Divine Inspiration

“It’s like middle-aged men with train sets,” says Divine Comedy frontman Neil Hannon of his creative process. “That’s how I work. Painting the odd little tree, placing a little figure on the side of a platform… that’s how I make albums.”

Sitting in the bar of Brooks Hotel in central Dublin, wearing a starched shirt, knotted tie and woollen pullover, the dapper 45-year-old actually looks more like a slightly eccentric model train enthusiast than a legendary Northern Irish pop star. A few wrinkles around the eyes aside, he hasn’t actually aged much since first bursting onto the music scene in 1989. Possibly it’s his wicked sense of humour that’s kept him young. A highly affable sort, he’s a constant cackler.

We’re meeting to discuss Foreverland, his eleventh studio album with the Divine Comedy (he has been the only constant member of the group over the years). It’s their first since 2010’s well-received Bang Goes The Knighthood. He still hasn’t been offered one, but would he accept it if offered?

“Well, I’m not a monarchist,” he shrugs, shifting in his chair. “It’s a funny situation. I understand the idea of the honour system, but it’s just a way of slapping people on the back for doing a good job. It would be nice, I guess. But the ‘Sir’ thing means that you’re suddenly the establishment – and I don’t like being the establishment.”

We’ll get to talking about Foreverland shortly, but Hannon certainly hasn’t been idle these last few years.

“Nah, I’ve been busy,” he smiles. “I started this album three years ago, and I did say to myself, ‘Nobody’s holding their breath waiting for this. So just take your time and get it the way you want it.’ As it turns out, that’s impossible. Because you think you’re getting to where you want it to be, until you realise that three months ago it was better. You can go around in circles chasing your tail. It did remind me that I was right in the old days to tell myself, ‘I’m bored of this now. Put it out.’”

In the meantime, there were other creative projects. He wrote the score for a successful stage adaptation of Arthur Ransome’s Swallows and Amazons in 2010. “That was great fun,” he reflects. “I went to see the film version recently. Dodgy. Ours didn’t stick totally to the book. I think it had more of the childlike fun that the book had. This film seems very joyless. One of my good friends, Kelly Macdonald, was in it, so apologies to her.”

He followed Swallows and Amazons with two operas (Sevastopol and In May). In 2014, he wrote a choral piece entitled To Our Fathers in Distress – depicting a typical Sunday morning in the family home in his native Enniskillen - for London’s Southbank Centre.

“That was a work on commission,” he explains. “Basically, at the Royal Festival, they have this massive pipe organ at the back of the main hall. They refurbished it. It had been lying there for years. They thought it would be a good excuse to have a season of organ works. They got a few people to write new stuff. I was one of those people, which is amazing to me.”

The heavily autobiographical piece included a depiction of his own father, Brian Hannon, a former Church of Ireland bishop of Clogher, preparing to give morning service. Sadly, Brian has been battling Alzheimer’s for the last few years.

“I really didn’t want to be one of those people who uses a family illness to talk about it to the press. He couldn’t remember anything, so I thought… you know? It was nice. I decided to do a family Sunday in the seventies. It was good to remember stuff. I had forgotten a lot of it. In the act of trying to remember, I did!”

Did Brian get to hear it?

“He listened to it on the radio, apparently.” He scratches his beard and smiles. “He said, ‘That’s nice. Who is it?’”

There was also a second concept album with The Duckworth Lewis Method, the cricket-themed side-project he formed with Pugwash frontman Thomas Walsh.

“Basically, the first one was completely unnecessary and the second one was like… you’re kidding me!” he laughs. “I think the unnecessary aspect is precisely what amuses us both. So it had to be done, but I think that will be it. We might come out some time and play it live.”

And so to Foreverland. In some ways, it’s a typical Divine Comedy record – bursting at the seams with melodies, hooks and exuberantly orchestral pop. In others, it’s not. Many of the songs – most especially ‘Catherine The Great’ – seem to celebrate the love and domestic bliss Hannon has found with fellow musician Cathy Davey (who also guests on the album).

“It’s not all about love!” he protests. “There’s songs about history and imperialism and the Foreign Legion. There’s all sorts. It’s basically the last six or seven years of my life – potted form – with layers of intrigue, to throw you guys off the scent. Not that it works. There’s so many reasons for not just saying things. Apart from anything else, when you’re working on songs, it’s less dull for the writer if you weave other stories into your own.

“We’ll use things that we’re interested in,” he continues. “I’ve always been interested in – not the Foreign Legion – but the way comedy has used the Foreign Legion over the years. I was interested by the idea of using diplomatic terminology to describe a relationship. These things make it possible for me to write about personal things without making myself vomit. Or the public.”

He’s reluctant to discuss his seven-year relationship with Davey, with whom he currently shares a country estate in Kildare. “It’s an area that I don’t want to go in to… which makes it hard.”

Well, on a purely practical level, what’s it like living with a fellow musician?

“We’ve got to pool all our gear, and we’ve got a lot of gear now, which is really cool,” he says, gleefully. “I always felt bad about how little stuff I had, but now it looks awesome – just lines of guitars. The hardest thing is to get her to do her backing vocal bits, because she’s always out with the bloody animals.”

The couple lead an animal rescue charity called My Lovely Horse Rescue (the name a nod to one of Hannon’s more memorable contributions to Father Ted). They share their country estate with assorted dogs, donkeys and horses.

“We’re like the overflow for the farm, which has most of the animals,” he explains. “I’m an enabler. I don’t do a lot of that. I’m really lazy. I like to start the day by getting my iPad and reading the paper for an hour, hoping that someone brings me a cup of coffee. But I will on occasion feed the pigs. And the chickens. Most of the time I’m with the dogs, because the dogs are my buddies. They’re my crew, my posse, my entourage.” That infectious cackle again. “I’m very lonely. Ha, ha!”

Hannon previously lived in London and Dublin for many years. “Yeah, and you know, I never realised how little I was suited for city life until I got shot of it, really,” he sighs. “I am basically quite shy and have always been slightly introverted. This job has enabled me to talk to other human beings on a one-to-one level and not feel like I am an imposter. Living virtually alone in the country really helps. I can come into town and converse, but I really like leaving as well.

“I really like pottering about at home. When I was writing – it all seems like another world now since the promo started – it was great. I can’t think of a more pleasurable existence than popping in after breakfast and into the studio.”

Despite his self-proclaimed shyness, Hannon has never been afraid to stick his neck over the pop parapet. Never afraid to stick his tongue firmly in his cheek – the video for current single ‘How Can You Leave Me Alone’ sees him cycling around a French chateau dressed as Napoleon Bonaparte – he has always had a healthy sense of the ridiculous.

“Well, I already have the ego,” he laughs. “That wasn’t the problem. I had this tunnel vision from my mid-teens where this was what I was going to do, and nobody could prevent me. It was quite alarming, considering the slight oddness of my music. But I always adhered to the late seventies/early eighties template of British odd pop – the Adam Ants and Gary Numans. I really thought that was part of the deal. I thought you had to be really out there to be successful.”

So was all of that contrived, then?

“I don’t think any of it was contrived. You know what you’re doing when you dress like Austin Powers… who wasn’t around at the time. When I was making Casanova, it was like I could see which way the wind was blowing. There was more interest in the sixties. The ‘Oooh, I say’ kinda stuff. The arched eyebrow and cravats. And, also, you could hear bits of John Barry samples creeping into dance music and stuff like that.

“And I thought, ‘Well, I can do that. I can do it better than you!’ So I went for it big-style. In a way, it was slightly contrived, but it was only because I knew I could make a good album with those materials and also be a pop star. When Top of the Pops stopped, I suddenly didn’t need to do that anymore, because I couldn’t think of a reason why.”

Speaking of contrived popstars, did he ever meet the late David Bowie?

“Yeah, I did,” he nods. “It was very brief. We were third on the bill to him in Old Trafford Cricket Ground. It was him, Suede, and then us. It was 2003, I think, maybe earlier. And we did apply for a meeting through the management, and we were given an audience. It was me, Brett [Anderson], and Pinkie, my keyboard player who was absolutely obsessed with Bowie.

“The door opens to his dressing room, he comes out, he walks straight past us to the toilet. So we stood there waiting for another five minutes, then he comes back from drying his hands, and he was like, ‘I’m really sorry. Thanks for doing this’… obligatory kind of chitter-chatter. Then disappears. He was not in a good mood that day.”

As the more joyous songs on Foreverland attest, Hannon himself is very happy with his life nowadays. “I’m delirious!” he claims. “I’d be even happier if I was back home making another album, but you’ve got to promote these things.”

In the lead up to the album’s release, he has spent the last few weeks shuttling between Dublin, London and Paris (the Divine Comedy are still massive in France). He doesn’t enjoy doing promo, but recognises that it’s a necessary evil.

“I think I’m through the worst of it,” he shrugs. “But the tour – I don’t really consider tours as promotion, because, now, they’re actually the be-all and end-all of the job. That’s the way things have gone. In many ways, albums are there to promote the tour. I’m just hoping that we can survive and keep making albums because that’s my thing. That’s what I do.

“I like playing live, all the time,” he continues. “A little bit of adulation never goes amiss. But it’s pretty hard work. All in all, I get a lot more satisfaction from sitting at home at the end of the day and saying, ‘Jesus, that’s good!’”

Foreverland is out now on Divine Comedy Records.