(Sam Sparro)

Here’s the The Guardian interview with Sam Sparro, singer of the hit record, Black and Gold:

Riding high in the singles chart with Black and Gold and with a superb self-titled debut album of soulful electronic melodies just released, Sam Sparro is destined to be this year’s Scissor Sisters or Mika - the new, flamboyant, ubiquitous pop kid on the block. The 25-year-old with the three-octave range, who blends new-wave edge, irresistible melodies and synthesized funk rhythms, has already received favourable comparisons with Prince. He is also gaining attention for his “interesting” outfits, and his declarations, in homage to his teenage idol, Björk, that he “could very happily wear a swan”.

Colourful, outspoken, a superb singer, songwriter, multi-instrumentalist and programmer, Sparro has what it takes to become a household name. And yet the Sydney-born wunderkind, who spent his mid teens in Los Angeles and his late teens in London, is hardly jumping with joy at the prospect. “I definitely think I’m a reluctant pop star, because I just want to be myself and have fun,” he says. We are talking in the vestibule of a plush apartment block in north London where he has a long-term let to cover him as Black and Gold takes off in Europe. He is a bit the worse for wear, following a night on the tiles in Camden and several days revisiting Guildford, where he lived at the turn of the century with his cousins. He was recognised a few times on his travels. “I had a few people coming up to me,saying, ‘Are you Sam Sparro?’” he winces, unimpressed. “It could be a blessing and a curse.”

Don’t be swayed by the bratty attitude: Sparro is good company, wryly humorous and eminently aware of his own shortcomings. Everything he says is undercut with modesty and a sense of nervous excitement at his new-found fame. Just as the eccentric clothes he wears to perform in aren’t the real him - today he’s in jeans and T-shirt - so his words seem bolder in print.

He was born Sam Falson, the son of a church-minister-cum-performer called Chris Falson. “Imagine,” he suggests, “Bob Dylan if he was a gospel recording artist.” The stage name started as a family nickname, inspired by the Australian radio mascot Sammy Sparrow. He lived in Australia until he was 10, at which point his family moved to LA. “I began to rebel and really lost interest in studying,” he says. A confident child, he was happy in Sydney surrounded by friends and relations. In America, he felt ostracised. “I didn’t know the culture, and nobody got my jokes, which is a big deal when you’re a kid. It was a horrible time.” How depressed was he? “I would say that, between the ages of 12 and 16, I spent the whole time listening to Portishead and Belle & Sebastian.” Wow, he really was depressed. “Yeah, but it was just teen angst, really.” Did he ever contemplate anything drastic? “What, like slit my wrists? No. But I did start to pierce my body in weird ways. I’d pierce the cartilage in my ears and pierce my belly button using big safety pins, which is a really silly thing to do. I gave myself a tattoo on my ankle when I was about 14. I did it with a needle and a marker. It was a little cross, and it lasted about five years. I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this stuff. It’s painting me as a complete lunatic.”

Sparro can now see the benefit of a miserable adolescence. “I think all that time being unhappy was a good thing because I learned to rely on myself. I think to love yourself is really important because if you can’t love yourself you can’t love anybody else.” He acknowledges the source of the latter quote - it’s the catchphrase from American drag performer RuPaul’s US chat show. Sparro is openly gay. “I’ve always thought, ‘This is me, I’m happy with myself,’ and so that’s what I’m here to project. So that gay teenagers don’t have to get the shit kicked out of them in school and think that they’re a horrible person. It’s easier to be an ‘out’ pop star today. Morrissey never came out, and Neil Tennant left it very, very late, whereas Jake Shears was open from the start.” For Sparro, even getting beaten up, as he used to, has had its plus points. “I’m tougher because of it,” he says. His parents were “really cool” about his coming out. “I thought it was going to be the worst thing in the world and they were never going to talk to me again. I really worried that they were going to disown me. But I should have trusted them a bit more and known that they’re better than that. I’m really close to both of my parents, and they’re really supportive and they love my boyfriend. I’ve been with him for two years.”

The thing that kept Sparro going throughout his time in LA was singing in church. “I grew up with a church background, but now . . . I have a general faith in a higher power. I’m a spiritual person, but I’m not into any religion. I was always kind of a non-denominational Christian. What do you call it when people clap their hands and say, ‘Yeah’? I was a Gloria Gaynor Christian.”

At the end of the 90s, he moved back to Australia, lived with his grandparents and worked for a PR company. By 2000, he was living with family in Surrey and working in a Toshiba spare parts factory, which was “mind-numbingly boring”. Within six weeks he’d saved up enough money to move to Brixton and started temping at record companies. His final move, in 2002, was back to LA. This time, he was determined to do things right. So once he’d found an apartment in Hollywood, a “really shitty dive” sandwiched between a family of five and a couple of “crackhead lesbians”, Sparro started making music in his bedroom using a computer, a keyboard and a software programme. He also wrote his first songs, influenced by Björk. He started with Food Chain - “about a relationship between me and a close friend where I felt like I was at the bottom of the food chain. It was really rubbish”. Then he wrote Sally, about a stripper. “It’s kind of a fictional story,” he says, “but kind of autobiographical.” Beg pardon? “You didn’t know this, did you? I used to dance in my underpants in LA. I only did it for about three weeks. It was a really crappy gay club called Fubar, which stands for ‘fucked up beyond all recognition’. It smelt like an armpit, and it was really trashy. I had friends around the bar, so I was like, ‘I can do this.’ I danced to stuff like Peaches. I probably made about $10. I was just desperate for attention. I really didn’t care about the money.”

He immersed himself in LA’s dance underground and before long, the world’s leading labels began to take notice. Mark Ronson even emailed to say how much he loved a new song of his called Black and Gold. But it was with indie producer du jour Paul Epworth (Bloc Party, Long Blondes) that he and his musical partner/manager, Jesse Rogg, chose to hone his material and remarkable voice, which can leap from baritone to falsetto in an instant. His album of what he calls “personal songs” is a glorious mix of P-Funk and disco, synthpop and electro-funk, warm vocals and pristine computer beats. There are more potential hit singles on Sam Sparro to capitalise on the success of Black and Gold, including 21st Century Life and Hot Mess. It’s Sparro’s first deliciously twisted Greatest Hits collection. The question is, can he handle that success? “I’m still trying to figure it out,” he says. “I’m not used to the crazy schedule. I’m pretty relaxed, and now it’s 16-hour days every day.”

Not that the boy who once danced in his smalls for dollar bills because he was so eager for attention isn’t grateful for the, well, attention. “I’m really grateful that my music is going to be available to this many people, and that people already like it, or at least one song.” The key, he says, is to “stay grounded”. “I don’t want to be an asshole, this big, famous turn who just acts like a shit all the time,” he says. He worries that people might think he’s “ripping off Prince”.

Ultimately, he’d like a nice home for him and his partner, plus their two cats, and to be surrounded by family and friends: the people that matter. “I couldn’t care any less if people like me or not, to be honest,” he says, finally. “Because I like me. So why should I care if anybody else does? I’ve got friends, and I’ve got family - I’m a real family person. I’ve got everything that I need. I don’t need the permission and applause of loads of silly people.”