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Ringo Starr's son Zak Starkey: I turned down Oasis only to be fired by The Who

Ringo Starr's son Zak Starkey: I turned down Oasis only to be fired by The Who

Telegraph16 hours ago

Zak Starkey picks up a life-sized golden skull from a side table in a central London hotel and strikes a Shakespearean pose. 'Alas, poor Roger! I knew him well,' he says with a dramatic flourish.
The snippet tells us plenty about the 59-year-old drummer. Firstly, that he has a scabrous, knockabout sense of humour, with a big dollop of his father Ringo Starr's trademark drollness. Secondly, that the drama around Starkey's recent sackings as the long-term drummer of The Who – that's 'sackings' plural, he was ditched twice in a month – remains at the forefront of his mind. He has plenty to say about Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend regarding the saga, which apparently might not be over yet. But more on that later. We've met to talk about something altogether more other-worldly.
Starkey is the brains behind Mantra of the Cosmos, an indie rock supergroup comprising himself, Andy Bell from Oasis and Ride, and Shaun Ryder and Bez from the Happy Mondays. Mantra's new single, Domino Bones (Gets Dangerous), is a Dadaist slice of punky psychedelia featuring Oasis's Noel Gallagher singing the chorus and Ryder freestyling verses about 'dropping some potion' and things going 'up the junction' like Edward Lear by way of Timothy Leary. Produced by Starkey, it's a clattering monster of a track. 'Dylan, Dali, Ginsberg and a bit of cosmic jibber-jabber,' is how Gallagher describes Domino Bones.
'It's Free Bird for Mods,' Starkey says proudly, describing how he took a chorus that Noel sent him – 'yacht rock' – and chopped and warped it, adding in Ryder's lyrics.
Ryder was meant to be joining us in London but is stuck in Manchester with Covid while Bell and Gallagher are away on Oasis rehearsal duties ahead of next month's reunion tour. But speaking over Zoom from a bedroom at home, a semi-crocked Ryder – who says he keeps falling asleep like 'Dylan the f-----g rabbit in The Magic Roundabout' – describes Mantra's sound as a 'mish-mash of nuttiness'.
'I like doing Mantra with Zak because it's different than the Mondays and different than [his other group] Black Grape. Zak's a f-----g brilliant producer,' says Ryder, who, despite feeling rough, still managed to get 'completely f-----g mashed up' at an 'amazing' Morrissey gig in Manchester last weekend.
Starkey met Ryder after an anniversary recording of TFI Friday in 2015 in which Starkey, Liam Gallagher, Daltrey and others played The Who's My Generation (as well as being in The Who, Starkey was the Oasis drummer between 2004 and 2008). Years later, Starkey was asked by a record industry bigwig to form a 'Britpop supergroup' with luminaries like former Smith Johnny Marr or New Order's Bernard Sumner. But he bridled at the term 'supergroup'.
'No way. What, all that Cream s---? Everyone having a solo, one after the other?' says Starkey. 'Zak didn't want to play that game so he got me and Bez,' Ryder roars, joking that the only more unlikely recruits to the band would have been Donald Trump and 'that baby t--- who wears eyeliner'. Elon Musk? 'No. The other one, with the beard.' J. D. Vance? 'That's it!'
Mantra have an album's worth of songs. A future single, Rip Off, will feature fellow Fab Four offspring Sean Lennon and James McCartney. It's like The Beatles, I say. 'No it's not,' Starkey says, snippily. 'It's like Mantra of the Cosmos with them in it. It's Sean of the Cosmos and James of the Cosmos, it's still my band.' You just need [George Harrison's son] Dhani on it, I add. 'No I don't. Why do I?' Well, because… never mind.
Talking of The Beatles, Starr 'loves' Mantra, Starkey says. 'He wants me to remix all his early singles like Mantra,' he explains. His plan for his dad's 1973 song Photograph is to slow it down and add a 'gospel kind of vibe'. Noel Gallagher has agreed to appear on a couple of tracks.
Despite being the son of a Beatle, Starkey insists he's not wealthy. As well as his drumming projects he has built a recording studio in Jamaica and co-launched the reggae label Trojan Jamaica, neither of which come cheaply. 'And now I haven't got a job,' he says wryly. The other Beatles progeny might have 'loads of money because their dads are dead. James's mum [Linda] is dead. Left him a lot of money. [But] my mum [Maureen Starkey, Starr's first wife] died skint [in 1994] with a whole desk-full of brown envelopes that she never opened because she spent all her money on her friends.'
Aah, yes. The job. The Who saga runs something like this. In mid-April, two weeks after The Who played two Teenage Cancer Trust concerts at the Royal Albert Hall, the band said they'd made a 'collective decision to part ways with Zak' after 30 years due to apparent issues with his drumming at those shows. Starkey said he was 'surprised and saddened' by the decision. But days later, he was back in the fold after the resolution of what Townshend, 80, called 'some communication issues'. 'Zak made a few mistakes [at the Albert Hall] and he has apologised,' the band said. Yet on May 19, he was fired again, for the second time in a month.
He remains perplexed and saddened by it, not least because he says he turned down the megawatt Oasis tour because he was in The Who. Which he now isn't.
So were he not in The Who, he would have played with Oasis? 'Of course. Of course.'
What happened, precisely? 'What happened was I got it right and Roger got it wrong,' Starkey claims. He's talking about The Who's performance of 1971 track The Song is Over at the second Albert Hall show.
The band don't usually play it live and Starkey suggested they performed it as a 'treat' for fans. But, he says, a combination of under-rehearsal ('they hate rehearsing') and the fact that Daltrey, 81, 'took a bit out' of the song because it was too long meant that, on the second night, 'Roger [came] in a bar early'.
The Who's performance of 'The Song Is Over' in March that Starkey says led to his sacking
There were no backstage fireworks. Such is the way with live music. The Who are an incendiary live act; Starkey says something 'disintegrates' every third gig and the band just start again. But, seven days later, 'I got a call from Bill [Curbishley], the manager, [and] he says, 'It's my unfortunate duty to inform you' – it's like Porridge or something – 'that you won't be needed from now on. Roger says you dropped some beats.'' It was clear that Daltrey thought that Starkey was in the wrong. 'I watched the show and I can't find any dropped beats. Then Pete had to go along with it because Pete's had 60 years of arguing with Roger,' says the drummer.
Following the sacking, Townshend phoned Starkey to ask if he was prepared to fight to get his place back. Starkey said no. But a week later when Townshend called again, he had changed his mind. 'I said, 'I want my gig back.'' He returned, having been forced to admit – he says – that he dropped two beats. But the reunion was short-lived. 'Two weeks later it was like, 'Roger says he can't work with you no more, and we'd like you to issue another statement saying you're leaving to do your other projects' and I just didn't do it because I wasn't leaving [of my own volition].' Why did Daltrey feel he couldn't work with you again? 'They didn't specify.'
He says Daltrey later told him that 'you're not fired, you're retired because you've got so many other projects', one of which is Mantra. Despite the situation, Starkey regrets the way that some fans sided with him and piled into Daltrey and Townshend. He calls The Who his 'family', which is entirely understandable given he's been with them since 1996. And he says he harbours no ill-will towards anyone. 'I don't blame anyone. I blame The Who because they're unpredictable, aggressive and f-----g insane,' he says. And that's why he loves them. He'd go back in a heartbeat.
So what happens now? Starkey has the Mantra album to finish although that band can't tour because Oasis, the Happy Mondays and Black Grape are all touring this year. You get the impression that, Mantra aside, he's rather twiddling his thumbs. Sad, when he could be touring with either The Who or Oasis, two of the world's mightiest bands. It's as though he's been barged into the still epicentre of a swirling musical hurricane. It's a waste.
At one point, Starkey even claims he's fallen out of love with drumming and prefers the guitar these days. He was taught, aged seven, by Marc Bolan. 'Have you seen what a guitar looks like? It's like a woman. A drum looks like a pot of biscuits. You can't play the drums and watch telly,' he says. But I don't believe him. Because later he says he's written to Bob Dylan to see if he needs a drummer 'because he's the only person that's anywhere near Pete lyrically'. Has he heard back? 'Course not, it's Bob Dylan innit?'
Tantalisingly, things with The Who may not be over yet. 'I spoke to Roger last week and he said, 'Don't take your drums out of [The Who's] warehouse yet in case we need you.'' Starkey leans forward. 'I said, 'Best let me know.''

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Earl and Countess of Sandwich: We could teach the National Trust a thing or two
Earl and Countess of Sandwich: We could teach the National Trust a thing or two

Telegraph

time38 minutes ago

  • Telegraph

Earl and Countess of Sandwich: We could teach the National Trust a thing or two

At Mapperton House, a Jacobean manor in west Dorset, Luke Montagu, 12 th Earl of Sandwich and his American wife, Julie, Countess of Sandwich, are engaging in the most un-British of behaviour: asking for money. They've set up a camera on a tripod in the mustard-painted library, a light-filled room with a grand piano and mullion windows overlooking the walled garden, and are filming themselves launching a YouTube crowdfunder. The Earl, 55, in an untucked pink shirt and grey trousers, lifts two threadbare manuscripts from one of the bookcases and passes them to the Countess, 51, who is also casually dressed in a striped top, blonde hair tied in a messy bun. She places them carefully onto a cushion on a table. 'I had no idea that they're the Fourth Earl's handwritten journals from his Grand Tour,' she excitedly tells viewers. 'We're going to get them restored, so we're starting a fundraiser – I've found an expert to resew and rebind them in an 18th-century way.' The Montagus hope to raise £3,000 – and given the success of their previous crowdfunding requests, they should smash this target in a few weeks. When one of their eagle figurines, which have adorned the pillars at the front of the house for 300 years, fell off its perch last year, they quickly raised £23,000 to get them restored. Donors also paid £18,500 for the archive room to be overhauled with scanners, archive supplies and a fireproof safe. Then there are the family Coronation robes, which have been conserved at the Royal School of Needlework thanks to a £1,500 crowdfunder; and the 18th-century Peacock Tapestries, which are being restored by celebrated conservator Emma Telford, after £20,000 of donations. Last year alone, the estate raised £70,000 for restoration from online benefactors gifting up to £1,500 at a time. Donors come across the Earl and Countess on Mapperton Live, the couple's YouTube channel, which documents the highs and lows of running the house, five farms and 1,900 acres of pasture and woodlands. In return for their gift, they receive a certificate for making the project happen and – depending on the level of their contribution – a postcard of the project, a limited edition print and their name on a plaque on the estate. The Earl, however, who inherited the estate in February this year on the death of his father, John Montagu, 11th Earl of Sandwich, admits that he finds asking for money deeply uncomfortable. 'I don't do it. I pass it over to Julie,' he says. 'Americans don't have any awkwardness about it.' 'I love it,' the Countess confirms. 'Fundraising is a skill. You have to have created a community in order to do it, and you have to keep reminding them how much you appreciate what they do.' Today, all stately home owners face running and restoration costs so high that innovation is vital just to keep afloat. Hosting music festivals, corporate shoots or film crews (often all three) has become the norm. But on my trip to Mapperton, it became clear the Montagus have happened upon something unique: a paying audience that doesn't need to visit the house. At least not in person. Rather, the couple are letting a growing online audience in on the secrets of their world. It's working. As well as generous donors who want to be involved in restoration projects, the Earl and Countess have amassed more than 500 fee-paying super fans who pay between $5 (£4) and $500 (£368) per month for exclusive videos, handwritten thank you cards, free visits to the house and discounts on stays on the estate. That's bolstered by the advertising revenue that Mapperton Live channel raises on YouTube (its most popular video, featuring the Countess in a swimsuit and bath hat taking a dip in the vast and decrepit 18th-century swimming pool, has garnered 1.6 million views). And while new online fans don't have to visit the house, many inevitably do. These days, more than 10 per cent of Mapperton's 15,000 annual in-person visitors, who pay £20 to visit the house and gardens, have heard about the estate on YouTube, with some followers flying across the Atlantic to see it in real life. Twice a year, the Montagus welcome 12 guests for an exclusive five-night stay at the estate: this year's Grand Historic Tours are sold out, despite costing £8,000 per person. Sourcing relatively small cash gifts from many donors like this is a new tactic. The grandest historic houses – Blenheim Palace, for example – often rely on wealthy individuals to help fund multi-million pound restoration projects. At Mapperton, by contrast, crowdfunding and digital revenues now constitute more than 25 per cent of the estate's annual income. The family has been struggling to get Mapperton out of the red since the Earl's grandfather, Victor Montagu, fell on hard times and downsized to the estate in 1962, having been forced to sell Hitchingbrooke, the family's seat near Cambridge. But the Earl and Countess, who have four children aged from 19 to 26 (the older two from the Countess's previous marriage) believe that if they keep doing what they're doing it's only a matter of time before Mapperton is financially sustainable – which in the world of historic houses is almost unheard of. 'I don't want to jinx it, but by the time we hand it over to the next generation, it should be making money,' the Earl confirms. It's notoriously difficult to gain any kind of following on YouTube, but the Montagus both had a background in media, which helped. The Earl had been running a film school, MetFilm School, which he founded in London before he took over the estate in 2016, and the Countess had TV presenting experience, having been signed up by both the BBC and CNN to be at Windsor Castle for the 2018 wedding of Prince Harry and Meghan (as a divorced American married to an aristocrat, she made an ideal commentator). It's clear as they chat to the camera for their latest crowdfunding video that they're also a winning double act: Julie the headstrong and impressively unsqueamish American Countess who will try her hand at anything, and Luke, the gentle, reserved Earl who is so awestruck by his wife's devotion to his crumbling pile that he loyally supports every one of her projects – with just the right amount of scepticism to build drama. 'You touching that book is almost too terrifying to watch,' he winces, as she flicks through the 4th Earl's journals. She ignores him and keeps flicking, explaining that she's not wearing gloves, as if you can feel the pages, you're less likely to rip them. The Earl begins to read from the journals too: 'He made it as far as Constantinople – and he describes his cavorting, which gets quite racy … He was shipwrecked on the [Sicilian] island of Lampedusa, where he was taken in by a hermit.' The Countess puts up her hand. 'Can I speak? Because you're going on.' The Earl explains, as we sit around the farmhouse table in their kitchen before filming, that viewers like to see the dynamics of their relationship onscreen. They remark on it in the comments beneath each video: 'When Luke sang your praises, it made me cry,' writes one; 'I love how unapologetically American you are,' observes another. The Countess gets emotional sometimes; she once cried on camera when they had a flood. 'She can turn it on. I take a much more British approach,' the Earl says. He has no shame in admitting that these new income streams are mainly down to her. 'The fact is, she's an absolute natural. She has no issue being almost anywhere and putting up the camera and filming. And she also does a lot of the complex stuff on YouTube.' 'I'm obsessed with it,' the Countess agrees. 'I look at all the analytics and make sure I'm up to date with all the techniques.' They met through friends in 2003 at a drinks party in London; she was working for a marketing company, which was setting up offices in the UK. Unlike her husband's grandmother, Alberta Sturges Montagu, 9 th Countess of Sandwich, who was one of the gilded American heiresses who came across the Atlantic to be part of the British aristocracy more than a century ago, the Countess says her own upbringing in Chicago was not laced with dreams of castles and blue British blood. On her one visit to London before she met the Earl, Julie Fisher (as she was then) found Britain decidedly unimpressive. 'The food was awful and it was really rainy and cold,' she says. 'People at home talked about the Royal family, particularly Charles and Diana, but I didn't know those titles still passed along until I met Luke.' In fact, it was the Earl who seemed more attracted to the American way of life. Having studied liberal arts in New York at Columbia University and worked there during his 20s, when he returned to the UK in 2003, he was disappointed not to have found an American bride. 'I love the States, I love the energy of the people – it represents something completely different from the environment I'd grown up in. There's something about the energy and the can-do spirit of Americans.' Was he excited for Prince Harry when he, too, found an American wife? 'Their wedding was a period of real optimism, and there was a sense that things were being shaken up and modernised and it's so sad that it hasn't worked out.' The Countess' own experience was very different to that of the Duchess of Sussex, she says, as she was marrying into the aristocracy rather than the Royal family. 'We're in a different league. There would have been more rules and protocols that she had to follow. I've always felt the freedom to be able to do things and perhaps she didn't. Luke and his parents were incredibly warm and welcoming – I never felt excluded. I wasn't ashamed of my nasal accent.' It was an ominous start, though. When, three months after their first meeting, the Earl invited Julie to Mapperton, she had no idea what to expect. 'We hadn't talked about my family or the house very much,' the Earl says. 'That same evening, we got a call saying three wild boars had escaped from the neighbouring farm and needed hunting before they took out some poor unsuspecting walker. So I grabbed my rifle and headed off with Julie to the woods.' The Countess: 'I was holding a light.' Was she okay about blood sports? 'No!' 'I shot three wild boar, including a huge sow weighing 400lb. These animals were lying dead, and we had to get them out. It was going to be absolutely impossible with just the two of us. So I called my parents.' 'They'd just arrived back from holiday,' the Countess continues. 'Julie and my parents' first experience of each other was each holding a paw.' 'We were carrying the animals, and they were like: 'So Julie, where are you from?' And I was like: 'I'm from Chicago.'' The Earl's parents stayed at the helm of the estate until 2016. 'They saved it from ruin,' he says. Even so, 'I knew that when I took over, it would be a financial challenge.' It was in lockdown that the Countess first became involved in the future of the estate, and Mapperton found a new audience. 'We lost all our income in terms of visitors, so we thought perhaps there was an opportunity to replicate tours on the internet,' the Earl explains. 'We'd film my parents taking their usual tours of the house.' With the Countess as presenter, the Earl as producer and Nestor, 19, their youngest son, as sound man, they created their first crowdfunding video. They were touring All Saints, the estate's church, in June 2020, when the Countess first asked the public for donations to repoint the stonework, which was coming apart and donations – mainly from Americans – began to flood in: £1,500 in total. Did the in-laws hide their heads in shame? Not at all, the Countess says. 'We'd read out the donors' names, which they loved,' she explains. 'I'd say, thank you so much, George, from Sacramento, California, who has just given $50 (£42.50) and my mother-in-law would say, 'Fantastic! We'll even take your dimes.' Soon, the Montagus were producing a regular Saturday night show, Mapperton Live, which continues to this day. 'We over-engineered it to begin with,' the Earl says. 'These days, we never do a second take. Your audience buys into you as people – they find they share your values and interests.' Not many followers will have titles and live in a stately home, though. Do they ever get trolled? 'People are mostly incredibly nice, although we used to get some nasty comments,' the Earl says. The Countess is nodding. 'They said, Julie, do you ever comb your hair?' Did she find that hurtful? 'Never. I don't take it personally. Some people find that hard. For me, it's not hard at all.' Does she not feel she has to make an effort for the camera, though? 'Oh my God, no. That's not me. I'd rather spend my time doing something else than putting on make-up and doing my hair.' It all sounds jolly good fun, but the reality is that it's a scary time for historic houses; an effective 20 per cent rate of inheritance tax (IHT) for both farmland and family-owned businesses is going to be disastrous for many, the Earl explains. 'Some will be able to apply for conditional exemption but many will not.' Recent figures from Historic Houses suggest a third of members will have to sell chattels in order to pay IHT liabilities, but this won't always cover the bill. 'It's going to mean that many more are sold. I can tell you that when they get into public hands, their stories are less interesting. They're much more expensive to run. We run this at a fraction of the cost of a National Trust property. We are the right people to be in place,' he says. The Earl and Countess are aware, though, that they cannot focus purely on digital revenue, not least because the next generation might be camera-shy. Yet without the head of steam created by YouTube, they admit the estate would be struggling, largely because Mapperton is an hour and a half from any major city or town. 'We just don't have the population density to get people to come. We've recognised that problem and removed it by saying you don't have to come in person.' Some 62 per cent of their audience are American – as are 99 per cent of their donors. When the Montagus were invited to speak at a conservation society in Alabama last year, they were treated like royalty by fans. 'They all wanted to have their photograph taken with us,' he says. 'We were very impressed by the Royal family at that point. If we had to do that every day, we'd be exhausted. 'This is what historic houses are about – connection,' he continues. 'We're all looking for connection in our lives. It's important that these estates are shared and understood and relevant – that's how they will survive.'

‘Misshapes, mistakes, misfits': Pulp's signature secondhand style has stood test of time
‘Misshapes, mistakes, misfits': Pulp's signature secondhand style has stood test of time

The Guardian

timean hour ago

  • The Guardian

‘Misshapes, mistakes, misfits': Pulp's signature secondhand style has stood test of time

Thirty years ago this month Pulp played the Pyramid stage at Glastonbury and took their reputation to another level. If part of this was due to a storming set taking in their new hit Common People, debuts for their future hits Mis-Shapes and Disco 2000, and the star power of singer Jarvis Cocker, it was also down to their look. There was Steve Mackay, bass guitarist, in a fitted shirt and kipper tie, Russell Senior on violin in a blue safari shirt, keyboardist Candida Doyle in sequins and – of course – Cocker, in his now signature secondhand 70s tailoring. Fast forward to 2025 and Pulp have their first album in 24 years, More, and a tour taking in the UK, Europe and the US. It is a moment that will put their music and their style back in the public eye. While the bucket hats, parkas and round specs of Oasis, the other Britpop band on tour this summer, are likely to dominate what young men are wearing, Pulp's look is an alternative one that celebrates the secondhand. As Cocker writes in his book Good Pop, Bad Pop, his first jumble-sale buy, a garish 70s shirt, was 'the real beginning of the Pulp aesthetic'. Its pomp can be seen in videos such as for 1993's Babies – with Cocker topless in a flared suit, Mackay in another garish print and Doyle in mod-ish stripes. The influence of Pulp's look in the 90s was partly about the sugar high of its eclectic, graphic take on nostalgia but also its accessibility. '[Other bands] had a secondhand look, but Pulp made it a little bit more colourful, not quite kitsch, but on the edge of kitsch,' says Miranda Sawyer, the author of the Britpop history Uncommon People. Doyle says: 'They obviously looked stylish but you did think, 'OK I can get that stuff'. We were skint for a lot of the first 10 years being in Pulp. I used to find some amazing things [in charity shops].' Three decades later, and secondhand shopping once again dominates the way young people dress. Peter Bevan, 30, a stylist and contributing editor of the Rakish Gent, says: 'Everyone I know who's my age or younger shops in charity shops, in vintage shops, Depop, Vinted. I don't know many people that buy loads of new things any more.' A survey in 2023 found that 64% of gen Z will look for an item secondhand before buying it new. While part of this is likely down to cost and environmental concerns, the haphazard nature of secondhand shopping is championed as a way to express yourself through clothing. 'Everyone who looks cool [now] is doing them rather than trying to do something else,' adds Bevan, who says this is why Pulp appeal. 'Although obviously [Pulp] all made very considered choices that work together you can tell that they're [each] dressing for them[selves] as well.' James Millar, a 22-year-old guitarist in the band the Sukis, regularly shares videos of his Cocker-like looks to the band's 103.4k TikTok followers, and watched Pulp perform in Dublin this week. '[Cocker] is heavily influenced by 70s fashion … but he's not doing 70s cosplay. When I see pictures of him, and what he wears, it just looks like him,' he says. While Doyle bristles at being classed as a Britpop band – 'we don't associate with [it] because of the union jack,' she says – they will inevitably be compared with Oasis, with both bands touring this summer. Style-wise, Bevan says Pulp come out on top. 'I like the Oasis look but [they were originally about a] counter-culture fashion moment. Now it feels like they're meant to look like they're not trying hard in a fashion way but in reality they are trying really hard to look cool. Pulp all have their own personal sense of style that goes way beyond throwing on a Stone Island windbreaker and a pair of jeans.' Sign up to Fashion Statement Style, with substance: what's really trending this week, a roundup of the best fashion journalism and your wardrobe dilemmas solved after newsletter promotion The fact that success eluded Pulp for a decade helped. 'Me and Jarvis were in our 30s by the time we got big, we'd had a long life of knowing what we liked to wear,' says Doyle. While other bands might have had stylists as standard, this was avoided in favour of wearing their own clothes, a principle that remains today. 'I still have a very strong sense of what I like and what I really don't like,' says Doyle. 'I make sure I wear something as bright as possible. I've got a new [outfit] that's white, there are some sequins on it, and there are some tassels. It's good with tassels, because when you move, it comes with you.' She says clothes were even part of what helped form Pulp in the first place. 'We all grew up in Sheffield, and if you dressed a bit strangely, you stood out. So we'd all congregate at the same venues,' she says, adding insight that sounds like a lost lyric from revenge of the nerds anthem, Mis-Shapes: 'There'd be townies and weirdos, squares and students.' Perhaps the enduring appeal of Pulp's style is once again about the triumph of Mis-Shapes, with its lyrics of 'misshapes, mistakes, misfits', and how expressing your personality through the lucky dip of secondhand clothing is a win. 'Jarvis understands his appeal,' says Sawyer. 'He's accentuating all the things that people have picked on him for. He's saying, 'I'm a tall weed or whatever you wanted to call me. This is who I am and, actually, I look great'.'

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