“I owe a great deal to a deceased man’s endowment,” is how Robyn Hitchcock introduces the opening track of his new album, The Confuser. This dynamic power-pop song, reminiscent of John Lennon’s style, is part of the latest offering from the 73-year-old English musician, a veteran of the music scene from the 1960s and 70s. The album was produced with a talented group of session musicians in Nashville, where Hitchcock currently resides and operates a small record label alongside his second wife, Australian singer-songwriter Emma Swift.
“I’m not just some old public school dilettante wandering around the South Bank or something,” Hitchcock insists, perhaps defensively. “Making it work in Nashville confirms that I am indeed a genuine musician and songwriter in a city known for its musical legacy. I find myself thinking, ‘Wow, I actually accomplished this!’ I dreamed of coming to Nashville ever since I was a 13-year-old boarding school student listening to Dylan records made in this very city. And here I am, 60 years later!”
With six decades of songwriting under his belt, Hitchcock’s creative spirit remains vibrant. The “dead man” he refers to is likely his father, Raymond Hitchcock, who was a bohemian artist and satirical author. The reference to a “cock” likely points to either Raymond’s role in his creation or to Percy, the titular character from one of Raymond’s novels, which was adapted for film and featured a soundtrack by The Kinks. The ambiguity of this statement exemplifies Hitchcock’s clever avoidance of straightforwardness, a hallmark of his lyrical style.
During a video interview, I notice a framed poster of the Italian version of the film adaptation behind him. “Yes,” he explains in his distinct voice that seems to penetrate directly to one’s mind, “the Italian title was Il Complesso del Trapianto, which translates to The Complications of Transplants. The poster features Hywel Bennett looking down at a rather high mound beneath his sheets while accompanied by a scantily clad nurse.”
On the opposite side of him hangs another framed print, showcasing a rainbow-hued silhouette of Bob Dylan fading into Duchampian shadows, created by Milton Glaser. This arrangement captures the essence of the influences that have shaped Hitchcock’s artistic vision. His upcoming memoir, 1967, recounts how as a youth, inspired by a hip older peer named Brian Eno, he absorbed a wealth of musical influences in just one year—Syd Barrett of Pink Floyd, the Incredible String Band, the psychedelic Beatles, and Bob Dylan. Throughout his career, Hitchcock has continually reinterpreted these foundational influences.
I suggest to Hitchcock that he stands as the last surviving figure of that era. “Well, I’m the last functioning one,” he chuckles in acknowledgment. “Sure, there are others like Julian Cope and Andy Partridge of XTC, but they aren’t actively performing. You can still see me play live. While I didn’t create this genre of music, I’ve kept it alive. My goal is to uphold a tradition while contributing new material within that framework. The artists I admire were the true innovators; I’m merely following in their footsteps, like someone sweeping up after a party.”
Hitchcock downplays his significance, perhaps intentionally. The Confuser is unlikely to unsettle listeners; rather, it is a comfortably familiar album that the ever-eccentric musician has earned the right to produce at this stage in his career. Still, he strives to explore new musical territories. The Nashville musicians help create a rhythmic, walking bass line in “My Dead Astronaut,” giving it a swing unlike anything he has done before. Collaborator Kimberley Rew contributes a radiant guitar line to the shimmering track “Breathless,” while “Building from the Ruins” presents a white funk vibe, and “Monday for Me” critiques the workweek through a waltz-time folk lens.
Hitchcock’s unique style was an unusual match for his debut in the punk era as the frontman of The Soft Boys, a band known for their chaotic sound yet rooted in pop sensibilities and intellectual depth, which often alienated both critics and audiences seeking raw, untamed rock. The complexities of that time are explored in his latest memoir, Stranded in the Future. This work blends personal narrative with poetic storytelling, raising questions about the veracity of the accounts shared, such as the participation of homeless mystics in a Soft Boys recording session. It serves as a compelling piece of unreliable narrative fiction, regardless of one’s interest in Hitchcock’s music.
“Some elements technically couldn’t have happened,” he admits, “but that’s part of my penchant for embracing delusion and crafting my personal mythology. You create a myth around your life that you can draw from for songs, humor, or stories.” I remind him of a moment we shared on Westminster Bridge, where two elderly women approached us for directions. His flamboyant response left them enchanted, as if he were someone of great importance. Was he aware of the impression he created?
“Oh, not really,” Hitchcock contemplates. “But I suppose I do rise to the occasion when I get attention, don’t you think?”
