103. Richard Hawley
Rough Trade East
16 September 2015
For every overnight darling minted by a reality television show, there are fifty Richard Hawleys, musicians who’ve crawled up the fire escape while the industry was busy polishing its next karaoke champion. Today Hawley can boast two Mercury-nominated, critically adored albums and enough loyal disciples to fill a 5,000-seater with his Sheffield drawl alone. Not bad for a bloke who entered the world with a cleft palate, a hare lip, and surgeons’ handiwork still faintly visible beneath the quiff.
He is, in many ways, the Johnny Marr that never was. Legend has it Hawley once auditioned for The Smiths, only to doom the try-out by daring to sing along with Morrissey; an act of hubris the Pope of Mope apparently couldn’t forgive. Phone calls were never returned; destiny took a detour.
Instead, Hawley tasted almost-fame with The Longpigs, who briefly flirted with Britpop respectability when “On and On” wound up on a handful of film soundtracks. Alas, a combustible frontman and plentiful narcotics did for them, and Hawley wound up moonlighting in Pulp, old mate Jarvis Cocker offering refuge, and ghosting the guitar line on All Saints’ cover of “Under the Bridge”.
Another brush with megastardom arrived when Robbie Williams, newly estranged from songwriter Guy Chambers, asked Hawley to be his personal Johnny Marr. Hawley declined. A noble choice, until that same summer Robbie played to 375,000 people at Knebworth while Hawley struggled to half-fill a 500-cap club. I can only imagine that domestic negotiations at this decision were, at the time, not straightforward..
Then, just as Standing at the Sky’s Edge began to buzz, Hawley shattered his leg so thoroughly he spent four months learning to walk again and toured the record in a wheelchair. Dave Grohl later nicked the concept and added pyrotechnics; Hawley was simply ahead of the curve.
Which brings us to Rough Trade East, where maybe fifty of us have gathered for the first airing of songs from Hollow Meadows. Three chords in, it’s clear the new material sits comfortably beside the old: baritone croon, bruised romance, guitar tones thick as Yorkshire fog. Between songs he chats about broken bones, stubborn luck, and Sheffield’s finest chip shops, equal parts Northern wit and veteran humility.
After a concise 45-minute set he takes a seat at the signing table. Each fan shuffles forward clutching vinyl, gratefully accepting a handshake from a man who knows the value of every believer earned the hard way. No hype circus, no confetti cannon, just Richard Hawley, still here, still grafting, still sounding like midnight on a rain-slick street. And somehow that feels far more rock ’n’ roll than Knebworth ever will.