That’s how I started writing songs as no one else in the band seemed either capable or interested in doing it. I think having absorbed all of my early idols in Rock, Pop, Motown, Soul, and Blues and especially learning from the great songwriters behind these artists I was able to forge an eclectic style that was in many ways the sum of all these influences. Buddy Holly, Roy Orbison, Eddie Cochran and Chuck Berry also were big influences as they not only were great artists but great songwriters too and then there were many others like Hank Williams, Bacharach and David, Leiber and Stoller, Mann, Weill, Buddy Holly, Felice and Boudleaux Bryant who wrote great songs for the Everly bros, Roy Wood, Pete Townsend, Ray Davis and John, Paul, and George and many more.

• Your song “Yellow River” became an iconic hit. Can you share the story behind its creation, and what you believe made it resonate so strongly with audiences worldwide?

There were two things that inspired me to write this song. The first being the colourful pulp fiction Western comic book covers I would see in the market stalls in town when I was a kid like, Buck Jones, Tex Ritter, Roy Rogers, Gene Autry and Hopalong Cassidy. They fired my imagination and fostered a fascination with Wild West folklore, with the likes of Billy the Kid, Wyatt Earp etc and the American civil war and the Indian wars. All this eventually segued into a continued affection with Americana. I wrote a few more of these songs like ‘Abilene’ from the No Turn Unstoned album in 2012 and Iron Horse which was a hit record for me back in the early ‘70s. The second inspiration was after hearing Jimmy Webb’s song Galveston by the late great Glenn Campbell. I was a big fan of them both and the song’s brilliant arrangement by Campbell plus Webb’s masterful melody and lyrics had a profound effect that was a big driver to motivate me writing my own Galveston tribute bearing fruit with Yellow River. I guess there would have been more than one reason why it was so popular worldwide, one being the universal empathy with love and loss in time of war plus the non-preachy antiwar lyric that the listener could access immediately. In the US many thought it was about the Vietnam war, so much so that Vets would write to me thanking me for the song. There was a cohort from a US armoured division who adopted the song as a morale booster as it made them think of home, which moved me a lot. The song also sounded different to everything else that was around then which probably also helped

• When writing music, do you start with a melody, lyrics, or an idea? Could you walk us through your songwriting process for one of your favorite tracks?

It could be any of these depending on what impacts on me at any given time and the things people say or do that stick in my mind. Sometimes a mood develops and some kind of melodic sequence comes out and I follow whatever feeling emerges.  Sometimes a lyric or sometimes an emotion like anger or remorse or a poke at the absurdities of life through a camera lens. As a spectator trying to figure out what it’s all about, like everyone else but with music and verse. ‘One In Million’ is a song from the latest album ‘Here And Now’ and is a typical example of things we all say that I just started singing one day and thought about how we all need role models and what it’s like to aspire to be a good person in a world full of doubt and insecurity, hope and fear. How sometimes we all struggle to find a balance as there is often a fine line between love and hate and even indifference which is often worse than the other two. Those feelings found their way into the lyrics and the top line melody almost at the same time as much of it was autobiographical.

• Looking back on your career, what do you consider your most significant achievement or defining moment as an artist?

Undoubtedly it would have to be the runaway success of Yellow River, spawning hundreds of covers across the world including a handful of world-famous artists and garnering a bag full of gold discs when a gold disc meant a million sales.  Music Biz awards like the Ivor Novello award in the UK which is a bronze statue and the Oscar of the UK Music Industry. Over the years it has been used in countless films, foreign and English, and has become a rock/pop classic still being played around the world 55 years later.

• Having witnessed the evolution of the music industry over the decades, how do you feel it has changed, and what advice would you give to emerging artists today?

It has changed beyond all recognition in so many ways. Technology, the internet, delivery systems, the ways of accessing music. If someone would have said back in the seventies one day we’d listen to music on our phones it would have met with snorts of laughter and derision. The streaming revolution has been great for the listening public but a calamity for musicians. Songwriters are the bedrock of the music industry and they are being massively devalued and not paid their worth. Apart from a few fabulously successful artists with zillions of fans the rest are struggling. Artists today need to be social media savvy, an accountant, business man/woman, influencer and if there’s time and desire learn to play an instrument if they can find the time!

• Were there any artists or bands that significantly influenced your music or career? And if given the chance, is there someone you’d love to collaborate with now?

Too many influences to mention but here’s a few: Puccini, Tchaikovsky, Mahler and many more of the great classical composers, the Great American Songbook writers, Hank Williams, Bacharach and David, Leiber and Stoller, Mann and Weill, Elvis, Buddy Holly, The Everly Bros, Roy Orbison, Chuck berry, Muddy Waters, Sony Boy Williamson, Steely Dan, Eagles, Johnny Kidd and the Pirates, The Shadows, The Ventures, Duane Eddy, The Beatles, Stones, Kinks and The Who, Yes and Genesis, I could go on!

• As someone who has left a lasting impact on pop-rock music, how would you like your legacy to be remembered? Are there any upcoming projects or ventures that fans can look forward to?

As a good songwriter. New songs, new projects and another album in the making.