“Beauty should be incongruous.”
Someone said that but I can’t remember who.
Belle and Sebastian are swans in traffic, a sunrise at dusk. Sweetly surprising and suprisingly sweet. Maybe they sound like Tindersticks, maybe not. They never grew up, it’s always summer in their world, but there are shadows of regret there, too. There are seven of them. Four met over milkshakes in a cafe full of surfers, and talked about Ladybird books, Daley Thompson, Orange Juice and The Go-Betweens, who probably aren’t influences. One wore an earring and had a cagoule draped over his slight frame. One had daises in her hair. The third on was waiting on his nail polish drying. The fourth one said this:
“Stuart just puts himself in the first person of a girl and writes compassionately about himself.”
But he writes women well.
“How would you know?”
Touche. Where do you see the band going?
“New York, London, Edinburgh, San Francisco…”
“We’re going to become more liberal.”
The least conservative and prettiest band in Britain.
I said that. Why don’t you believe me.
