Interview: Edwyn Collins - Grace notes

Published on Saturday 8 August 2009 16:44

APPROPRIATELY, an orange jet plonked the man from Orange Juice in Inverness and now Edwyn Collins is in the hotel bar and pondering his late afternoon drinking options. "Ginger beer?" he ventures to his partner Grace Maxwell, who nods in approval. "Uh-uh," he says, as if to confirm the choice. But then: "Beer beer?"

It's difficult to know whether Collins, after two brain haemorrhages and being left unable to read, speak, write, walk or feed himself, just got confused back there or if he was trying it on with Maxwell. If she doesn't know, having been by his side for 25 years including those six months in hospital after contracting MRSA when often the sun never seemed to rise, then no-one does. She has a theory, though: "Possibly he never lost his sense of humour."

A conversation that begins with laughter, and contains plenty more throughout, ends with tears. Maxwell has written a wonderful tribute to her indestructible pop hero called Falling & Laughing: The Restoration Of Edwyn Collins, and Collins, while he taught himself to re-read with Ladybird books and moved on to 1984, has yet to attempt it, though he has perused the final chapter.

"He wanted to find out how it ended," says Maxwell, and Collins obliges: "These days, we walk in the sun." This is the very last sentence, and hardly surprisingly, it's caused him to cry. Maxwell places her hand on his and says: "There's another wee change in you. You're awfully soft-hearted now – and you show it." Collins says: "No bad thing." Now Maxwell's crying, and so's your correspondent.

I'd followed Collins' story – how the doctors told Maxwell he should have died, how they warned that if he survived there might be little of him left, and how he eventually got back on stage and sang Rip It Up, Blue Boy and the rest – and I'd marvelled at it. Every tiny shuffle seemed to have been chronicled and I wondered what else there would be to say. Stupid, really. Each day there's progress, often a memory reclaimed, sometimes what Maxwell calls a "Eureka! moment".

"You and I take memory for granted," says Maxwell. "We assume it retains pretty much everything, not at the front, but readily available – a big treasure trove of a lifetime's experiences. Edwyn's no longer works like that. But, piece by piece, he's trying to re-assemble it.

"For instance, at one point we thought he remembered nothing of his childhood… "

Collins, bang on cue: "Castle Toward (on the Cowal peninsula, Argyll] – there were bamboo trees." He grins with crooked teeth. "First-ever holiday. A lid on a trunk opened."

Collins and Maxwell are en route to their bolthole in Helmsdale in Sutherland, where Collins spent just about every other boyhood vacation with his grandfather Dr Hugh Stewart Macintosh, a distinguished educationist and Scottish rugby internationalist. It's always welcome respite from their life in London and especially after a busy tour with the book. There will be a chance for some more beer beer but not too much as Collins watches his drinking now and must prepare for three gigs at the Edinburgh Festival Fringe to mark his 50th birthday.

Maxwell, who's 51, loves it there but senses a change in Collins' feelings for the house, which was built by his stonemason ancestors and came into his ownership after the success of the solo global hit A Girl Like You. "I guess that's because Edwyn used to be a mountain goat on those hills but he can't roam wild and free any more. That's sad but we're trying to adapt. One of his favourite spots is the Whaligoe Steps, a staircase carved out of the cliffs for herring fishermen, but he can't go up and down now without holding on to me. That's us for ever more. We're glued together."

At the time of his first stroke four-and-a-half years ago, Collins was in the kitchen as usual, preparing a Sunday dinner for Maxwell and their son Will in front of Antiques Roadshow. So who cooks now? Maxwell: "Edwyn's relearned how to read and write and I've tried to remember everything I'd forgotten from Home Economics." Collins: "You should try her risotto."

Collins' near-death experience has tested their relationship, for sure, but not found it wanting in any way, especially now that the banter has returned. For instance, almost in reprimand of himself for being unable to remember how long it took to compose Orange Juice's best-loved songs, he suddenly shouts out: "1969 Neve mixing desk!" Maxwell groans and says he loves his trusty old Neve more than her. He laughs.

Maxwell: "Edwyn's provocative again – yet more evidence of his continuing recovery."

Collins: "And you're grumpy again."

"The old you's back in every way. You're never wrong, you never take the blame. And your vanity's back as well."

"Excuse me, Grace!"

"You used to wear more make-up than me, although not as well applied. Charles of the Ritz, and when that got discontinued, Clinique. Foundation, mascara, eyebrow tinting… "

A sigh from the former Sound of Young Scotland, then: "Neurotically vain."

Of course the old Collins isn't back in every way. He lost movement in his right side and although physiotherapy plus yoga, pilates, gym work and acupuncture – on top of hundreds of hours of speech and language therapy – have all contributed to his recovery, he still can't play guitar. Others do that for him, and old friends such as Aztec Camera's Roddy Frame and new ones like Franz Ferdinand's Alex Kapranos have guested in his band. But amazingly, while Collins' speech is still halting, the words flow when he sings. By the end of his Festival stint, the comeback will have clocked up its 40th gig.

Actually, I have no idea if this is amazing or not. It seems so to me, and I tell Collins that his story reminds me of a vaguely remembered one about the pilot of a stricken small plane who, terribly aware the crash-landing was about to be followed by an explosion, somehow managed to run to safety on broken legs.

Another wonky-toothed smile. "It's step by step. Every day, a little more. Each show, better than the last. But…" Maxwell takes over: "The better you get, the more annoyed and frustrated you are at this ever having happened, aren't you?" He nods.

She continues: "I think when people hear about what Edwyn's managed to achieve since being ill they might be thinking he must be amazingly better. He's doing brilliantly, but it's all still in spite of his condition."

Then Collins says: "And songs, Grace – don't forget the songs." Since last October, he's written a dozen new ones. "Just simple songs. They're a bit Northern Soul, a bit punk. But very simple." Maxwell scolds him for his modesty – in the book she writes jokingly about her "disgust" at his new-found mellowness and tolerance – and tells how he woke her with a dunt at 3am to make her write down the lyrics which were tumbling out of his head. He sings:

By the time I get the message I'll be gone far away

Back to my homeland on the north country way

Where my heart is contented and I know where I'm going

This is my life and my heart is an ocean

And I know where I'm going

I'm feeling lucky, I'm feeling good

I know I want it, perhaps it's turning round for good

Every day Collins sings his songbook to himself and he's got so good at this he now takes Saturdays and Sundays off. "His music keeps him going," says Maxwell, omitting to mention her own towering contribution, from manager to saviour. "Life would be a whole lot easier if we were to retire because the pop business is quite tough for us now. But Edwyn would be miserable without his music and he wouldn't get any better."

It's time for Collins and Maxwell to get back on the "north country way" to Helmsdale. I don't know what he got out of today but I got a lot. For one thing, he indulged my small talk and stumbling questions. Usually pop stars don't, but then they don't value the sheer joy of conversation like he does, possibly for fear the knack may once again desert him. And in every other way, of course, he was an absolute inspiration.

Then I ask if he'll be attempting the Whaligoe Steps on this trip. He looks at Grace and she nods, then repeats a line from earlier, maybe his mantra: "It's step by step. Every day, a little more."

Edwyn Collins - A Casual Introduction, marking his 50th birthday, is at Assembly, Edinburgh, 20-22 August, www.edinburgh-festivals.com