Fancy some fake news with more cowbell? Well, there’s a good “story” about BFFs Miles Kane and Arctic Monkey Alex Turner that may or may not be true. Though, let’s face it, if anything should get in the way of rock’n’roll mythology it shouldn’t be a little quibble about the truth, right, boys? (Just google David Bowie.)
Let me set the scene: sometime between Axl Rose getting braids (2002) and People Just Do Nothing jumping the shark (right now), those brothers in melodic yarns Turner and Kane, plus “another human being” – let’s call her “The Girl”, shall we, to save her poor mother’s heart condition? – are intertwined among the postcoital flotsam of an upmarket hotel room.
As threesomes go it was distinctly melodious: grins abound, joints are passed (maybe, or is that just a rollie?), sighs are breathlessly murmured and no one’s Cava breath is so metallic as to put anyone off thinking about not visiting said messy pleasure palace yet again.
“Hey, I’m glad you came,” Turner is alleged to have said, forever on the right side of etiquette and politeness in such matters. While Kane, in his sludgy Scouser lilt acknowledged, “Ah, thanks, man.” At which point Turner sat bolt upright in his sparkly gold briefs (unconfirmed) to stress who, in fact, his grateful aside was aimed at: “Not you, you wally. Her!”
It’s a funny tale and if the story isn’t actually true, it resonates with a truth about the very real bromance between Kane and Turner: their love for one another pays no heed to personal boundaries. Not only that, but it is also indicative of Kane as arguably the most endearingly entertaining frontman in the biz.
I’ve my own buzzy history with Kane – no threesomes, sadly, but don’t let me stop you from putting the rumour around – and we’ve spent our fair share of late nights and early mornings bouncing about and losing our minds at parties, afterparties and hotel lobbies. Today, we’re having lunch at rubbernecker’s paradise The Wolseley; it’s hotter than the Maldives outside and it seems rude not to order a cold glass of lager. So we do.
“Here’s to the rest of our lives,” laughs Kane, as we chink and toast with our eyes. “Or at least the rest of the afternoon.” We’re here ordering beer, chicken schnitzel, sea bream on a bed of couscous and a side of fries to share, in celebration of Kane’s triumphant new solo record – his third, Coup De Grace – a collection of no-nonsense, straight-out-the-trap rock tracks that makes Arctic Monkeys’ vibey new direction seem somewhat whimsical.
“Well, that’s Al [Turner] for you. He’s about five years ahead of the rest of the world. Personally, I wanted to get back to the rawness that I began my career with,” explains Kane. “It’s taken me almost half a decade to get this album done – stopping and starting with other projects – but the songs that work best for me are the honest ones. I can’t sing something if I don’t believe in it.”
Turns out Kane nearly didn’t sing at all ever again, as he was struck dumb by writer’s block. “I was in a rut after I came off the tour with the Shadow Puppets. I’ve been blue after tours before. You know it’s going to happen, but this was different. I couldn’t play the guitar. Completely forgot. I couldn’t sing. Not a note.
“It terrified me, actually. I don’t want anyone to get the tiny violins out, but, yeah, I was depressed.” What? I have to say this comes as a shock: Kane, or the version of the songwriter that I know, is about the most optimistically gregarious man in rock. And, yes, that goes for Dave Grohl too.
Kane has commented recently that his mood had something to do with the end of a two-year relationship, calling this third album his “Adele break-up record”. He chuckles when I mention this: “Well, let’s see how many copies I can sell before I namecheck Adele again, shall we?” So, did he go mute from a broken heart? “Well, it was a bad break-up. And it’s hard splitting with a girl when, although you argue eight hours a day, she’s still really beautiful. D’yaknowwhatImean?” Cue fits of giggles as he stage-dives into a fresh gem salad.
Well, who said life was easy? Kane, unused to moping, was eventually saved from himself, not by Turner this time, but another long-serving friend, Jamie T, who moved in with Kane while visiting the singer in LA. “Jamie’s been through the circus, the ups and downs, as well, so we were just able to have a real talk. Got it all out. Screamed it out in fact. No crying, mind. I haven’t gone too soft.”
With the likes of Liam and Noel and Marr and Weller taking their places as the elder statesman of British rock, there’s a guitar-shaped legacy here for Kane to grasp with both hands, honouring pogoing kids in dripping clubs everywhere by sticking to what he does better than most: give it to them raw, give to them loud and give it to them true.
“This life is beautiful, man,” Kane smiles as he throws his dapper navy suit jacket over his black Fred Perry polo, his gold mangles jangling in the afternoon sun. “All you have to do is hold on and read the small print.” Here’s to the truth, Miles. Oh, and threesomes. In hotel bedrooms. Maybe.
Coup De Grace is out on 10 August. Follow us on Vero for exclusive music content and commentary, all the latest music lifestyle news and insider access into the GQ world, from behind-the-scenes insight to recommendations from our Editors and high-profile talent.
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