For Patrick Wolf, it all comes back to his grandparents and dreamy summer holidays in West Cork.
“Although I grew up in London my family is Irish and Ireland was definitely the dominant artistic influence,” gushes the flame-haired pop waif. “We’d go over every summer to the family in Clonakilty and my imagination would run riot. My grandfather would tell me stories and I’d be swept away. You’d return to London and the difference would be striking. I always saw my grandparents as this fairy-tale creations, like Hans Christian Andersen. They died when I was 13. They have stayed in my head as people telling me stories.”

Until now, alas, the stories Wolf has told have always had a distinctly gloomy tinge. Wracked by self doubt and horribly unlucky in love, the Londoner left school at 17, releasing four increasingly bleak records. By 2009’s profoundly dark, The Bachelor, friends and family were beginning to wonder if all was well in his world, even as fans lapped up his ever deeper forays into existential despair.
However, anyone tempted to write him off a professional mooch will be required to revise their opinion after listening to his latest offering Lupercalia. Named after a bacchanalian Roman carnival, the record is dedicated to his Northern Ireland fiance William Pollock and is an unabashedly uplifting affair, with a distinct tinge of Arcade Fire-grade epic rock. Golly, has someone been slipping you happy pills, Patrick?
“This is my fifth album, I’m 27. It’s time for a change,” he ventures. “I’ve come out of my juvenile place, that tortured artist mode. I’m in a contented, peaceful way of living at the moment. I’ve got somebody to look after and share my life with. People gaze back at my other albums and say, ‘What happened – where did the tortured artist go? ‘ Well, either you commit suicide or you sort your problems out. It’s sad that people still expect me to be 18 and miserable. You grow up, don’t you.”
Wolf stifles a yawn. He isn’t bored talking about himself – far from it. In fact, he’s been up all night, putting the final touches to a bonus remix disc that will accompany the new record. It’s the last minute stuff that causes you the biggest headaches, he says. Just the other day, he spent an entire evening in his garden signing CDs. By the end he’d got through several hundred and had a bad case of wrist-ache. The question, of course, is why he was doing it in the first place. We were given to understand glamorous pop stars pay underlings to take care of menial tasks.
“When I was younger I got a Spice Girl-signed CD. And it was just a stamp,” he laughs. “Do you know? I got really upset. I try to put some effort into it. I just wish it was more personal. I’d rather be meeting people than signing CDs in my garden.”
Whilst the new LP is, by a considerable distance, the most nakedly commercial thing he’s yet released, Wolf rejects the assertion he’s out to score a hit. On the other hand, he will allow that he isn’t totally opposed to shifting a serious number of units. The thought of staying underground forever certainly doesn’t appeal.
“People might say they want me to remain this cult thing and be as secret as possible. That’s not my take. My music is for everyone.”
In the UK, the new LP is already winning a wider audience. He’s received some of the best reviews of his career, whilst the single ‘The City’ has been playlisted by BBC Radio 2, the station of choice for Middle England (BBC Radio 1 is where the downloading masses go for their sweet pop kicks). He knew he was getting places when he tumbled into a taxi the other week to hear his song blasting from the speakers.
“My music has never been on the radio before,” he says. “It’s really a surprise. The feeling is totally unlike anything I’ve experienced before. You come back from the airport, you’re hungover, you get into a cab and your song is playing. Then they play an Elvis song. It’s surreal. They don’t playlist that many tracks, so I’m very, very happy. It’s a kind of gratification totally different to anything I’ve experienced before.”
Still, there has been the occasional hiccup. Roadtesting new songs at Dublin’s Sugar Club several months back, a last minute technical malfunction left punters queuing outside until 9pm. Many assumed Wolf had thrown a hissy fit.
“We were using an amazing piece of equipment that stores all the musical settings every night, regardless of where you are. For some reason, the memory wiped and we had to do a bit of fire fighting. People think I was being a diva, that it took me six hours to put my make-up on or something and that I was refusing to go on stage. It was proper technical breakdown.”