Kae Tempest is perched at a table outside a station-side cafe, playing with a cigarette. Murphy, Tempest’s alaskan malamute, stirs as I approach, and on clocking me, Tempest returns the cigarette – still unlit – to their chest pocket. For years, Tempest’s long curly barnet was a trademark look. Today, though, wearing white trainers, upturned jeans and a turquoise jacket, their hair is short, a neat fade that, Tempest says, they still occasionally catch themselves admiring.
We are meeting to take a walk in Catford, south-east London, at Tempest’s request; a corner of the capital they’ve called home since childhood. A prolific poet, author and recording artist, Tempest has spent the best part of a decade touring the globe, but something has always pulled them back here. “People ask why I’ve stuck around,” they say. “It’s because I feel so close to this place, and the people I’ve known my whole life here.” Tempest, now 36, has never felt a need to escape.
