Still, a lack of belief and structure is something he thinks can hold people back: “Everyone needs a belief system – everyone needs to believe in something, because otherwise you’re a lost cause and life feels like there’s nothing to live for.” He was a religious child after his baby brother died following complications from muscular dystrophy (“I asked for a Bible for my birthday,” he smiles, before talking about his time attending a Seventh Day Adventist church), but as he grew older, he began to see flaws in organised religion. It comes, he says, from a small-town mentality (or: “a shoe-town mentality,” he quips, joking about Northampton’s footwear industry) and a broken home, not really seeing any possibility outside of the existence he was living in an era of austerity.
I would just be in a dark place – I feel like when you’re in that headspace and you can’t see anything else, you feel trapped.” I would be selling drugs, binging out on drugs, and I wouldn’t have the mentality I’ve got now. If he hadn’t found music, Frampton is very frank about what he would be doing: “My life wouldn’t be good – I would probably be in jail. These are, of course, bars that come from very real places. His musical output seems to mirror this mentality in its dualism: his diaristic bars are recorded in one take and, though there’s very often humour, whimsy, and wry, kitchen-sink-style observation in his lyrics, there’s also a nihilism and a fierce, acerbic sense of seething – “Theresa May wanna be like Branson / Making P from airplane traffic” was a refrain on ‘North Nights’ on ‘Rainbow’ he spits: “Red, white and blue / Union Jack, United who?” and, on ‘Drug Dealer’, from his recent ‘RUNT’ EP, there’s the line: “Teacher said, ‘What you gonna be when you’re older?’ / Drug dealer – what else can I do?” slowthai wears a gold chain with a chunky clown pendant around his neck, in what initially seems a nod to his theatrical, jester-like ways, but transpires to be because he is scared of clowns – it’s a reminder that bad things are always present among the good.
Our conversation over a coffee, for example, isn’t exactly an exercise in PR-friendly soundbites – early on he admits he is not especially fond of interviews: “I hate it,” he smiles, wearily, “but it’s all right – we've all got to do it.” In spite of this, even before the caffeine hits he speaks with all the rapid, unbridled, unfiltered enthusiasm that both his music and his live shows might suggest, tearing off on multiple tangents before catching himself and apologising, laughing at his inability to keep track of his own rants about politics and possibilities – or the lack thereof – for the young working classes in Britain.īeneath his light and smiley exterior, there’s certainly a palpable darkness.
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