‘Where do you want to start?” says James Brown, gesturing towards his hearing aids. “I can’t hear anything from all the gigs, my eyes have gone from screens, my teeth are fucked, I’ve got arthritis in my hands, I’m overweight, my knees are knackered, the X-rays of my legs look like a broken bottle … ” He trails off for a second, then smiles. “But apart from that, I’m all right!”
He genuinely means that last bit: a life in magazines might have left Brown feeling like a “beaten up old car”, but he seems to be doing pretty great at the moment. We meet at his beach house near Rye. When I arrive, his girlfriend and youngest son are just off for a spot of blackberry picking – what could be more idyllic?
