Type foundry from the early part of the 20th century, located in Turin, Italy. “But at least have the bravery to ask it.TYPE DESIGN INFORMATION PAGE last updated on Ready to roll.” It prompted her question in the lyric: “Am I incapable of love?” Maybe, maybe not, she says now. “But I was still intact, completely and utterly. “, everything came into sharp relief.” She wondered if she might never have her own version of the wayward family she grew up in. It’s about the idea of getting out of a relationship without your heart being broken (“Girls don’t sing about that in pop songs”). She wrote “Incapable” when she split from Henwood, nine months after Clodagh was born. She’s a self-confessed “daddy’s girl” – “I have an Electra complex,” she quips. The idea of her dad, Micky Murphy, giving her away makes her scream with laughter.
But she doesn’t want to get married, “never – not if he was dipped in gold”.
She’s good at the moment (“I managed to get a good’un”). Including with men? “That happened a few times,” she admits. Unrequited love is a theme she comes back to often: “I always punch above my weight, in every aspect,” she says. She talks about the songs on Róisín Machine as though they’re characters, but you’ll always find Murphy in there, too.
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The superficiality of Murphy’s take on glamour, art and music, Fisher realised, was precisely what made it so great.Įnjoy unlimited access to 70 million ad-free songs and podcasts with Amazon Music Sign up now for a 30-day free trial Sign up He saw the importance of the glamour in the music world, at a time when Noughties indie was at its height. He once described Murphy as pop’s “exiled princess of glam”, who “represents a confection – of disco and art, of sensuousness and intelligence, of sumptuous superficiality and existential anxiety – that once seemed inevitable, but which has now become all but impossible”. Her song “Kingdom of Ends” is a tribute to the late critic and cultural theorist Mark Fisher, who died by suicide in 2017. She marvels at their bravery: “It fascinates me – the balls of it.” “I got fascinated with these lads from the Human League and Cabaret Voltaire, watching them on Top of the Pops” – she shakes her fist triumphantly – “f***ing come on then!” She admired the men from that scene who would “put their make-up on, dress up in heels and blouses they’d ‘borrowed’ from their sisters, and run the gauntlet through a very working-class town in the Seventies and Eighties, on the way down to the one or two pubs that’d be for weirdos like that”. That explains the unmistakable element of Seventies glam-rock bubbling beneath the house and disco. “But it’s usually got some kind of charm. “There's a bad side to it – it can draw the life out of you sometimes,” she says, noting that it also means the onus is on her if people don't like what she comes up with. She's experiencing a particularly prolific phase, helped by the fact that she has everything she needs to record new music at home.
First with Moloko, the trip-hop duo she formed with Mark Brydon in the Nineties, then her five solo albums of squelchy, glamorous dance music and alt-electronic pop. She’s known for her avant-garde style and shimmering, danceable hits, though she is far from your run-of-the-mill megawatt pop star, constantly evolving into something new with each album, and usually with a directional, sculptural outfit. Murphy’s legacy has spanned over 26 years in music. “What do you think?” she says with a cackle. It was painted by Simon Henwood, the Irish singer’s ex-boyfriend and father to her 10-year-old daughter, Clodagh. She gestures to a giant portrait of herself, hung on the living room wall behind her. Do I think about my legacy?” Róisín Murphy ponders.
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