Dave Rowntree, best known as Blur’s drummer, former politician, and part-time “guy who knows how to program your VCR,” has finally gone solo. The result is Radio Songs, a stunning album built on found sounds, whispered voices, mid-pandemic clarity, and, as it turns out, a well-timed argument with his girlfriend.
“I contrived to have an argument on the way out the door,” he tells me with a mix of guilt and mischief. “Which is just awful. Because then you don't get to resolve it until you come back home again.” Naturally, that pit-in-the-stomach feeling turned into “A Thousand Miles,” a song about the emotional landmines of long-distance relationships. “Actually, it’s worked out quite well,” he shrugs. “Maybe I should make a point of having an argument every time I go to write a song. With the cleaner. Or my mother-in-law. Or you, if you're available.”
This is the Rowntree experience in full: dry wit, self-deprecation, and a surprisingly emotional undercurrent. The record may be solo, but it’s not lonely. Much of it was made in lockdown, bouncing files between studios with collaborator Leo Abrahams. “Six weeks later, the album was finished,” he says, marveling at the speed. “I'm not sure I would do it again. You get ruthless efficiency, but not the bit where you’re in the same room bouncing ideas off each other.”
That same pandemic-induced solitude also inspired him to dig into the weird emotional gray space between radio stations. Yes, really. “I've always been interested in the sound between the stations,” he says. “The static, sure, but also all the other stuff. I started collecting it. Just flicking through the dials.” That hissing ether becomes the bedrock of several tracks, anchoring Radio Songs with a kind of haunted broadcast texture. “It’s a synthesizer and found-sound album,” he deadpans. “Which makes it sound like the most boring album ever made.”
It’s not. It’s gorgeous. Moody. Melancholic in that “I-just-googled-the-number-I-keep-seeing” kind of way. Speaking of which, “London Bridge” is rooted in a psychological glitch. “I started seeing the same number everywhere when I was a kid,” he says. “And then again, later, with London Bridge. I’d be nearby, and something would happen. I knew it was just confirmation bias. But knowing didn’t help. That’s what’s terrifying.” He compares it to trying to fix your mental health with a broken ruler. “You can’t measure anything properly because the ruler’s busted.”
He turns that observation inward on “Machines Like Me,” a song that started as a joke and spiraled into an existential self-diagnosis. “I really like machines,” he grins. “Always have. I was that kid in the ’80s who could program the VCR. So I used to say, in a post-apocalyptic future, I’d be fine. The machines would stop by for tea.” Then came the darker thought: “If machines like me… is that flattering? Or is that… actually quite sad?”
It’s the kind of question you ask when you’re alone with your thoughts in a synthesizer-filled studio during a global lockdown. He sings, he samples whispering voices, he builds cinematic epics like “HK” out of repurposed YouTube audio. “I found a recording of a woman, cut it all up in true ’60s style, then had a friend come in and recreate it,” he explains. “It’s a love song, but it’s buried a bit.”
Of course, for Blur fans, the unavoidable question is: how much does Radio Songs sound like Blur? “None,” Rowntree says. “I didn’t even try. You need four specific people to make a Blur record. One of us doesn’t cut it.” Still, he’s aware of the shared DNA. “I heard a few people compare ‘Machines Like Me’ to Damon’s Lonely Press Play. Probably fair. We’ve been swimming in the same waters for 30 years.”
That water, by the way, will soon be rising again. Blur has returned from a seven-year nap, lured out by the prospect of playing Wembley Stadium for the first time. “We've done Glastonbury three times, played Madison Square Garden, Hollywood Bowl… but not Wembley,” Rowntree says. “We weren’t even sure we could sell the tickets.”
And music? “Well, we rehearse for a month and only need a week. So the other three weeks, we usually go, ‘What should we do?’ And that’s when we start writing.” Don’t get excited yet, he warns. “Not making any promises. But that’s usually how it happens.”
In the meantime, Rowntree is focused on touring Radio Songs—eventually. “I've got one gig on the books,” he says, “but the point of this is to have something to play when Blur isn’t playing. Waiting seven years between shows is a bit much.”
If the live show is anything like the album, it’ll be a guided tour through static, sadness, sarcasm, and synths. Maybe even a surprise argument at the door.
Watch the interview above and then check out the video below.
