Neal Hughes has the perfect vantage point from which to watch the world go by.

The rum-throated singer-songwriter spends his days serving coffee in the heart of Belfast, a prime spot for quiet observations, random conversations, and unlikely encounters.
“I would say the funniest and strangest thing would be James Dean Bradfield drinking coffee at the side hatch, talking about his day ahead,” he says. “The Manics were headlining ViTal that night. It was kinda surreal: he was very quiet and gentle. And he didn’t wanna leave. No-one realised who he was. We sat people-watching for 45 minutes. It’s quite a location. Everyone from two Doctor Whos to firemen from the Twin Towers have stopped off for a coffee and a chat.”
Anyone who has encountered Neal over the decade-plus of his involvement in the local music scene will tell you about his credentials as an A-List coffee companion. He may have made his name as singer with the likes of Tyler and Driving By Night. But despite being blessed with a wonderful voice, the role of cock-of-the-walk front-man never seemed an easy fit. Low-key and sociable, if Neal didn’t appear an obvious candidate for a solo move when those bands broke up, obviously no-one told the man himself.
“It was actually something I always wanted to try,” he laughs. “I had an idea for a solo album after spending some time listening to the Bunnymen and a lot of Bowie, especially the Low album. But really it all started in Charley (Desert Hearts) Mooney’s house, listening to [Bruce Springsteen’s} Tunnel Of Love.”
We should maybe rewind a bit at this point. Name-checking the lead singer of Desert Hearts (two albums in 10 years) may set off alarm bells amongst some of Neal’s well-wishers. However, with another fine DH album proving Mr. Mooney’s muse remains in fine working order, it has turned out to be a shrewd creative move.
“For me, writing with Charley was the start of a strong friendship and our movements over the years have been quite similar. Let’s say he walked the other side of the same block. His perspective helped me in the artistic sense. He isn’t afraid to be himself. And I respect him for that.”
Operating as ‘Littleboy’ (“it comes from the secret codename for an atomic bomb, and is a nod to the fact that everybody calls me ‘big fella’), Neal began honing his new sound at Start Together with Barrett Lahey and Ben McAuley, before moving onto the attic studio of his drummer, Gerard Gallagher.
Littleboy’s debut album, Man Called Horse, blends countrified ballads with squalls of feedback and art-rock noise.
In many ways, it’s a perfect encapsulation of everything he’s done to date. In other ways, it’s a total bolt from the blue.
“Singing and performing is in the blood and, well, it takes time to do things in an artistic way that you’re happy with,” he explains.
“And I like to dissect and rebuild all of the things I am into. It’s an analytical view point that I get from painting. I have always preferred the title of artist.
“Music isn’t really where I come up with song ideas. Rather, it springs from observation and free-form sketching and painting. The two go hand-in-hand and represent my politics, my point of view about things in my life. And music to me is no different.”
In the past, Neal’s voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. At least someone who wasn’t fronting an indie band. Now, in his mid-30s, it seems both his music and his life have finally caught up with it.
“I feel that,” he smiles, “yeah, I have grown into my voice. Sometimes I think it’s the smoking, other times it’s the mileage. Or the suitcase full of experiences.
“Going from the good times of being in the spotlight and the security of a publishing deal and the ability to travel to the likes of South by South West and play wonderful gigs to then absolutely nothing – playing to empty rooms at singer-songwriter nights – is a hard thing. A hard thing for a singer with big ideas.”

Man Called Horse is out now.