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Charles Thompson IV says here that “there is no tour or record - it’s all one big giant tour, and it’s all one big giant record”, but the longer he goes on, the easier it is to identify patterns in his life as a musician. There’s 1986 to 1993 when, as Black Francis, he fronted the greatest American alternative rock band of the age, the Pixies; the 10-year period after when he became Frank Black and released nine solo albums, songs from which were recently collected together on a compilation, 93-03; the Pixies reunion years of 2003 to early 2007; and a new era begins with his new album, Bluefinger. For that, he’s not only left behind the gently rolling Nashville sound of his last two albums (Honeycomb and Fast Man, Raider Man), he’s unexpectedly resurrected Black Francis.

Why? Bluefinger is sonically close to the Pixies - so consciously so it’s like a message to the band, who Charles says refuse to record again - but he claims that’s only one reason and he doesn’t understand all the others. He’s guided by instinct, so he just did it and that indeed is what people have come to expect of this most complicated man. Famously, he announced the Pixies were over live on BBC radio, unbeknownst to the other three members, and since then he’s cackled in the face of expectation, releasing a slew of solo material unequivocally on his and no one else’s terms. You can’t blame a bloke for working, but to many Pixies fans his productivity (Bluefinger is his 14th album in 12 years) is perplexing, even saddening: they think the majority of Frank Black records are rushed, hammy, and mask, as biographer Ben Sisario believes, “aimlessness and frustration”. Charles is a fan of live-to-two-track analogue recording - an honest, cheap and potentially perfect method for making albums, but a commercial suicide and all this from an artist who still seeks success and knows damn well that the best selling and most adored Pixies record is the one that was most produced, 1989’s Doolittle.

Bluefinger was actually recorded digitally, but that has more to do with circumstance than a change in ideology. Charles, 42, lives now in Oregon with his second wife Violet, her two children from a previous marriage and their own two (to be three next year).

As he explains below, for his wife’s sake, he needed to find somewhere locally to record.
Also unusually for a man who despises potential pomposity in music, Bluefinger is a concept album, or rather an ode to the Dutch musician, artist and hell-raiser, Herman Brood - a legend in Holland but largely unknown outside, other than for his 1979 hit ‘Saturday Night’ and relationship with German artist Nina Hagen. Charles became consumed and inspired by Brood, often called the “Dutch personification of sex, drugs and rock’n’roll”, saying: “John Lennon and Yoko Ono claimed the Amsterdam Hilton in 1969. The Pixies headlined their first big rock show in Holland in 1988. Herman Brood reclaimed the Hilton for his country in 2001 [he took his own life by throwing himself off it], and now I feel he has even claimed back the Pixies, or at least me, Black Francis.”

If these different characters and obsessions sound confusing, know that they confuse the shit out of Charles too. For a while now he’s been in therapy and it’s had a marked effect on his songwriting. His early lyrics, often drawn from his Christian upbringing and life-long fascination with outer space and UFOs, were ambiguous, eerie, sexual, sometimes violent. Show Me Your Tears, from 2003, and his two Nashville records were far more emotionally sincere and direct. Bluefinger, expressly about someone else and the heaviest album he’s done in ages, is something different again and will do little to dissolve this age-old idea that Charles is a musician ruled by his own contradictions. Indeed, an excellent fly-on-the-wall documentary on the Pixies reunion, loudQUIETloud, presents a man who seems astoundingly self-aware and (still) amazingly bad at communicating; generous but egotistical; affable and fierce; open-minded and defiant. The reunion was a gigantic commercial and critical success, yet he’s still jostling for position as the leader of the band 20 years after they formed. It’s surprising.

Charles says that not much has changed in his solo career since the Pixies reformed, although he did have roadies for a jaunt round Europe this July. If Pixies fans give it a deserved chance, Bluefinger will keep the momentum going. If they don’t, the re-born Black Francis will simply start on something new. That’s just his way, and fuck you if you don’t like it. As he once told the Washington Post: “How can I complain? Because I don’t have a bigger pile of money? That’s a bad attitude when you make a living as a musician. Hey, you’re in the club, you’re on tour, you make records, you get to sing with David Bowie on his 50th birthday. What more do you want? An island?”

SP: Final show of a short European tour last night, and at a venue you’ve become pretty familiar with - London’s Shepherd’s Bush Empire.
BF: And I sold it out at last! At last. How many times have I explained this to people who put shows on? I don’t care if I’m playing in a tiny, tiny room, I just want it to be full. Every artist wants the room they’re in to be full. It has to do with architecture. If the room isn’t full of people, and especially if it’s a room designed for performance like a theatre, then the people who are there, including the people on stage, get overwhelmed. It’s not like the agent’s or the promoter’s cut of my little gig is really gonna make any difference if they go from this room to this room. We’re not talking Wembley Arena here, not with Frank Black. Just fucking put me in the right room! Half the time: great, like last night. The other times: why the fuck am I in here?

SP: Who was your band for the tour?
BF: This guy Charles Norman who’s the brother of this Christian rocker guy I used to be really into when I was a youth - a kind of rebel character called Larry Norman. By coincidence, I ended up living in the state of Oregon, down the road from Larry, and I’m acquainted with Charles. For Bluefinger, I used this drummer Jason [Carter], who’s also from Oregon. He came on tour, but originally I told my new manager that I wanted an all-English band because I thought they wouldn’t be a bunch of yes men; that they’d be nice and attitudey, like, ‘Fuck you, we don’t care about you anyway.’ It ended up being one English guy: Ding from Manchester, who’s played with The Fall and PJ Harvey, along with Charles and Jason.

SP: Was there a reason for the tour? The dates were two months before Bluefinger’s release.
BF: Well, that’s the thing: I didn’t really want to do the tour because it was ostensibly in support of this ‘best of’ compilation [93-03], which I couldn’t give two shits about. My manger convinced me to do it and because he’s a new manager I didn’t want to totally tie his hands: I’m already gonna be difficult enough for him because I’m opinionated and a little bit head-strong, so I said, ‘You wanna do the compilation, let’s do the compilation.’

SP: Why did your manager want to do it?
BF: I suppose he was saying, ‘You’ve been doing this a long time, you’ve got a lot of records, it’s time for a retrospective,’ from a reviewers’ point of view or whatever. This is your life up to now! So I said, ‘You choose the songs, I don’t care.’ There are no hits, so he couldn’t base it on that and the songwriting, in my opinion, tends to be on the eclectic side - I don’t mean avant-garde, just that the basic ideal was never to come up with the most poppy, commercial sound - so what’s the point? There are no ‘best’ songs, they’re just songs. So I said, ‘You pick ’em, I don’t give a shit.’ Originally, it was two CDs - too long, so he said, ‘Let’s go for 10 years - 1993 to 2003. That takes you from the end of the Pixies to the end of your beloved Catholics [Charles’s band from late 1996 to 2003].’

SP: And right up to the Pixies reunion, too.
BF: Yes, and it avoided the whole Nashville thing. I like those albums, but they’re different to the other ones.

SP: The compilation plays fine as a record by itself.
BF: I haven’t heard it yet.

SP: You released nine albums in those 10 years, but over a third of the songs are taken from the first two. How come?
BF: Those were the most popular. Like most artists, you have moments when you’re hot for a couple of years and then there’s a descent, maybe a crash, maybe a slow decline. For me, there were two records when I was selling more than X artist and those two records, right after the Pixies, represent the beginning of the sales descent. More people have those records than the others, so there are more songs from them on the compilation.

SP: You may have been against doing the compilation, but it nonetheless set in motion your new album proper. You were asked to do a bonus track and that became the genesis of Bluefinger.
BF: I had a bad attitude about the whole project from the beginning, but I knew I wanted to record above and beyond the compilation, so I needed to find a studio in my hometown, instead of always flying to Nashville or Los Angeles. I can’t always be leaving the wife and kids like that, so I had to put aside my high-falootin’ ideas about analogue recording and, you know, certain types of recording atmospheres. I found a little digital place - cool place and the guy knows what he’s doing - and I ended up working with a couple of good musicians [Jason and bassist Dan Schmid]. I went in and instead of making just a bonus track, I made a record over the course of 10 days or something like that. It became this concept album, which is strange because I never believed in concept albums. I mean, who cares about Tommy? People remember the songs - they don’t care about the concept.

SP: How come you did a concept album, then?
BF: I don’t really know, but this young guy I asked to produce the record [Mark Lemhouse] came round to my motel room, which I’d rented to work in - I can’t write at home because as soon as I sit down with a guitar three kids wants to play too - and we were having a couple of glasses of wine and chatting. I said, ‘What are you working on, Mark?’ and he says he’s working on a concept album about this serial killer from Texas. A light bulb didn’t go off - it went in one ear and out the other - but I’ve been wondering whether, psychologically, that triggered something. Suddenly, it all became this Herman Brood thing and it was really exciting for me.

SP: Does your interest in Brood go back a long way?
BF: No. He was on my list, of course… [phone beeps] It’s the satellite re-sending a text I sent to my wife earlier. I got this the other day with my therapist. I don’t talk to her when I’m at home much, but when I’m on the road I actually have a little bit of privacy and time once in a while. I get to call her up and have a chat. We’ve been doing it on a weekly basis and we were trying to set it up a couple of weeks ago via text. Suddenly, I was inundated for two days by one she sent me: ‘Thursday.’ ‘Thursday.’ ‘Thursday.’ I couldn’t get it to stop… Anyway, Herman Brood: heard about him a long time ago - think I heard the old Pixies tour manager talk about him once, and I think I may have been in town when he died. I may be making this up, but I have some weird memory of being in Holland with a rock promoter guy who I’ve been working with for years and him saying, ‘Herman Brood, you probably don’t know him, but he just jumped off the Amsterdam Hilton.’ So, as with all music geeks, I’ve got a little list and Herman Brood was on my list. And there I am, the kids have gone to bed, I’m sitting there with my laptop and I’m like, ‘What shall I look up on YouTube tonight?’ No rhyme or reason, but that night it was Herman Brood. I saw a performance of his, fell in love with it, and decided I wanted to cover this particular song [‘You Can’t Break a Heart and Have It’]. And I was looking at this scrap of an interview he did on a train in ’76, and then I’m finding out about how much they loved him in Holland, in the same way that New Yorkers loved Frank Sinatra. Herman is like the king in Holland. They love him and they’re passionate about him, so part of the record is to do with that - why they love him. Anyway, for about a week, everything I read about Herman Brood, and all the clips I saw of him, and all the songs I heard, were connected; all the dots joined up. Every time I stumbled onto a new little piece of information, it was like, ‘But of course!’ He made sense to me. Every little bit.

SP: Were you picking up parallels between your own life and character and Herman Brood’s?
BF: I don’t know. I’ve thought about it - he’s the same age as my father, same kind of generation, died about the same age, he’s an under-dog character and maybe I think of myself as an under-dog kind of character… I don’t know if it was what was going on in my mind, or is going on in my mind, but certainly I feel like I have a lot of empathy for whatever the reason, and it’s not just the charisma and the music and the art. There’s this almost humorous suicide at the end and there’s the tragedy of the monkey on his back. I usually don’t like to sing about these things because I find them too grim or something, but there’s something about him. You know, there’s the cultural domination of the United States, Canada and the United Kingdom, which is not as prevalent now as it was during his generation. You can imagine being a Dutch rock’n’roller in the seventies: you know damn well you’re never gonna fuckin’ make it into the bigger circuit, but that’s where a lot of your references are coming from. These guys love the blues, they love American rock’n’roll, they love Little Richard, so why the fuck shouldn’t their music be just as valid as some guy from Texas’s? I had empathy for that kind of situation, and the fact he was always getting kicked out of bands. His life had all this dramatic, small-time drama because he was a junky. He was the piano player in a popular band in Holland called Cuby and the Blizzards and they kicked him out because he was on the smack or the speed or whatever he was doing. I would kick someone out of my band if they were a junky, but the writer in me had empathy: I started to feel his own frustration with life and the business and everything else.

SP: It sounds like Brood truly kicked something off in your imagination.
BF: I started to write some songs and I was excited about them, and I was already in the studio, going to bed at three, but I was waking up at seven because I wanted to keep working. I just got this thing going and it was extra electrifying because no one knew I was doing it - they were just expecting a bonus track. It was kind of emotional for me, getting in Herman’s story and finding all this feeling for him. And I didn’t want to know the guy: I could have called people in Holland - his old tour manager and others who actually knew him - but that would have been too much. I wanted to sit in the same space as his fans who loved him. I talk about the drugs, but it had to be about the art and the music because that’s what we have left. That’s the story. I didn’t need to know the particulars.

SP: Did Herman Brood resurrect Black Francis, or had you already gone back to your Pixies stage name?
BF: I had decided to do that about a month before. In fact, I did it a month before but I’d been thinking about it for longer. I’d got this new manager… the old manager was the Pixies manager and I’d been with the guy for almost 20 years. It was kind of like a divorce - we didn’t end very well at all. That was disturbing, and I think probably because I was out with the old band doing these reunion shows and I couldn’t get them into a studio, and I was aware of certain criticisms coming from fans, or writers, or even my former band… I felt like, and maybe I’ve read into it too much, that I could be the most successful guy on the planet right now and they still wouldn’t want to make a record. I don’t know. With that band, as with any group of people who have known each other for a long time, there’s a lot of baggage. So, for whatever the reason - probably because I broke up the band way back when and just said, ‘Fuck you, see you later’ - they’re still mad at me. They’re like, ‘Hey, this reunion thing, let’s keep doing it, let’s keep doing it,’ and I say, ‘Okay, let’s make a record,’ and they don’t want to do it.

SP: There was one new Pixies song, Kim Deal’s ‘Bam Thwok’, and you recorded a Warren Zevon track for a tribute album…
BF: I was excited at the time. It was like, ‘Okay, we’re back!’ and we kind of sounded the same and it felt the same, and certainly a lot of interpersonal relationships slipped back into their familiar patterns. So I guess I was hopeful and, I have to admit, we were selling out places and making 10 times more money than we did the first time round… it felt good to be successful, not just to be making money. I thought we could continue, but the only way we could continue to do these tours was to have some new material. We couldn’t just keep going out there and doing ‘Monkey Gone to Heaven’ every night.

SP: You did write some songs that you gave to the band in demo form. What happened to them?
BF: They weren’t interested, and I kind of botched that whole operation because I played poker with them and I lost. The reunion tours were getting shorter and shorter because we’d played more and more places. About a year ago we were gonna do two or three weeks in eastern Europe and Spain and I was like, ‘You know, this is bullshit - we’re gonna go out there for two or three weeks and we could be going out and working for two or three months if we just go into the studio and make a mini album or something.’ I kept trying to convince them: ‘Okay, so you don’t want to spoil the legacy of the band…’

SP: …that’s the main argument?
BF: That’s the main argument and it’s a valid argument, but I don’t give a shit. We should go and do waltzes or something. It’s our band, who cares? We’re not nation-building here, we’re just making records. You know, I think it may have been an attempt to finally seize control - leadership - of the band again. I wanted to be the leader of the band like I was 18 years ago. So I said, ‘I’m not doing the summer tour - I think we ought to make a new record, here are some demos.’ So, of course, they were like, ‘Demo schemo.’ They weren’t even going to listen to them and when they finally did they said, ‘They sound a little bit like homemade demos - a little low-fi.’ Jesus Christ, they’re demos! Fill in the blanks with your brains or something! Anyway, they weren’t gonna have it - they weren’t impressed - and so I guess that was sort of the end, although we did play Australia earlier this year. That felt like the end.

SP: So there are no plans for any more reunion shows?
BF: No.

SP: Was there a point when you felt like taking Bluefinger to the other Pixies?
BF: No, but I was taking it to them psychologically. I was hoping it was gonna sound cool: ‘Oh yeah, so you think I can’t write rock music? You think I’m just an old fat guy stuck in Nashville? Fuck you!’ I even asked Joey [Santiago] to play guitar on it and he was kind of, ‘I’m busy right now, maybe I can, send me the stuff.’ I don’t know if it was because he was busy or he’d think he was rocking the boat with the band too much or something. He’s played on other records of mine, but I think in the context of… I think Joey wants to make a Pixies record, to give you a little more background, but he doesn’t want to rock the boat too much, and what happened was, the producer said, ‘The tones on your guitar sound right, we don’t need a lead guitar - it’s too much.’ So actually it was cool for me to go, ‘This is my first Black Francis record, whatever that means, and there’s no other guitar player - it’s just me. It’s all about me - me and a rhythm section. It felt like that: I can’t give you the Pixies, but hey, here’s Black Francis.’

SP: Were you nonetheless thinking of them when you were writing the songs? It’s not hard to imagine Bluefinger as a Pixies record.
BF: Well sure, but just in a friendly vengeful kind of way, sort of like, ‘Ha ha ha, this could have been you but you said no, so fuck you, you blew it.’ You know, maybe the record will just be another obscure one in my collection of many obscure records…

SP: Do you think it will be?
BF: I have no idea.

SP: It is different, this one.
BF: Yes. You know, I just have more energy now than I’ve had in a long time. I’m still a fat guy, but I was a fatter guy about a year ago: I started fasting on a regular basis and I dropped a bunch of weight. When you go from being one size to another, you feel like, ‘Aaaah yaaaah!!!’ Your energy level totally changes. Now, I don’t want to take a nap in the middle of the day - it’s just different. And one thing I’ve learned in therapy is that you make these symbolic gestures. [Hits the table] What does that mean? Really, in the cosmos? Nothing, it’s just a fucking symbolic gesture, who gives a shit? But sometimes when you do that, suddenly doors open and things happen and you respond to the symbolic gesture, the ritual: ‘I am now Black Francis again.’ It’s theatrical application and, on some levels, I don’t even deserve to take on a stage name because the history of stage names, at least in America, comes from a black blues tradition and those guys were trying to get rid of their fucking bullshit slave owner’s name. It’s so much more meaningful than me saying, ‘Iggy Pop has a stage name, I wanna have a stage name.’ But still, I was once Black Francis and, as a symbolic gesture, I became Frank Black, whatever that meant at the time, and then Frank Black is over now and I’m Black Francis again, whatever that means. I don’t know what it means.

SP: Have you asked your therapist what it might mean?
BF: No, because there’s so much other stuff going on. I think she’s just amused that her student has tapped into certain things and is kind of doing it on his own. She doesn’t really need to participate in it: I told her and her response was, ‘Great!’ and, you know, ‘Next!’ So, I don’t really know who this Black Francis guy is yet, but I’m working on it and that’s why I got rid of the guitar on this tour for the first time. That’s a psychological barrier. I always felt like I’m not that connected… You see, this is the problem: you get up on stage and you already feel kind of naked and awkward up there… The Pixies, especially, we came out of this more anti-pop kind of scene and it was never about kissing the audience’s ass. You want to impress them - you wanna be loud, or you wanna be exciting or dynamic, or you wanna put on a show - but it’s not about, ‘Hey, how’s it going everybody?’

SP: You weren’t dancing bears…
BF: Right. And now all the festivals… I’m not playing festivals anymore - that’s it. I played my last one, I don’t give a shit about them anymore. I mean, we’re all paid very well at these festivals, even if you’re low on the bill. I’m Frank Black and I’m not that high on the bill, but still - loads of money and you wonder where it’s coming from… I’m standing in a field in Switzerland the other day and I’m watching these parachutists come out of the sky, very dramatically over the audience, and there’s smoke coming out of their boots, and I’m like, ‘Wow, what’s going on? Air show or something.’ Parachutes open up and… ‘Nokia!!!’ [cracks up] Fuckin’ A, man! All these festivals, they’re all Nokia, Heineken, Marlboro… all this corporate bullshit. And I’ve never been offended by the whole corporate thing - it’s like, ‘Fuck it, if you can’t beat them, join them. I can’t get played on the radio but you want to put me in a TV ad? At least I’ll get some money, which will give me more financial freedom…’ But I’m playing these festivals and I always forget this. When I first started playing them years ago, they just seemed cooler; it seemed the audience wasn’t quite so dumb: one moment you had Texas doing their pop thing and then it was Nick Cave and The Bad Seeds, and people weren’t confused. Now, I feel like they look at me like I’ve got two heads. It’s like, ‘Come on, you fucking people!’ I stopped a show the other night at a festival: they were kicking around this fucking blow-up dolphin - a symbol of the festival, a balloon thing. ‘Stop! Kill that fucking dolphin. This is bullshit. This is not why I do this - so you people can hit around a beach ball. Fuck that.’ It’s like the whole thing with the encore, which, since the beginning of my career, has been overdone. It barely has any trace of what a real encore was 100 years ago. Everything is like, dumb audience, dumb festival, dumb, dumb, dumb, dumb. I’ve got nothing against pop music and I’ve got nothing against people who want to be showmen, but it really bothers me that there’s an expectation from the audience now: they don’t have any tolerance for something that isn’t that. Even some of my own fans have the same attitude: ‘I went to a show last night and I have to say I was very disappointed because he didn’t even talk to the audience.’ Jesus fucking Christ! I didn’t even talk to the audience? Where the fuck have you been!? Have you ever listened to a fuckin’ Lou Reed album? Have you ever been to real rock show? Have you ever seen Mark E. Smith? Come on! You want me to talk? Is that all you care about? Having this interpersonal, ‘Heeeey!’ Fuck you!

SP: You often read reviews in newspapers where the writer complains there was no artist-audience banter…
BF: Yeah, the aesthetic has gotten all wrong. The culture has changed - it’s all Nokia and Starbucks, it’s dreadful. So now I’m like, ‘You know what? Fuck all this corporate shit.’ No one will give a shit if Frank Black doesn’t want to play festivals - they’ll still go on - but I’ve had it. And I was never one of those guys who got up on soap box and was like, ‘We’ve got to stop Clear Channel, they’re ruining everything!’ I was always, ‘Showbusiness is showbusiness, baby. If Clear Channel want to pay me $2,000 more than local yokel punk rock promoter guy, fuck it - I need the money, I’ll play for the 2,000 more bucks.’ But I’ve been doing that for a few years and it’s so lame. I play House of Blues [swanky chain of gig venues in the States] and they’ve got nice production and you get treated well, but you can just feel it: the staff don’t know who the fuck you are and they don’t give a shit who you are - they’re just part of this big thing and you’re just a cog in their wheel. I’ve had it.

SP: It seems you’ve always done things on your own terms and often at the irritation of your fans. Many of your solo albums have come in for quite a kicking over the years. Has that upset you?
BF: I don’t expect everyone to love all my records - I don’t even love all my records - you just make them, and they just come out the way they come out. I figured out a few years ago that I’m a snake in the Chinese zodiac and a snake feels his way - he just reacts to what’s right in front of him. You don’t have a lot of artistic vision, it’ more, ‘Right here, right now, let’s do it.’ In terms of making music, that’s exactly how I am and exactly as I’ve always been since the beginning. People are always suggesting things that are too hypothetical and I’m always like, ‘No, can we just book a studio tomorrow and see what happens?’ I guess I’ve been offended sometimes when people act like you have no business putting out a record. It’s like, ‘Fuck you! I can do whatever the fuck I want. I make records - if you don’t want to buy them, don’t fucking buy them.’ And there are plenty of people who don’t - trust me. But some people buy them - they’re all in print, and that’s all I give a shit about. It’s like, ‘Lou Reed’s got a zillion records all in print and I want to have a zillion records all in print.’ I’m not leaving - I will continue to make records, because that’s what I do and that’s what I know. People are always saying, ‘On this record…’ or, ‘On this tour…’ But there is no tour or record - it’s all one big giant tour, and it’s all one big giant record. I don’t differentiate - it’s all just being a musician or a songwriter.

SP: Have there nonetheless been changes, pre-Pixies reunion and after? You were loading your own gear beforehand, right? And last night you sold out Shepherd’s Bush Empire.
BF: No, no, no. Last night went well and so did a couple of other places, but last year I went on tour in the States and, although I got paid a lot of money compared to what I was getting before the Pixies reunion, the shows didn’t go. The promoters gambled and didn’t win: the places were too big and they were paying me too much money. Before that I did acoustic shows in much smaller markets and all those shows went great. The reunion has put some money in my pocket but it’s not like it’s made Frank Black a commercial success. People don’t know Frank Black, they know me as the guy from the Pixies. But, yeah, I had three roadies for this tour, but I’m still very close to carrying my own amp. It would have been a more lucrative tour if I had but sometimes you go, ‘Fuck it, I’m 42-years-old, I don’t give a shit, I’m flying business class.’

SP: So no grand expectations for Bluefinger?
BF: There are always the high hopes, but my high hopes are always tainted with the experience of reality. And now, of course, there’s this whole thing of, ‘The record business is down! Live gigs are up, but records are down!’ Great, so now I can sell even fewer records and still struggle in the clubs. For me the business is there, but it’s very selective - it’s my London show, my Paris show, my New York show. I’m not complaining, but it’s not like I can just go out and have thousands of people turn up every night. I don’t know what I’m gonna do next, but I know I can’t just keep going out on the road the whole time. I mean, I’ll still go out on the road, but I’ve got to do something different too - write a theatre production of something.

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