“We’re at that stage you love in biographies when the hero is down in the absolute shit. The part where you find Kurt Cobain sleeping in his car while writing Nevermind. Which is great on the page, but then you end up there yourself, and you can’t help wondering: ‘What the fuck am I doing sleeping in my car? Why can’t I skip this bit and go on to the chapter where I’m rich and famous?’”

We are sitting down with Gerry Norman – live-wire frontman with A Plastic Rose – and, in these sub-prime years for indie bands, the very archetype of gutter-dwelling star gazer.
Fate could have dealt the four-piece a few better hands over the years, but you’ll hear little in the way of belly-aching from their clear-headed frontman. No, humility, gallows-humour and spiky defiance underpin the guy’s scatter-gun patter. And he’s all the more likeable for it.
“Nobody these days wants to hear a musician moan,” he says. “I’ll always be a musician. I have friends who went off and got amazing jobs, but I honestly wouldn’t swap my life with theirs. I’m skint, but I feel incredibly successful: I’ve been able to indulge a passion for years and make a bit of a living from it. I consider myself very lucky.”
Last month saw the release of The Promise Notes – a mini-album meant to act as an introduction for those yet to make the band’s acquaintance. And what any latecomers found was a bunch of tunes every bit as tight and untiring as the crowd who wrote them. Because what A Plastic Rose may lack in success, they more than make up for in fire-proof morale.
“Being in a band is not really like any other relationship,” he says. “You’re relying totally on your friends – and also treading the line between art and commerce. It can get tough. But the weird thing is – it’s probably easier walking away from a dysfunctional band than it is from a bad relationship or a shitty job. There’s nothing stopping you – you’ve no boss, no legal commitments. So it takes real belief to keep it going.”
Which is a difficult thing to sustain when the labels don’t come calling, and the congregation remains select.
“It’s a lifestyle built on hope and little glimmers of encouragement,” says Gerry. “The odd decent review, a great show, a great session in the studio. But you need arrogance too. We’re not overtly cocky, but you do tend to end up in a huddle during parties, a bit pissed going: ‘You know what lads, we’re fucking awesome, aren’t we?’
That’s all well and good – but braggadocio can only carry you so far. Especially as the clock starts ticking and you’re playing what’s essentially a young man (and woman’s) game. Gerry, though, isn’t overtly concerned.
“I don’t worry about that,” he laughs. “All the bands we love are older. Bands who no-one really took seriously until they were 35. Look at The Frames, The Foo Fighters, Biffy Clyro, look at fucking Elbow. These are people who have been round the block. We’ve grown up together. We were probably a lot poppier a few years ago, but life has happened to us and it’s deepened and darkened the songs. And we’re not scared by that. I think it’s making us better and better.”
Proof will come with the band’s long-planned debut album. According to Gerry, once the upcoming Irish tour is put to bed, A Plastic Rose will bunker down to spend the rest of the year making the record of their lives.
“This is the time in our lives when we can devote ourselves to trying to do something brilliant,” he says. “We’ve given up everything – careers, relationships: everything.
“We want the album to be relevant, modern and fucking huge. You have to think that way – write songs that can blast away through a 60,000 seater. But we’re doing it all ourselves. At the minute it’s just the four of us, knocking out demos at the back of my house, with a kettle and a Nintendo Wii. But yeah, we know what the deal is: the next six months are the most important of our lives.”