I was in ’ere last night!” says a hungover Richard Hawley as I greet him in his favourite Sheffield pub: Fagan’s. It’s a cold January afternoon and the musician is standing at the bar, chatting to the owners of 40 years, his friends Barbara and Tom. It’s a classic old folk club, with wooden-panelled walls dotted with picture frames and Guinness memorabilia. Despite his claim of being worse for wear, the 56-year-old is looking dapper, the rock and roll bridge between Elvis and Alex Turner. He’s wearing a tartan bomber jacket, handmade by a friend in the US. His dark hair is slicked back. He’s grateful to still have this asset; “I’m quite relieved,” he laughs, “most of the lads I went to school with look like footballs with eyes!” Hawley quit hard liquor a few years ago, but that doesn’t mean he can’t still enjoy a pint of smooth stout. Today, though, he’s given his wife his word that he won’t be having a Guinness. But in his favourite pub? Torture.
Hawley’s heart belongs to Sheffield; he was born here and still lives in town with his three children and wife Helen. “I couldn’t bear to leave,” he says of the steel city. “It would have broken my heart.” Sheffield loves him back; Hawley is somewhat of a legend here – his image is framed in many of the bars. Before embarking on a successful solo career (from which he earned two Mercury nominations and one Brit nomination), Hawley was the guitarist in two bands, Treebound Story and Britpop guitar group Longpigs; he also did a short stint in Pulp with his good friend, Jarvis Cocker. In between all of this, he’s played on just about everything and worked with just about everyone: the late Lisa Marie Presley, Ziggy Marley, Paul Weller, Nancy Sinatra, Baz Luhrmann to name a few. He’s the musician’s musician, cited as a major influence by countless artists, one of whom is his pal Alex Turner of Arctic Monkeys. Hawley first met “Al” when he was a “shy kid” pulling pints. Years later, after the band brought Hawley on stage for their show at L’Olympia in Paris, Turner jumped behind the backstage bar to recreate the early days. Irish band Fontaines DC are fans too, and when they last played in the city, they joined Hawley for a folk session here at this same pub. “They didn’t want to leave,” he tells me as we get tucked into a tiny side room off the bar. He looks at my cold pint of Guinness. “I might have a drink to be fair,” he says smiling.
