Doing the Business

The Stereophonics were shaped by the pub jukeboxes of mid-Glamorgan. Which meant AC DC – and lots of it. Initially, that was why London music journalists dismissed them as tragically unhip. “But three years later” says Kelly Jones, the singer, “Damon Albarn was wearing an AC DC t-shirt. And the NME had Angus Young on the cover.” Now The Stereophonics are Britain’s biggest rock act. And they have sold over six million albums. So who cares if they’re hip? The surest way to be out of fashion tomorrow is to be in fashion today.

The band are on the Dutch leg of their European tour. And Kelly is scrutinising the driver. He is looking for any tell-tale signs to support his thesis that 60% of tour-bus drivers are alcoholics and/or coke heads. Which makes the long journey between Amsterdam and Groningen seem even longer. “You should have seen the driver we had in Rhode Island” he says. “She got the address of the gig totally wrong, and was trying to drop us off in a cul-de-sac. We said ‘This can’t be it. We’re playing an arena. With U2. Where are U2 going to play? In the bathroom?’”

The 14-berth tour bus has a film library of straight-to-video titles starring Erik Estrada. But Kelly would rather watch the driver – and talk. “We talk about everything on here. From who’s had his hand up Basil Brush’s arse to how complicated women are.” I expected him to use his time on the bus to compose. “Why?” he says. “Do I look like Bob Dylan? I don’t walk round with a harmonica and a pen and paper. We talk. I’ll pop up with a dry funny comment every now and again. But otherwise I let everyone else on the bus do the entertaining.”

Unfortunately, there’s not much entertaining going on. Stuart Cable, the drummer, is playing with a flick knife he bought in Amsterdam. And Richard Jones, the bassist, is sleeping along the back seat. The tattoo on his neck – spelling out ‘Richard’ in a typeface that’s difficult to place – is visible in the half-light. It only cost £1, but at least it’s spelt correctly – unlike the ‘Jonsey’ tattoed on his forearm. The tattoes are a relic from his days as coal man/electrician/plumber/scaffolder. But it’s different now. He follows the Buddah, and checks himself into hotels as ‘Dai Lama’.

Which is a Welsh joke. The Welshness of the bus is intimidating. It’s like Cwmaman on tour. Cwmaman – a pit-head village in Glamorgan – is where the boys grew up. Kelly lived eight doors down from Stuart. Who lived round the corner from Richard. And the three of them still go home when they can – well, it’s cheaper than therapy. The Stereophonics are proud of Cwmaman, and hope that Cwmaman’s proud of them. “Cwmaman had coal, and that was it” says Stuart. “Next thing they’ve got people coming from Germany, France and Italy to see where the Stereophonics used to drink. We put Cwmaman on the map.”

You could understand it if the villagers resented that kind of talk. “Not a bit of it” says Stuart. “We’ve had that jealous vibe off people in Aberdare” says Stuart. “But that’s two mile away. People in Cwmaman know the crack. They know I’ve been on income support, and had pints on the slate in the local pub.” Kelly nods. “They know I served fruit and veg for six years” he says. “And that I was in the Post Office every Thursday, sending off letters to record companies in Chinese take-away cartons. I did anything to attract attention. Now they are like ‘Good on you’.”

They know that The Stereophonics aren’t bad boys. Admittedly, Kelly did once hot-wire a van belonging to his local Pentecostal Church by jamming a lolly stick into the ignition. And, yes, he did drive the van down the road. But he drove it back again, because he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. Just because he’s a frontman does not mean he’s mouthy and self-destructive like Liam Gallagher from Oasis. Or intellectual and alienated like James Dean Bradfield from the Manic Street Preachers. Kelly Jones is well-meaning and polite. He likes sherry. And he’s got a pension.

The Stereophonics don’t try to be hip. Which is why they will duet with Tom Jones, and record a cover version of Handbags And Gladrags. But if they’re not careful, there’s a danger they could start to come across like a cabaret band on a cruise ship. But for now they are happy just building an audience. “We get reviewed in Kerrang! when we do acoustic gigs” says Kelly. “Then there’s the students who read Melody Maker or the cool people who listen to Xfm. And now you’ve got everyday people on the street. That’s what I think our audience is. Anybody – depends what the song is.”

It’s been a long , crazy ride (actually, not that crazy) since the band first signed to V2 - Richard Branson's record label – back in 1996, in the heady days of Britpop. “We didn’t have Britpop haircuts” says Kelly. “And we didn’t stand on stage staring at our shoes. We were very different. The only thing that anyone had to compare us with was the Manic Street Preachers. Only because they were Welsh, and there were three of them. Which pissed us off. If there’s one band I’ve never been inspired by in my life, it’s the Manic Street Preachers.”

V2 knew that The Stereophonics would make their name as a live act. And they wanted the band to tour. Then tour some more. “V2 were the only label that really talked about our international status” says Kelly. “All the others were offering us bottles of Becks at 11am, thinking we would sign anywhere.” T he boys became the hardest working band in showbusiness, and continued reissuing the back catalogue until the punters took notice. They finally received their Brit for “Best New Band” (as voted by Radio 1 listeners) in 1998. All Kelly would say at the ceremony was “About fucking time”.

The three-piece, who took their name from Stuart's old radio set, have now, officially, made it. With 16 top 40 singles, they have proved themselves to be more than just another meat and potatoes rock band. They have developed a varied sound, running from anthem to ballad, distinguished by Kelly’s 40-a-day vocal. And now they are ready for America. T he upbeat Have A Nice Day was their chart success – it was just the sort of song that Americans wanted to hear after September 11. And they followed it up with a support slot for U2. Once the driver had found the arena.

“You can’t go on stage and try to be a bigger rock star than Bono” says Kelly. “You’re just not going to do it. So you make the crowd laugh. Be human. Tell them you’ve travelled however many thousand miles to be there. And then play some songs that will knock their fucking heads off. Which is what we did.” Bono was impressed enough to share some of his rock wisdom with The Stereophonics. “He said that if you go out for dinner, look round the table. If everybody’s on your payroll, you’ve probably become a prick.” Not what you want to hear if, like The Stereophonics, you regularly eat with your roadies.

But with The Stereophonics’ family, the roadies are friends first, and employees second. Besides, the band regulary break with record label executives, PRs, and media buyers. More than any band I’ve ever met, they understand their position in the market. Kelly probably has an overheard projector, a flip chart and a powerpoint presentation. They have a long-term game-plan. Which is why The Stereophonics will be touring the US again in September – and continue to battle for airplay. You can’t be the biggest rock band in the world without conquering America.

“Sometimes it feels like we’re competing with Travis and Coldplay” says Kelly. “But Travis have got a much smaller fan base than we have. That’s not an insult. They sold records to such a wide range of people that, if their next record was in a different style, I don’t know what would happen. The Stereophonics can come out with anything at any time. I love The Strokes, but where can they go now? The whole point of The Strokes is a grungy band in a New York club, but they will be doing arenas in two years. What then?”

Stuart uses a cotton bud to clean his ear while he surveys the Groningen dressing room. “Not bad” he says. “We’ve got a football shower [a reference to the solid stream of hot water], but not bad. Sometimes you’re lucky to get a mirror on the wall.” Mirrors matter to Stuart, who is planning to wash his hair before the gig tonight. He hasn’t washed it for five days because he’s out of Tigi Curl Jam – a maximising hair product that rock drummers swear by. “I used to blow dry it straight when I was a glam rocker. But I’m a bit fat for all of that now.”

Ever since hairdresser Peter Gray gave the Super Furry Animals assymetric fringes, the Stereophonics have been obsessed with their hair. Kelly decided to grow his hair longer. In the comfort of the dressing room he takes his cap off for the first time today, but his hair still looks sickeningly cool. As he looks in the mirro, the only blemish he can see is a small scar where he landed on the fist of a Batman figure. And now he has had his eyebrows attended to (where once was one, there now is two) he is 5” 5’ of rock perfection. Which is why Cosmopolitan wanted him to pose naked.

But no-one said being handsome was easy. “Like when Melody Maker and Q did a photo session with us” says Kelly. “They cut Stuart and Richard out of the picture, and put just me on the cover. Embarrassing.” But the friends got past it. Enough for Kelly and Richard to sing Harvest Moon at Stuart’s wedding. And for Kelly to say a few words at the reception. “When you know somebody, but his missus knows a completely different version, it’s hard to know what to say. So I just said ‘I’ve slept with him, and I’ve been to the toilet with him – you’re a very brave woman’.”

In the corner of the Groningen dressing room is an excessive towel rider of 40 bath sheets. But the drink is all present and correct. There’s sour mash whiskey, vodka and white wine. But no corkscrew. “There’s never a corkscrew” says Stuart. “To stop us drinking. Like that’s going to work.” Kelly brings his own sweet sherry to gargle with before he goes on. “And sometimes I have a vodka to settle my nerves. We’ve done shows with Bon Jovi, so we’ve seen all sorts of ways to prepare. Aerosmith sterlize the entire dressing room. Compared to anyone else, we’re pretty normal.”

The self-service canteen has chicken drumsticks, schnitzel, and salt cod on the menu – ideal for lining the stomach before the sound check. “And then it’s on with the shirt, and the denim jacket [with a Ducati patch on one sleeve, and an STP patch on the other], and I’m a rock star” laughs Richard. “It’s just like Mr Benn.” Stuart changes into a similar outfit – mercifully leaving his leather vest in the changing room. Kelly stays as he is, in the same jeans he’s been wearing all week. “We don’t want to look like a boy band” he says. “We want to look like rock and roll.”

The last time The Stereophonics played Groningen, 60 people showed up. And they were only there out of curiosity. “We thought no-one was going to give a fuck, so we started being silly backstage” says Kelly. “We decided to draw moustaches and beards on our faces. It felt good for the first song. Really good. But when I started doing the serious songs I felt a complete and utter dick.” That wasn’t the end of it. When the band came off stage, they realised that they had drawn on the moustaches and beards with Sharpy Markers. And Sharpy Markers are permanent.

But that was 1998. The Sharpies have worn off, and the crowds have grown bigger. But ‘Ste-re-o-pho-nics’ is still just as difficult to chant. There is a bottle of mineral water by every microphone. And a small Persian rug. It’s a splinters thing – Richard used to like playing in his bare feet, but now he wears shoes that look home-made. His amp stack is littered with candles, josticks and a statue of the Buddah. The band don’t take the stage the way a teenage gang takes over a corner. Their arrival is announced by something choral. Maybe an Eisteddfodd sample.

They open their set with Mr Writer, a bitter song maligning lazy music journalists. “ Are you so lonely? You don't even know me. But you'd like to stone me. Mr Writer, why don't you tell it like it is?” I write a memo-to-self. ‘Remember to check if Kelly is 5”5’ or 5”6’.’ The set list, taped to the amp stack, is 20-songs long. But then The Stereophonics learnt to keep their songs short when they were playing working men’s clubs in the valleys. All the working men wanted was pop hooks that worked on a first listen. And cheap beer. Nothing much has changed.

The crowd don’t go crazy – Dutch fans are too laid back for that. Instead they light up sparklers. And one young girl shows her breasts to Kelly. So it’s a surprise to see him turn h is back on the audience. It’s a long-standing rock tradition. B ack to the audience – otherwise you’re playing pop. And he doesn’t dance. “There are two types of rock star” says Kelly. “Your Iggy Pop and Jim Morrison – or your Neil Young and Bob Dylan. You can be the one that everybody wants to be – the one that usually dies – or you can be the one that everybody thinks they would be able to have a conversation with if they met in a bar. I think I’m that one. I’m approachable.”

“Essentially I’m a guitarist” says Kelly. “A guitarist who sings. So I’m glued to the microphone. I don’t dance like a Spice Girl. But I do get into it in my own way. My gift is writing, and I write things that make people feel something. And I can sing the arse of pretty much anybody. Nobody scares me when it comes to singing.” He’s right. Kelly’s voice is inspirational – like a young Rod Stewart, but with greater range. And his songwriting just gets better and better. He is learning that it takes more than one great hook to make a great song.

Kelly took a scriptwriting course – and it shows in the poetry of his lyrics. He knows how to make em laugh, make em cry and make em wait. Every one of his songs could be a film. Or a scene from a film. Local Boy In The Photograph is about the young man who went round asking train times because he wanted to plan his own suicide. It’s based on something that happened in Cwmaman. But the new songs (like Lying In The Sun about a Portuguese beggar and Nice To Be Out about a train ride through Germany) suggest that Kelly’s horizons are expanding.

The Stereophonics plan to keep touring wherever their music is needed. “But you can tour Britain in three weeks” says Kelly. “What would we do for the rest of the year?” He’s only half joking. But the touring will continue to pay off. They have built up a solid fan base, and sell a disproportionately large number of their records outside London. These are the record buyers who are less likely to listen to what the fashion press and music press have to say. And they are more loyal. It could, they figure, give The Stereophonics real longevity.

The final gig of the European tour is tomorrow in Rotterdam – home to hard house, and free ecstasy testing. But Stuart can’t wait to get back to Cwmaman. His young son has just started putting his own head in the washing machine. And feeding his food to the dogs. They are the kinds of moment a father doesn’t like to miss. “It takes a while to adjust to being home” he says. “I can’t go and smoke reefers all night, or go to bed at 5am. The baby gets up at 7.30am. That soon brings you back down to earth.”

After the tour, Richard plans to devote more time to Buddha. And his motorbikes. “And I’ll just take my batteries out” says Kelly. “Actually, I’ll go into the studio near my flat in London. And make ideas that I’ve recorded on to a poxy dictaphone tape into something that sounds amazing. I don’t think of it as work.” Then he’ll head back to his house in Cwmaman. “They always ask ‘Which Spice Girl have you fucked?’ I lie, and say ‘Posh’. I’ve got lots of stories. But they only ever want to hear about U2. They like hearing about U2 in the pub in Cwmaman.”



		Doing the Business The Stereophonics were shaped by the pub jukeboxes of mid-Glamorgan. Which meant AC DC – and lots of it. Initially, that was why London music journalists dismissed them as tragically unhip. “But three years later” says Kelly Jones, the singer, “Damon Albarn was wearing an AC DC t-shirt. And the NME had Angus Young on the cover.” Now The Stereophonics are Britain’s biggest rock act. And they have sold over six million albums. So who cares if they’re hip? The surest way to be out of fashion tomorrow is to be in fashion today. The band are on the Dutch leg of their European tour. And Kelly is scrutinising the driver. He is looking for any tell-tale signs to support his thesis that 60% of tour-bus drivers are alcoholics and/or coke heads. Which makes the long journey between Amsterdam and Groningen seem even longer. “You should have seen the driver we had in Rhode Island” he says. “She got the address of the gig totally wrong, and was trying to drop us off in a cul-de-sac. We said ‘This can’t be it. We’re playing an arena. With U2. Where are U2 going to play? In the bathroom?’” The 14-berth tour bus has a film library of straight-to-video titles starring Erik Estrada. But Kelly would rather watch the driver – and talk. “We talk about everything on here. From who’s had his hand up Basil Brush’s arse to how complicated women are.” I expected him to use his time on the bus to compose. “Why?” he says. “Do I look like Bob Dylan? I don’t walk round with a harmonica and a pen and paper. We talk. I’ll pop up with a dry funny comment every now and again. But otherwise I let everyone else on the bus do the entertaining.” Unfortunately, there’s not much entertaining going on. Stuart Cable, the drummer, is playing with a flick knife he bought in Amsterdam. And Richard Jones, the bassist, is sleeping along the back seat. The tattoo on his neck – spelling out ‘Richard’ in a typeface that’s difficult to place – is visible in the half-light. It only cost £1, but at least it’s spelt correctly – unlike the ‘Jonsey’ tattoed on his forearm. The tattoes are a relic from his days as coal man/electrician/plumber/scaffolder. But it’s different now. He follows the Buddah, and checks himself into hotels as ‘Dai Lama’. Which is a Welsh joke. The Welshness of the bus is intimidating. It’s like Cwmaman on tour. Cwmaman – a pit-head village in Glamorgan – is where the boys grew up. Kelly lived eight doors down from Stuart. Who lived round the corner from Richard. And the three of them still go home when they can – well, it’s cheaper than therapy. The Stereophonics are proud of Cwmaman, and hope that Cwmaman’s proud of them. “Cwmaman had coal, and that was it” says Stuart. “Next thing they’ve got people coming from Germany, France and Italy to see where the Stereophonics used to drink. We put Cwmaman on the map.” You could understand it if the villagers resented that kind of talk. “Not a bit of it” says Stuart. “We’ve had that jealous vibe off people in Aberdare” says Stuart. “But that’s two mile away. People in Cwmaman know the crack. They know I’ve been on income support, and had pints on the slate in the local pub.” Kelly nods. “They know I served fruit and veg for six years” he says. “And that I was in the Post Office every Thursday, sending off letters to record companies in Chinese take-away cartons. I did anything to attract attention. Now they are like ‘Good on you’.” They know that The Stereophonics aren’t bad boys. Admittedly, Kelly did once hot-wire a van belonging to his local Pentecostal Church by jamming a lolly stick into the ignition. And, yes, he did drive the van down the road. But he drove it back again, because he didn’t want to inconvenience anyone. Just because he’s a frontman does not mean he’s mouthy and self-destructive like Liam Gallagher from Oasis. Or intellectual and alienated like James Dean Bradfield from the Manic Street Preachers. Kelly Jones is well-meaning and polite. He likes sherry. And he’s got a pension. The Stereophonics don’t try to be hip. Which is why they will duet with Tom Jones, and record a cover version of Handbags And Gladrags. But if they’re not careful, there’s a danger they could start to come across like a cabaret band on a cruise ship. But for now they are happy just building an audience. “We get reviewed in Kerrang! when we do acoustic gigs” says Kelly. “Then there’s the students who read Melody Maker or the cool people who listen to Xfm. And now you’ve got everyday people on the street. That’s what I think our audience is. Anybody – depends what the song is.” It’s been a long , crazy ride (actually, not that crazy) since the band first signed to V2 - Richard Branson's record label – back in 1996, in the heady days of Britpop. “We didn’t have Britpop haircuts” says Kelly. “And we didn’t stand on stage staring at our shoes. We were very different. The only thing that anyone had to compare us with was the Manic Street Preachers. Only because they were Welsh, and there were three of them. Which pissed us off. If there’s one band I’ve never been inspired by in my life, it’s the Manic Street Preachers.” V2 knew that The Stereophonics would make their name as a live act. And they wanted the band to tour. Then tour some more. “V2 were the only label that really talked about our international status” says Kelly. “All the others were offering us bottles of Becks at 11am, thinking we would sign anywhere.” T he boys became the hardest working band in showbusiness, and continued reissuing the back catalogue until the punters took notice. They finally received their Brit for “Best New Band” (as voted by Radio 1 listeners) in 1998. All Kelly would say at the ceremony was “About fucking time”. The three-piece, who took their name from Stuart's old radio set, have now, officially, made it. With 16 top 40 singles, they have proved themselves to be more than just another meat and potatoes rock band. They have developed a varied sound, running from anthem to ballad, distinguished by Kelly’s 40-a-day vocal. And now they are ready for America. T he upbeat Have A Nice Day was their chart success – it was just the sort of song that Americans wanted to hear after September 11. And they followed it up with a support slot for U2. Once the driver had found the arena. “You can’t go on stage and try to be a bigger rock star than Bono” says Kelly. “You’re just not going to do it. So you make the crowd laugh. Be human. Tell them you’ve travelled however many thousand miles to be there. And then play some songs that will knock their fucking heads off. Which is what we did.” Bono was impressed enough to share some of his rock wisdom with The Stereophonics. “He said that if you go out for dinner, look round the table. If everybody’s on your payroll, you’ve probably become a prick.” Not what you want to hear if, like The Stereophonics, you regularly eat with your roadies. But with The Stereophonics’ family, the roadies are friends first, and employees second. Besides, the band regulary break with record label executives, PRs, and media buyers. More than any band I’ve ever met, they understand their position in the market. Kelly probably has an overheard projector, a flip chart and a powerpoint presentation. They have a long-term game-plan. Which is why The Stereophonics will be touring the US again in September – and continue to battle for airplay. You can’t be the biggest rock band in the world without conquering America. “Sometimes it feels like we’re competing with Travis and Coldplay” says Kelly. “But Travis have got a much smaller fan base than we have. That’s not an insult. They sold records to such a wide range of people that, if their next record was in a different style, I don’t know what would happen. The Stereophonics can come out with anything at any time. I love The Strokes, but where can they go now? The whole point of The Strokes is a grungy band in a New York club, but they will be doing arenas in two years. What then?” Stuart uses a cotton bud to clean his ear while he surveys the Groningen dressing room. “Not bad” he says. “We’ve got a football shower [a reference to the solid stream of hot water], but not bad. Sometimes you’re lucky to get a mirror on the wall.” Mirrors matter to Stuart, who is planning to wash his hair before the gig tonight. He hasn’t washed it for five days because he’s out of Tigi Curl Jam – a maximising hair product that rock drummers swear by. “I used to blow dry it straight when I was a glam rocker. But I’m a bit fat for all of that now.” Ever since hairdresser Peter Gray gave the Super Furry Animals assymetric fringes, the Stereophonics have been obsessed with their hair. Kelly decided to grow his hair longer. In the comfort of the dressing room he takes his cap off for the first time today, but his hair still looks sickeningly cool. As he looks in the mirro, the only blemish he can see is a small scar where he landed on the fist of a Batman figure. And now he has had his eyebrows attended to (where once was one, there now is two) he is 5” 5’ of rock perfection. Which is why Cosmopolitan wanted him to pose naked. But no-one said being handsome was easy. “Like when Melody Maker and Q did a photo session with us” says Kelly. “They cut Stuart and Richard out of the picture, and put just me on the cover. Embarrassing.” But the friends got past it. Enough for Kelly and Richard to sing Harvest Moon at Stuart’s wedding. And for Kelly to say a few words at the reception. “When you know somebody, but his missus knows a completely different version, it’s hard to know what to say. So I just said ‘I’ve slept with him, and I’ve been to the toilet with him – you’re a very brave woman’.” In the corner of the Groningen dressing room is an excessive towel rider of 40 bath sheets. But the drink is all present and correct. There’s sour mash whiskey, vodka and white wine. But no corkscrew. “There’s never a corkscrew” says Stuart. “To stop us drinking. Like that’s going to work.” Kelly brings his own sweet sherry to gargle with before he goes on. “And sometimes I have a vodka to settle my nerves. We’ve done shows with Bon Jovi, so we’ve seen all sorts of ways to prepare. Aerosmith sterlize the entire dressing room. Compared to anyone else, we’re pretty normal.” The self-service canteen has chicken drumsticks, schnitzel, and salt cod on the menu – ideal for lining the stomach before the sound check. “And then it’s on with the shirt, and the denim jacket [with a Ducati patch on one sleeve, and an STP patch on the other], and I’m a rock star” laughs Richard. “It’s just like Mr Benn.” Stuart changes into a similar outfit – mercifully leaving his leather vest in the changing room. Kelly stays as he is, in the same jeans he’s been wearing all week. “We don’t want to look like a boy band” he says. “We want to look like rock and roll.” The last time The Stereophonics played Groningen, 60 people showed up. And they were only there out of curiosity. “We thought no-one was going to give a fuck, so we started being silly backstage” says Kelly. “We decided to draw moustaches and beards on our faces. It felt good for the first song. Really good. But when I started doing the serious songs I felt a complete and utter dick.” That wasn’t the end of it. When the band came off stage, they realised that they had drawn on the moustaches and beards with Sharpy Markers. And Sharpy Markers are permanent. But that was 1998. The Sharpies have worn off, and the crowds have grown bigger. But ‘Ste-re-o-pho-nics’ is still just as difficult to chant. There is a bottle of mineral water by every microphone. And a small Persian rug. It’s a splinters thing – Richard used to like playing in his bare feet, but now he wears shoes that look home-made. His amp stack is littered with candles, josticks and a statue of the Buddah. The band don’t take the stage the way a teenage gang takes over a corner. Their arrival is announced by something choral. Maybe an Eisteddfodd sample. They open their set with Mr Writer, a bitter song maligning lazy music journalists. “ Are you so lonely? You don't even know me. But you'd like to stone me. Mr Writer, why don't you tell it like it is?” I write a memo-to-self. ‘Remember to check if Kelly is 5”5’ or 5”6’.’ The set list, taped to the amp stack, is 20-songs long. But then The Stereophonics learnt to keep their songs short when they were playing working men’s clubs in the valleys. All the working men wanted was pop hooks that worked on a first listen. And cheap beer. Nothing much has changed. The crowd don’t go crazy – Dutch fans are too laid back for that. Instead they light up sparklers. And one young girl shows her breasts to Kelly. So it’s a surprise to see him turn h is back on the audience. It’s a long-standing rock tradition. B ack to the audience – otherwise you’re playing pop. And he doesn’t dance. “There are two types of rock star” says Kelly. “Your Iggy Pop and Jim Morrison – or your Neil Young and Bob Dylan. You can be the one that everybody wants to be – the one that usually dies – or you can be the one that everybody thinks they would be able to have a conversation with if they met in a bar. I think I’m that one. I’m approachable.” “Essentially I’m a guitarist” says Kelly. “A guitarist who sings. So I’m glued to the microphone. I don’t dance like a Spice Girl. But I do get into it in my own way. My gift is writing, and I write things that make people feel something. And I can sing the arse of pretty much anybody. Nobody scares me when it comes to singing.” He’s right. Kelly’s voice is inspirational – like a young Rod Stewart, but with greater range. And his songwriting just gets better and better. He is learning that it takes more than one great hook to make a great song. Kelly took a scriptwriting course – and it shows in the poetry of his lyrics. He knows how to make em laugh, make em cry and make em wait. Every one of his songs could be a film. Or a scene from a film. Local Boy In The Photograph is about the young man who went round asking train times because he wanted to plan his own suicide. It’s based on something that happened in Cwmaman. But the new songs (like Lying In The Sun about a Portuguese beggar and Nice To Be Out about a train ride through Germany) suggest that Kelly’s horizons are expanding. The Stereophonics plan to keep touring wherever their music is needed. “But you can tour Britain in three weeks” says Kelly. “What would we do for the rest of the year?” He’s only half joking. But the touring will continue to pay off. They have built up a solid fan base, and sell a disproportionately large number of their records outside London. These are the record buyers who are less likely to listen to what the fashion press and music press have to say. And they are more loyal. It could, they figure, give The Stereophonics real longevity. The final gig of the European tour is tomorrow in Rotterdam – home to hard house, and free ecstasy testing. But Stuart can’t wait to get back to Cwmaman. His young son has just started putting his own head in the washing machine. And feeding his food to the dogs. They are the kinds of moment a father doesn’t like to miss. “It takes a while to adjust to being home” he says. “I can’t go and smoke reefers all night, or go to bed at 5am. The baby gets up at 7.30am. That soon brings you back down to earth.” After the tour, Richard plans to devote more time to Buddha. And his motorbikes. “And I’ll just take my batteries out” says Kelly. “Actually, I’ll go into the studio near my flat in London. And make ideas that I’ve recorded on to a poxy dictaphone tape into something that sounds amazing. I don’t think of it as work.” Then he’ll head back to his house in Cwmaman. “They always ask ‘Which Spice Girl have you fucked?’ I lie, and say ‘Posh’. I’ve got lots of stories. But they only ever want to hear about U2. They like hearing about U2 in the pub in Cwmaman.”

		© Richard Johnson 2000 - 2009