interview by Bette Noire

article by Shaun Bateman

live photos courtesy of The Music Slut

special thanks to the Patrick Wolf livejournal community for input.

In terms of the pre-existing Patrick Wolf palette, used by media reviewers and fans alike, there are a small, small set of colors that have oft been used to paint in the margins of his image. Grey comes to mind immediately, as do red, black and white. In fact, when it comes to Wolf it seems a persona has been planted, nurtured and cultivated-that of the manboy troubadour, mischievously hormonal, hauntingly troubled, and wise beyond his years (and all the darker for it). Call it WolfBoy noir, but the smoky adjectives, always matching his smoky eye shadow, have cast an image that, far and wide, overshadows the lyrics, the music, or even Patrick himself. His real surname isn’t Wolf. This much we know. We also know that, in the early days of his first album, Lycanthropy, he was quite fond of inventing a tortured childhood to accompany his tortured music. Now he’s grown up and into a namecheckable electronic troubadour and released an album, The Magic Position, which turns his cloudy skies and coffee shop tearstains into candy rainbows, street processions and children’s choirs.

Our boy Wolf, it would seem, has been having a good laugh at all this “gloomy, tortured artist” nonsense.

In a phone interview the morning of his second New York promotional appearance, a pre-release sorta-tour built out of hype from those who have, um, purchased the import of The Magic Position, right, that’s it, purchased the import (the U.S. release happens in May), Patrick was frollickingly amicable, a down-right surprise given the pouty nature presented by many 2007 European interviews. This Wolf, the one so quickly labeled dark, brooding and fierce, Kate Bush influenced and aesthetically inspired by the BowiEno trilogy, is the verysame whose first self-purchased album was by 80’s retro-party band Jive Bunny and the Mixmasters, and who gives his non-musical past time as “getting drunk with my friends”.

Not so threatening, nor intimidating, hm?

Some of the Wolf-facts that have surfaced over the past few years and past three albums are entirely true. He’s a stellar multi-instrumentalist whose album credits read like the those for that certain other “P” artist, Prince: harp, clavinet, harpsichord, guitar, autoharp, kantele, organ, mountain dulcimer, clavichord, harmonium, accordion, theremin, ukulele, viola and violin. The instrument closest to his heart, though? The piano. “The piano is intrinsic to me”, Patrick says. “I know it better than any of my friends.”

Ah, there’s that brooding Patrick again. It’s easy to imagine him smiling softly and lowering his head a little.

He’s also a compelling lyricist, who manages, with ease, to excel at that tricky feat of penning words that seem revealing and yet never actually reveal a thing. The Prince comparison returns, this time registering a quote from the purple one’s “Controversy”:

I just can’t believe all the things people say
Am I black or white? Am I straight or gay?
Do I believe in God? Do I believe in me?
I can’t understand human curiosity

Simultaneously shocking and subdued, it’s the sort of idea, the sort of line, that Wolf tends to walk every public moment of his day-being naked with clothing on.

If there is a split, a duality in the Patricks dark and light, public and private (two breeds of Wolf), one firmly embracing the Peter Pan idea of “boys can fly, as long as they don’t grow up” and the other a poster manchild for Club Innocence Lost, the two sides become a whole when Patrick’s posed with the question of what he would do if he were to be a woman for a day. There’s a pause. “I’d beat up a man.” With what? “With a frying pan.” What would he wear? “A yasmak or a burka, because I’d probably be a Muslim woman and want to take revenge on men.”

So there’s the dark/light.

It’s the same duality that comes out to play during Patrick’s Studio B show, the night before the now-infamous Misshapes firing of his drummer. On this night, all that was yet to come, and Patrick slinked onstage, black hair, black shirt and black trousers, and, with “Overture”, presented himself as a voice of wisdom and reason-the repeated lyrics of “was it worth all that war just to win” make an obviously political song resonate intensely when performed for a venue smack dab in America’s bloodstream. “Get Lost” found him beckoning as a child-like Pan, and as he stripped from his shirt and trousers into shorts and a vest, glitter and makeup covering every inch of his body, it was quickly apparent that, though his band may be talented, this was the Patrick Wolf show.

Flinging himself to the floor, prancing, prowling, masterfully handling piano and ukulele like a lover, Patrick Wolf presented himself as a born performer. His softer side came through on the achingly gorgeous “Bluebells”, his sexual aggression on the newly-penned “Blackbird” (written, allegedly, while he was drunk talking to a bird in the street, and featuring lyrics sharpened to take down Timberlake and a fuck-me bassline to match), and he was pure smiles-and-venom when briefly addressing June D., the obnoxious half-wit of a promoter who had earlier taken the stage wearing a giant gold dollar-sign necklace and, in a horribly failed attempt to assimilate southern Crunk dialect, slurred and cat-called Patrick, before informing the audience that “it’s too bad he’s gay”. “She needs to spend a night with me”, Patrick declared, before launching into the gypsy-dance of “The Libertine”.

It was during Wind In The Wires highpoint “Tristan” that the ravenously sexual mood hit the peak, with Patrick covering the audience in sweat, heavy laptop industrial beat and the desire to merge with any and everything nearby. The fuck-rave played a fascinating counterpoint to the sheer, unbridled joy of “The Magic Position”, the main set’s closing song and by far the happiest thing that will ever grace the stage at Studio B. As he led everyone through a two-step dance number from the song’s technicolor fruitloops dream-boat of a video, you can hear the crowd singing along with his calling out of dance steps, permanently embedding the song’s chorus in the room’s collective conscious as “you put me in the RIGHT LEFT darlin’ now”.

When Patrick and company returned for an encore, it wasn’t for the expected Billy Squier “Big Beat” stadium thump of “Accident And Emergency”, the new album’s first single, nor was it for either of the most requested songs from the audience, “The Childcatcher” or “ A Boy Like Me”. Rather, it was for his own take on a disco classic, Kelly Marie’s “Feels Like I’m In Love”. To a pulsing computer throb, this was Patrick, the entertainer, pounding his chest to indicate his love for some unnamed person, the crowd, the city, the state, the country, life, the universe, everything. It was a love that all in attendance were swept up and into, closing the evening, and the too-short show, with a rush of ecstasy.

So, then, who is this Patrick Wolf? Is he a brooding little boy lost in our little world? Is he a masterfully controlling public figure, able to control the presentation of his image to an intense degree? Is he just a highly skilled musician?

It’s all and none. Patrick Wolf is Patrick Wolf, and it’s that very existence that makes him such a captivating figure, such a brilliant musician, and such a compelling performer.

The answer to “who is Patrick Wolf” may, when it’s reflected upon years from now, have best come from something he wrote himself, on his first album, in “A Boy Like Me”:

A boy like me is told he is both nine and ninety and
A boy like me should shut those books join the army
but a boy like me would never be seen fighting for peace
I want total chaos and a holiday home in the east
I want all this and all shall have
I dont give up

Patrick Wolf: A Boy Like Me

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