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Back to: Archive · 2002 Golden Graham From Time Out London magazine, 16-23 October 2002. Interview by Chris Salmon. You've probably heard by now that Graham Coxon has left Blur. But there's some other Coxon news. On Monday, the guitarist released his third solo album in two years, and it's a work of powerful and delicate beauty. And there's more. The man described last week in a broadsheet headline as 'tortured' is sitting opposite me, sipping orange juice in a Camden pub. "I've honestly never been so happy," he says in his gentle childlike tones. "I feel like the guy at the end of 'The Shawshank Redemption'. Genuinely." It would be a crying shame if 'The Kiss Of Morning' were lost in the Blur-split-tittle-tattle. Because where Coxon's first solo release, 'The Golden D', was cluttered and unfocussed, and last year's 'Crow Sit On Blood Tree' showed promise in patches, 'The Kiss Of Morning' is an accomplished and accessible record. Musically, it's the nearest he's come to Blur (think 'Modern Life Is Rubbish' or 'Blur' with a countrified, lo-fi twist), while the lyrics deal eloquently with the desperate sadness of a man who, in the past few years, has split from the mother of his young child and been in rehab to overcome his drinking problems. The immensely personal songs also include a bile-fuelled rant against a "two-faced f***ing fake" former friend ('Song For The Sick'), which most have assumed targets his old school pal, Damon Albarn. Coxon insists it doesn't and that, anyway, he's no longer angry with the person it was written about. "It's capturing a moment," he says. "That's what songs do. Y'know, 'Bitter Tears' [the album's heart-tearing opener] is about sitting on the end of my bed in The Priory, waiting for my f***ing Valium. I wrote it at 7am with my tape recorder in front of me, 'cos this one morning the nurse was late." He laughs quietly. "None of the songs on this album have anything to do with Blur. It was recorded way before there was any kind of problem. My involvement with Blur stopped in May. I recorded this in February." You have officially left Blur, then? "I haven't officially left Blur, no," he says. "I haven't had a piece of paper that I can frame and put on the wall. But they didn't require my services anymore. Perhaps they felt that, as a person, they couldn't really have me around." Their choice? Coxon pauses. "Their choice," he says flatly. On his way to a recording session for Blur's upcoming album, he was called in by the band's manager and told the others felt it was the 'way forward' if he didn't go into the studio for the rest of the album. He insists he doesn't know exactly why. Can't you give them a ring? "No." But you've been through so much together. "We've been through a lot together that would put any friendship under great strain. I think, really, to cope with that our friendship became more of a business association." As a Blur fan, it's horrible to watch it all disintegrate like this. "And that's why I'm not gonna be nasty about them. Y'know, they should do what makes them happy. Because I'm gonna do what makes me happy. And they're not happy with me in the group, so..." But don't you want to find out what's going on? "We can't just call each other up. There has to be some sort of grieving process." They've been such an important part of your life, though. "I've had girlfriends that have been so important to me, that I knew for three years, that I'll never forget. But y'know, it's like..." He trails off. I tell him I'd try and keep in touch. It hits a raw nerve. "But what if they don't wanna keep in touch with you," he spits, his voice filled with hurt. "It's nothing to do with what you want. It's to do with what a lot of people want. Management, f***in' record companies, members of groups. Y'know, it's not as easy as just picking up a f***ing phone and saying [goofy voice]: 'Oh, I'm really sorry. Wanna get it together and have some lunch?'. Y'know there's a huge history of event, inter-relation resentments, all sorts of shit. Such a lot of crap undealt with. You can't just cure it with a phone call." I'm not talking about happy endings. I'm just saying that, maybe one day, you might regret leaving it unreconciled. "Yeah," he says, softening. "It's interesting, 'cos it hasn't been brought up much. I haven't really been forced to think about that. But I think that's really why it can't... I mean, I don't know what'll happen in five years. But I'm not gonna force anything. Maybe we liked each other too much, y'know. Or maybe we were too close. I don't know." It's hard to imagine a Blur gig without you. "I'd like to see one," he says. "I've always wanted to see Blur." He chuckles cheerily. And that's the thing. No doubt Coxon's hurt by what's happened with Blur, who wouldn't be? But for the hour that we talk, he really doesn't come over as depressed or angry about it. Because, these days, Coxon isn't the tortured soul he was. Both the responsibilities of fatherhood and overcoming his problems with alcohol have markedly changed him. Blur or no Blur, Graham Coxon has "done a lot of work" on himself, and he's come out a better man. "I think I have the potential for being a bit unhinged, but no more than anybody else," he admits. "I was in a very different place a year ago. But I feel very together now." He smiles. "Actually, all my albums have come out of some weird crisis. So I'm worried that I'm feeling so happy now that maybe the next one will be terrible." Maybe for now he should just enjoy his best solo record yet. "Yeah, well I think... yeah. It's all good." That smile again. "Really."
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