Then again, most of its residents are retired. This quaint, leafy town only comes to life at weekends when the tourists come by on their California wine country tours. David Sylvian arranges to meet at a pink, faux Italian wine villa outside of town, set high on a hill over a big, flat valley of vines. They look powdery in the soft winter sun, like someone ironed the Bordeaux region and covered it in dust. David is teetotal.
Hair shirts come in no end of fine shape and sizes.
A slight, delicate-looking man with spare, almost feminine movements, he's feeding his cake to a flock of starlings. The sweet, pained smile adds to the effect of tortured sainthood. Sylvian does not like interviews, he's the first musician I've met who's tried negotiating less magazine space it it would make me stop askinh him questions. It's an extraordinary if not an entirely new story - there have always been artists who embrace the tragedy rather than the glory of pop. Not a great career choice, then.