To the Shrewsbury Hotel by a bend in the Severn, where the décor features images of the city’s most famous son – Charles Darwin. Darwin with beard, Darwin with birds, Darwin with a monkey. There will be more monkey business in The Shrewsbury as the day evolves.
Robert Lloyd, head Nightingale, Cannock Man, sits studying the form in his copy of the Racing Post. As hinted in Stewart Lee’s superb film on the songwriter, King Rocker, Lloyd is something of a savant when it comes to betting. He’s mildly narked at the hype over the upcoming Grand National; Lloyd is a man for the flat. Musically though he’s less of a sprinter, more up for the long haul. The Nightingales recorded their new studio album – their 13th – in Erfurt, in the former DDR. Lloyd’s lyrics and vocals are as mordantly relevant as ever and James Smith’s guitar riffing is as sharp as a Gillette Mach 3. Armed with one of the most driving rhythm sections around courtesy of Fliss Kitson and Andreas Schmid the album is a typically punchy affair called The Awful Truth.
What, we wonder, exactly is that truth?“It’s whatever you want it to be,” he counters. “What do you think the awful truth is?” Perhaps death? “Well,” he laughs, “there’s a lot of death on the album. One of the songs called ‘The Gates Of Heaven Ajar’ and it ends with the line ‘So whatever happens, there’s always death.’”
Another track is called ‘The Men, Again’. “In a sentence, I suppose I think the world would be a lot better if men stepped down and let women take over,” Lloyd explains. “Without getting into the cliches about Trump and Andrew Tate it’s so depressing to see the news.”
The cover image, meanwhile, a painting by the baroque painter Tommaso Salini, an illustration of one of Aesop’s fables that depicts two women navigating the chaos caused by cats, a duck and a monkey while a dog looks on pensively, was chosen before the album’s title. “I think [the fable] is called ‘The Cat, The Monkey, And The Roast Chestnuts’. And I’d written that down ages ago as a great title for a song. The basic story is that there’s chestnuts roasting on a fire and there’s a pet monkey and a pet cat. The monkey realises that if he tries to get the chestnuts, he’s going to burn himself, so he gets the cat to use its paws to drag them out. This story had always stuck with me. And I just thought, ‘Ain’t that just the way the fuckin’ world is going!’”
Along with Vic Godard, Davy Henderson, and Lawrence, Lloyd is something of a proxime accessit figure, feted by many but sometimes jinxed by the vicissitudes of a life in rock & roll. Perennially underrated his doughty spirit remains brilliantly undeterred. His mood lightens significantly as he discusses his choices; his frequent bouts of laughter are contagious. He’s at pains to point out these are not his Desert Island Discs. Many of his Baker’s Dozen are not his favourite songs by the following artists, but each have a personal resonance he’s keen on sharing. He admits struggling to omit a variety of other bands and musicians taking in many genres, a long list that features Nico, Schooly D, Willie Nelson, Mahler, Can, Charlie Feathers, Roxy Music, The Troggs, and Cecilia Bartoli. He lives for music.
Nightingales’ new album The Awful Truth is out now via Fire Records. To begin reading Robert Lloyd’s
