Mark Ronson is a night person. To embellish the definition given in his new memoir Night People, this is someone who runs like a feral cat into the dark, freewheeling on uppers and their own compulsions, no agenda other than to claw at freedom. I’ve known plenty of these people. They don’t function so well in the day: problems are too bright, the hours too constraining, too linear.
Interestingly, they’re not usually the sort of Australian energy drink bros you might imagine. They’re unassuming or insular, or – like Ronson is when we speak – curiously languid, well-dressed, and with the kind of transatlantic drawl that makes the hit producer impossible to place. Sometimes night people learning to be day people wear a crisp shirt.
