In a quiet corner of an east London pub, Archy Marshall is plotting abdication. ‘I want to get rid of the King from the name,’ says the flame-haired subversive best known by the moniker King Krule, keeping his voice low lest the label and management powers-that-be propping up the bar get wind of his plans to do a Prince Harry. ‘When I was young I loved it because it was quite rockabilly, like King Kurt. Now I find it a bit cringey.’ He laughs to himself. ‘We should call it Kringe Krule. I just want to be Krule because it sounds a bit more arty.’
Marshall has certainly earned enough art rock credentials to become a one-namer, his generation’s Eno or Fripp. It’s been 10 years since the darkly petulant urban jazz and post-punk of his breakthrough 2013 debut album 6 Feet Beneath the Moon, cowled with his moody, lip-curled teenage baritone, was feted by Beyoncé and Frank Ocean. Back then he was an intriguing outlier; a broken down broken-home kid, the voice of a hounded and hopeless generation.
