Hayley: Did you have any posters on your wall growing up? If so, which bands or artists had the honour?

Tomas: My whole bedroom—you couldn’t see the walls, it was literally just posters. Obviously, you start out going around your bed frame and then you expand. By the time I was about 18, it was the ceiling as well. Every part of the room was covered. You know, you cut out magazines and that kind of thing and print out [pictures of] bands too. All my posters were of bands like Led Zeppelin and Black Sabbath—all that sort of old school stuff—which I guess I got from my Dad.

Was that your ‘in’ to music then? Did you take a lot of lead from your parents?

I guess it must have been my parents. My Dad was in the UK’s first Pink Floyd tribute band back in the 90s. I remember when I was a kid, him leaving the house to go and do gigs, and he’d always play guitar at home too. My parents have [a great] record collection as well, so it was that classic thing of what your parents listen to, [you do].

Did you ever feel that rebellious urge to pull away from what your parents liked?

No. It’s weird with my parents, they’re almost like my friends. We get on well. I never felt [the need to rebel] against them at all. I’m quite fortunate that we get on and that we have the same sort of attitude. Obviously, you have hard moments, when you’re a horrible teenager or you’ve done something wrong. But yeah, luckily I’ve always got on with them. If anything… For example, Black Sabbath, my Dad was never a big fan of, so I [turned him onto] them. Then he would show me something, it was that kind of relationship—an exchange. We still do that now.

Did you go to gigs with your Dad as well?

We used to go to a few gigs, but I started playing in bands quite early on, so my Mum and Dad would drive me to shows and they helped me get my first drum kit. They’d be there in a pub when I was 15—because obviously you’re not allowed to be in a pub when you’re 15—so that I could play a gig. The first ever gig that I went to was Jethro Tull—an old 60s, 70s band—at the Albert Hall in Bolton. My Dad was a bit freaked out, because it was full of drunk old men reliving their youth and I was [only] 12.

Do you remember having a lightbulb moment at any point, where it was like ‘That’s what I want to do’?

Yeah, quite early on I think. I guess because I’m into the heavier side of music—or heavy rock, [at least]—putting on those records and hearing those bands, I found it quite scary and intimidating as a kid. I couldn’t fucking work out what stuff like War Pigs by Black Sabbath was about. It sounded scary, but it really intrigued me. Like, ‘What’s that noise, what on earth are they doing? Why does Ozzy Osbourne look like that?’ I thought it was cool as hell. I can’t really [pinpoint when that was], it’s kind of just always been there.

Did you study anything related to music?

I did film at uni. I’ve always known that music is the hardest thing [to make a living from]. I suppose film is as well, but being in a band is obviously… I didn’t want to put all my eggs in that one basket. I wanted to do something on the side that could support that. [That way,] if the band ever [went anywhere], then great. If not, then I’d got something else to work with. 

I did music GCSE, but I didn’t enjoy learning music whatsoever. I can’t read or write music even now, but I can make songs. I can write a tune. 

When did you first start making music of your own?

The first time I started a band, I was probably 16. My friend Niall played bass, my friend Tom sang and played guitar [and I played drums], so it was like ‘Let’s form a band’ back in Lancaster. Then Tom moved to uni—he was a bit older—so my friend Liam, [Niall and I] started a band called SUN GIANT. We had a sort of Queens of the Stone Age, desert rock sort of sound. The first time I got introduced to smoking weed kind of era. It all [happened] around that same time.

Was Manchester always on your radar, being nearby? How did you end up here?

I think Manchester’s always been a place of interest and I think more so than London. Because I’m from a small village, London felt way more intimidating than Manchester. Plus, I’d been to Manchester as a kid—you know, when your parents take you [to town] on a Saturday—and my Dad used to do some work here, so it always seemed like the best option. But do you know what, I don’t think I gave it much thought. I wasn’t really that arsed about going, or [rather] whether I did or I didn’t. I just went with the flow. Even now I think, yeah, uni was fun but I probably could have done without it. I’m glad that I moved to Manchester though, I think it’s great here. But uni was the pull and also, I was in the band at the time and I thought it’d be a good place to do music, because obviously there was a good music scene here—and there still is.

When I first moved to Manchester, I remember being asked a lot why I hadn’t moved to London instead and I think, for me, it was because Manchester always felt a bit more manageable. Like there was more room here to make an impact.

That’s exactly how I thought about it. If you wanted to do something off your own back, and create something yourself, Manchester felt like the kind of place that you could do that and actually be seen—or find the right people to do it with. Whereas London, I just thought, everyone’s done it or they’re doing it. Not that people aren’t doing it here, it just felt a bit more accessible.

“If you wanted to do something off your own back, and create something yourself, Manchester felt like the kind of place that you could do that and actually be seen—or find the right people to do it with.”

It’s interesting that you say that about uni too. I didn’t go to university and have sometimes felt that my lack of degree has been a barrier when applying for jobs. But a lot of people that I’ve spoken to about it—particularly those who are now working within the creative industries—have said that although uni got them to where they needed to be, in hindsight, they could have done without it. 

When I was in sixth form, saying ‘I want to be in a band’, I had teachers saying ‘No, you can’t do that’. It was a fucking battle. Going to uni felt like it was what you had to do. Go to uni, get the best grades and get a fucking 9 to 5… And I was like ‘There’s no way in hell I’m doing that’. I did feel a bit of peer pressure to go. I kind of wish I didn’t go in all honesty, but then I don’t think I would have moved to Manchester [at the age I did]. It probably would have taken me a bit longer, because I’m a bit lazy.

Was art always in the mix as well?

Yeah. My Dad paints—a lot of this [stuff] comes from my Dad I’m noticing—and would always draw. The kitchen table’s fucking covered in drawings. My sister’s an artist too, so art’s always been in the family.

Do you think that made a creative future seem more possible for you in some ways?

Yeah, it just felt like that was the thing to do. It didn’t seem like it wasn’t an option to do art.

Was a career in art ever a consideration or was it more so about the music for you?

Music’s always been the main thing, then the artwork thing kind of came out of… When I was at uni, I went through a really bad [patch] and that’s when I started drawing. That kind of progressed and then when we were doing gigs, the posters we’d get for the shows I just fucking hated. I was like, ‘Let me do the artwork for the posters. Whatever gig we’ve got, I’ll do the artwork’. Then someone offered me like £20 to do them a poster and [from] that, I started doing artwork on the side. A little hustle, like ‘Let’s get an extra £30 here and £20 here doing a poster for someone’. It started like that. 

In a lot of cases, particularly nowadays, we first come into contact with a band or artist’s music via some sort of visual medium, be it a press shot, an album cover, a social media post and so on. Do you recall being interested in the visual elements of the music industry before it became a key part of your job?

Yeah, that’s a really good point. Especially when I was younger. When you’re a kid and you hear The Beatles [for example], all these classic bands, you don’t have a clue what they’re talking about. It’s all visual, even though you’re hearing it. The sleeves, what they’re wearing, the whole iconography of a band. That’s definitely one of the main things [you connect to] when you’re younger and I think that stays with you as you get older, and I think that’s where my interest in art and design came from. If I had to pick a dream job, it would be doing album sleeves for loads of bands. It’s a really cool place to have artwork. Paintings I love, and it’s nice to see canvases on the wall, but there’s something about doing artwork for music that’s nice, because you’ve got two artforms working together.

And the people who own or play that record will have a really intimate relationship with the art as well as the music.

And as an artist, you’re bouncing off someone else’s creativity. Someone’s written a song and then you’re like ‘How does that make me feel? OK, I’ll draw this’. I like that. I don’t know what that is, but I like it. 

Would you always listen to the music and go through that same process, say, if you were designing a poster? Tell me more about that.

You listen to the bands and sort of get an idea. Certain sounds bring certain colours and vibes in your head, don’t they? Like, if it’s a heavier band, I can see a heavier font, maybe red or black, something a bit more aggressive in terms of the shapes, you know… I guess it just comes out. But when I draw, I don’t really think about it to be honest. I just do it, and once I’ve done it, I just let it be. Very rarely will I draw something and then redo it and redo it until I’m happy. It’s done in a moment and that’s it, and I don’t have a clue if it’s good or not. I don’t really think about that. A lot of artists might spend a lot of time on something and I don’t really do that. I’ll think about it [beforehand]. Say, for example, I’ve got two weeks to do a poster, I’ll [actually] do the poster on those last two days, but I’ll have been thinking about it and coming up with ideas in my head [prior to that] and then it’s just like ‘Bleugh. There it is’. I’ve always been like that. Maybe it’s a bit of laziness, but I just do it in the moment and if it’s good, it’s good and if it’s shit, it’s shit. Nothing I can do about it [at that point]. It’s done.

Would you feel that same way about cover art or do you feel more pressure?

There’s more pressure because there’s more responsibility with stuff like that, especially if something’s being printed. It’s a shame because a lot of artwork today is just going to be shown on Instagram really. A lot of posters that I do, they don’t see the light of day. They’re just on people’s phones. I guess that takes the pressure off in some ways.

Because it feels really fleeting?

[Soon] gone, isn’t it? People see it, but… When you’re doing something physical, there’s a lot more pressure on it in a sense of it looking right, because you’re [going to be] seeing it in the physical. But then sometimes that’s nice. [It encourages you] to be a bit more crazy, a bit more experimental.

Sadly, it’s much harder to think of iconic cover art created during recent years than in the 60s, 70s or 80s and I don’t think that’s a coincidence…

Nowadays, there are so many platforms that when a record comes out, it’s not as much of a standalone piece. It’s in a million places at once, whereas I guess, before the internet, the only way to get or see a new album would be to go to the local shop [on release day], where it would be in the window. If we’re talking about art, that’s a little bit more like having a piece in a gallery. Obviously, there are duplicates and it’s been printed [as part of a larger run] but that first edition line of sleeves and records, it’s almost like an original piece. It is an original in a sense. 

I mean, record sales are great at the moment. With [my band] the Fruit Tones, we sell loads of records. Especially in the underground, that is definitely back I think, big time. 

I guess it feels more personal with bands in the underground.

And it’s hard to do—it’s hard to get physicals out—so people are a lot more precious about it. I think if you go and watch a band, and then you go to their merch stand and you get something, it feels a lot more significant [than buying it from a bigger artist] because you know how hard they’ve worked to get that out. Whereas if you see, like, Adele’s record in the shops—I don’t give a fuck. Which is a shame, because it’s the same thing. It’s almost like things have gone too big and they don’t mean anything [anymore]. I don’t know what that [phenomenon] is, but it’s almost like when things become too big, they also become insignificant. They lose that spirit.

Where do you get your inspiration from? Obviously you have other creative outlets as well as art, would you say that each medium feeds the other?

Yeah, always. Film-wise, my favourite stuff is documentary films. I love documentaries because they’re spontaneous, they’re real. I love documentaries that are filmed in a cinematic way, that are about something that’s going on now. I find that a good source of inspiration, because it’s about life and you can get stuck into a weird subject. Film definitely helps inspire the art and the music. Those three have always been in a loop, because I’m bad at doing one thing for too long. I get fed up, it bores the hell out of me. If I’m doing a poster for more than a few hours, it’s like ‘I’m bored, I want to do something else’. It’s bad, I’m bad like that. I’ll move onto something else, and then come back to it. I always see it as a bit childlike, like when you’ve been playing with one thing for a while and you’re bored, so you go and play with something else in the other corner of the room. I’ve got a short attention span, I think.

Out of interest, how long would something like a piece of cover art or a poster take you to finish? Or does it tend to vary?

It’s varied. Obviously, the deadline helps. That gives you a time constraint and usually it means that I need to be quite fast, but I like something that’s quick. I think I’m probably quite bad at not putting enough time into things, and maybe rushing them. But at the same time, it feels more in the moment, doing something in a shorter block rather than elongating it out for months. I think it loses something [that way], whereas when it’s something nice and short [with a tight deadline], I think you focus a lot more intensely. There are no distractions, you’re in it. It’s almost like going under water, that’s how I see it. You dive in, you hold your breath and you come out, you come up for air and it’s over. Not over in a bad way, but just like ‘Cool, I’ve found another piece of treasure’.

I’m the exact opposite, I’ll stress! And tweak and tweak and tweak…

Don’t get me wrong, I’ll stress for hours. But I feel like I move on too fast in my head, so if I don’t do it there and then, I’ll have moved on [by the time I come back] and won’t be interested in it anymore. I’ll end up changing it too much, and it won’t [represent] that moment anymore. The thing won’t mean what it meant at that time. Does that make sense? It kind of needs to be done there and then.

It sounds like a really freeing way to work! As a creative, it’s hard not to be inspired by the DIY nature of the grassroots scene. Do you find that bleeding into your other work?

I’ve noticed that more with the work I do in film, because you can be DIY but you can’t… I’m probably a bit too DIY for some of the work I do in the film world. I’m probably a bit rough around the edges compared to some of the people that I work with, who are sharp and probably more professional. I’ve noticed that, compared to the art and the music. You go and work with someone on a film set, you can’t be DIY—you’ve got to be fucking on it. I’ve found that hard. You can’t slack, you can’t rush things. If you’re on a project for a long period of time, that’s what you’ve got to do, you’ve got to be strict. But I kind of like that balance, especially as I’ve gotten older, and I always draw on the DIY element. It’s raw, it’s more spontaneous, it feels more natural to me. Being professional doesn’t feel that natural, [in fact] I find that quite a challenge. But I always draw on that DIY element and I think that kind of works with the film stuff because you come at it from a different angle. Not everyone is part of or delves into that underground scene.

Speaking of the underground scene, how did GULP come about?

So Natasha, who I run GULP with, used to work on the bar at Night and Day and I used to go there and drink. All of our friends hung out there or worked there, probably like a year before COVID, so maybe six years ago… Sometime before that weird void of time. But yeah, we both have an interest in Oz Magazine and IT Magazine—those kind of counterculture magazines from the late 60s—and for some reason, one day I was at the bar while she was working and we were just like ‘We should do our own magazine’. I think because Crack Magazine’s always in Night and Day and I just think it’s crap. No offence to them, it’s alright, it just doesn’t really do much for me. I know how hard it is to get in a magazine, I play in a band and it’s fucking impossible. You’ve got to be big or you’ve got to pay to be in it and I just find that annoying. We thought, ‘There’s so much good stuff going on with all of our friends, and people that we know and admire, why not put those things into a paper?’ That’s where it started.

“We thought, ‘There’s so much good stuff going on with all of our friends, and people that we know and admire, why not put those things into a paper?’”

Would you say that a key part of your enjoyment of music, art, culture and so on is sharing it with other people, whether that’s in print or otherwise? I think it almost deepens your connection to it, as well as the people that you’re sharing it with. 

100%, yeah. You know when you find something and you instantly know, out of everyone you know, who’s going to like it? Like, ‘I’ve got to tell this person right now’? It’s a nice thing to share with people, because there are so many artists, musicians and creators that I love and a lot of people don’t know about them—and they should. That’s why GULP’s a thing. Me and Tash are inspired by so many people, we just wanted to put that into a magazine and give it to people. It’s that—that giving aspect—that’s probably one of the biggest parts of it. That’s where the name comes from [too], that idea that you’re gulping down content, you want to take it in. Inspired by drinking beer, I think. 

And I guess, going back to what you were saying about physical releases, putting a recommendation or a review of something in print almost feels more meaningful than sharing it on social media, for instance.

It’s got a lot more gravitas, for sure. It definitely means something, especially nowadays, going on about phones and all that stuff. I think the internet’s great, I love it, but it doesn’t have much meaning behind it. Like, when I see that the Fruit Tones or [one of my] other bands is in an article on a blog or something, it’s like ‘Oh cool, we’ll share that’. But if it was ever in print form, you know I’m saving that. There’s a lot more behind it, I think everyone thinks like that. It’s the physical, isn’t it? It feels more interesting. 

Most people starting a project or a business or a community today decide to do it solely online. Why do you opt to release GULP physically?

When we first started with GULP, I was so against doing anything online at all and Tash was like ‘We need to do something, how are people going to know [we exist]?’. You have to use the internet, it’s part of today. I’m not against, like ‘Everything was better in the old days’. I hate that shit, because everything’s mint now, creatively speaking. It’s just using those tools, and I think it’s nice to have both, the print form and the online. We do a monthly mailout called Plug and it’s so much easier to get content on there. It takes fucking ages to get the magazine going. For one, we’re limited on space because of the costs, so we’re really [intentional about] what goes into each page, which makes [what’s in there] more special in a way. But I do love having both, I would never just do one or the other. We’re fortunate to be able to do both.

I love that you describe it as ‘an artistic platform for experimentation and documentation’. It takes the pressure off the things that you feature needing to be ‘big’ or ‘accessible’ or ‘successful’. It’s just pure appreciation.

Yeah. Again, if you’re a creative doing whatever, it’s hard to get in a magazine. The gap between starting out, getting to a point where you’re doing it part time and then [the point where you’re] doing it full time is fucking huge and trying to get your work out there on a decent site or magazine I find impossible. With GULP, we wanted to fill that gap, where it can include anyone and everyone. We have a level of quality [of course], I feel like it’s good to push people [in that way]. We used to open GULP up to open calls and we used to get so many… Not half-arsed [submissions], but if you really want to do what you’re doing, you’ve got to put the time in. It’s not just saying ‘I’m doing this and I want [my work] to get seen’. It’s art. It’s giving that chance to people that are working their arses off to get into something, and trying to work with those people. So when it comes down to experimentation, that’s opening people up to do whatever they want in the magazine. Everyone’s piece, they’ve curated it with us, and they’ve made something new for that issue. It’s not like we’ve just gone, ‘Oh I love that, can we put it in?’. You’re documenting, but then you’re also working with [another creative] to make something new.

And the magazine isn’t the only thing that the two of you produce. Tell me more about the other elements that are now part of the GULP universe and how you see it all fitting together.

This is something we’ve been trying to figure out for a long time. GULP is [now] a creative platform. We work with people on showcasing their creativity, but also—because me and Tash are both creatives ourselves—[we produce] creative content as well. The exhibition side is very much Tash’s world because she studied curation. I studied film and we both play in bands, so music is the thing in the middle and I think GULP naturally became all of those things together—those three core things—quite organically because we’re very similar in terms of our interests and I think those things all sort of fit together too.

It really doesn’t sound like it was on your mind when the two of you first started GULP, but do you think the project has contributed to your career progression at all? Did you ever think about that?

Not at all, I never thought about that. I don’t think about things like that. I probably should. It’s like when people say ‘You can put it on your CV’—I don’t fucking think like that. I guess, if I thought about it, it’d be like ‘Yeah, I can use InDesign, I’ve got people skills’ and all that shit, but I never think about things like that. I feel like the kind of stuff I’m doing, that’s just the thing I’m doing—I don’t think about where it’s taking me. I’m obviously doing, like, forecasts and always thinking about getting better, but I never really think about that. Not until right now. My brain is going [mad].

I find there are two camps within the creative industries—people who’ve fallen into their work by accident or progressed according to a targeted career plan.

I wish I thought like that, but I just don’t. And a lot of people whose work I admire have a similar attitude towards it, where they started something [purely] for the love of it, just because they wanted to.

To be honest, I don’t really look back much and think ‘Oh, I could have done that better’ because that’s impossible. But I do think in hindsight, it would’ve been good to have a little bit more foresight, because I think things would have progressed a lot quicker. At the same time, I think you lose that natural creative flow if you plan too hard. It’s a difficult battle that everybody [deals with]. Too much planning, you overthink. Too little planning, you might have done the fucking best thing ever but no one’s around to see it. I don’t think there’s an answer really. If you can find the perfect balance, that’s amazing. I’ve definitely realised in the past few years [the importance of being] a bit more organised and planning a little bit more. But I never once thought ‘Right, let’s do a magazine. Here are all the things we need to do’. It just happened. And now I’m in it and I can’t get out of it!

And, again, to go back to what we were saying about Manchester, you’re able to connect with the people that you need to to make these things happen quite naturally.

People are like that in Manchester. There’s that nice connectivity I think that really works and it’s nice to connect with people from different pockets and different scenes. But then everyone knows each other too, it’s small enough like that. Manchester doesn’t feel big to me whatsoever anymore. You can’t walk through town without seeing somebody you know!

I love that, as well as online, copies of GULP are also sold in places around the city like UNITOM and Piccadilly Records—both great examples of real-life meeting places around which creative communities have formed. The breadth of online communities we have access to now is amazing, but I don’t think it compares to these physical spaces—those ‘third places’—in which people can connect in person. Tell me more about the events and exhibitions that you run as part of the platform.

That comes from playing gigs, I think. With GULP, we always do a launch show. Tash is curating exhibitions, I want to put on some shows, I want to do a talk, I want to do a film screening… I want to do all of those things, because you’re right, it’s that third space where everyone can meet. I’m a very social person. I hate sitting at home, it’s fucking boring. I always want to be in the mix of everything. But I think that’s good, because you get to chat to people and GULP’s a really nice way of… We are quite music heavy and I think we try to get away from that, because obviously we both play in bands and we want to try and broaden [our reach]. It’s definitely progressed in that sense and by doing exhibitions and shows, you get to meet a great mix of people. Chefs, people who make beers, journalists, artists, people from record shops... That’s really come about from in-person shows. I wish we could do more and we want to do more, it’s just hard to find space.

You wear a lot of different hats, and have almost created your own little ecosystem of interconnected creative pursuits. Speaking with your musician’s hat on though, how comfortable are you handing over control of your visuals to someone else? They’re a pretty significant part of any artist’s creative expression, but I guess it must feel slightly different when you’ve had the experience of creating them yourself.

That’s a good question. Half and half, I’d say. With the bands, other people have done artwork and gig posters. I can’t control that, that’s just how it goes, and you trust that people understand your vibe and [translate that] in a way that works on the visual side. But when it comes down to like… Like the Fruit Tones records, our old bass player used to do all the artwork and I fucking loved his artwork, so it made sense. Then when he left, we [carried on doing] it ourselves. Our [current] bass player, Chris, is a great artist and Tom, he’s got great creative vision, so we kind of manage it ourselves, and if we want someone else to do it, it’s [just a case of providing] a bit of creative direction. That comes across in my film work too. You’ve got to let other people do their thing, you can’t be a control freak. You’ve got to let other people have their own interpretations of what you do. 

“You’ve got to let other people have their own interpretations of what you do.”

Do you find that quite easy to do?

Yeah. I mean, obviously [there’s that element] of quality control, your shit’s got to look good. But I think it’s nice to have people’s… For example, with Fruits, we put a call out about someone doing the poster for our tour of Australia, because I thought it’d be a good opportunity to pay someone else to do it. This guy Sam, a tattoo artist, got in contact and we just kind of let him do it. Said ‘We want us in it, maybe a kangaroo or whatever, something fun!’ and what he came back with was fucking mint. It’s nice to just let people do their thing for you and see what happens. I think if you do it yourself all the time, you’re too in it. You’re a bit blinded. You need other people[’s perspectives].

That idea of letting music ‘speak for itself’ has become somewhat of a privilege in recent years, given how visual everything’s now required to be. As a consumer, would you say that you find yourself drawn to artists who create a wider universe around themselves, one that extends beyond the music itself?

Image is weird, because you do think about it. There’s no way you can’t, it’s impossible. I don’t trust anyone who says, ‘No, image isn’t a part of it’. That’s bollocks, it is. Everyone wants to look good in themselves. But I think it’s interesting that with some of the best artists on the planet, you find that their image is [so not central to what they do], and then with others their image is the main thing. 

Having a good image is [about reflecting your] personality, not how good looking you are or how you dress. Not that kind of shit. With the art stuff, I’m not really in a position where I’m having to talk about it. The work’s just there. With GULP, it’s there. We don’t put our faces to GULP as much as maybe we should do, because I think people buy into people, but image comes in with face to face stuff, like events, where you’re talking to people all the time. With the bands, we just wear what we wear. That’s just the way it is. That’s why I’m dressed in double denim today, because I love the seventies and I think it’s cool as fuck. I don’t overthink it. To me, whatever I look like is going to suit what I do, because it’s me, isn’t it?

I’m deeply jealous of your mindset!

I’m not saying that I don’t worry about it. I worry about fucking everything! But then, I worry so much that [eventually], I don’t care. Does that make sense? I have anxiety [to start with], but then too much of that shit, and I don’t care anymore.

Given everything that you do, what’s the first thing that comes to mind if I ask about something you’re particularly proud of?

The fact that I’m still doing it is probably what I’m most proud of. There’s no way I thought I’d be 29 and doing any of this shit. I thought I’d have to be working a boring ass job at some point and that I’d probably have to have given it up. If I’m going to go all deep and profound, probably that—the fact that I’m still doing it. 

The first thing that comes to mind music-wise is the Fruit Tones playing at Willie Nelson’s ranch in Texas. I’m pretty proud of that, that was pretty cool. We did America a few times before COVID and we played at SXSW in Austin. [At the time,] our friends The Nude Party, a band from New York, were curating a stage at Luck Reunion—the festival that Willie Nelson and his family put on at their ranch—and because we were already over, they said ‘Do you want to come and play?’ and obviously we said yes. The best part of it was they had one of those old tour buses from back in the day that Johnny Cash and Elvis and all those amazing musicians had been on, and we got absolutely fucking hammered on it. That was a really cool moment, just to be in a place where some serious musical heritage had taken place. That was pretty insane. That comes into my head quite often.

Do you think your work has shaped your music taste at all, or how you engage with live spaces and events?

I’ve not really changed that much, I don’t think. If anything, doing GULP has made me appreciate other genres of music more. If a pop song came on the radio, I used to be—still am a little bit—like fuck that shit. Or if I went to a gig and I didn’t like it… I used to be quite bad with that. You can get a bit precious about what you’re doing, but nowadays I’m a lot more open. Especially with GULP, I’d happily not have any rock and roll bands at all in the magazine. Obviously, I love that genre, but I love having loads of [different types] of creatives in the magazine. It’s so much more interesting that way.

It sounds like you’re a creative in the broadest sense. I can already guess the answer, but I’ll ask the question anyway—do you believe in the idea of ‘staying in your lane’?

It depends what kind of lane you’re in. I don’t really see things as lanes, I don’t think I’m that linear. Having a lane [in the first place] is great, and I kind of wish I was a bit more focused on maybe having a speciality. To me, it’s more of a… I don’t know, a space that I’m bouncing around like an atom. 

Maybe it comes back to what we were saying earlier about you having almost created a little ecosystem?

That’s a really good way of putting it, I see it a lot more like that. Like an ecosystem. I probably do too many things and that probably does have an impact. It does have an impact. 

How have you found Manchester as a home, or at least a base, for all your creative pursuits? In theory, you could do them from anywhere…

I can see myself in loads of different places and I’ve always toyed with the idea of moving somewhere else. Like, I’d love to live in Paris, I’d love to live in the middle of nowhere in, like, Iceland… But when it comes to being realistic—which a lot of the time, I’m not—Manchester’s really good as a base. Tom from the band always makes a good point about having your anchor point and making that stable, so that you can go out to [other] places, do your shit and then come back. I think I’ve learnt [the importance of] that a lot more getting a little older. Everyone [can find fault] with where they live, but you’ve got to think ‘It’s not that bad here, we’re actually pretty damn lucky’. You’ve got to be a bit more grateful for where you’re living and not think the grass is always greener. Because you can [still] go and sit in that grass—and then come back to your grass. 

Obviously, moving somewhere else would be great. Maybe I’d like to live somewhere else for a year. It’s important to visit other places and experience other cultures, because you can’t get enough when you go on a trip. But I think Manchester’s a good place. It’s easy here, apart from the rent prices—but then everywhere’s fucking expensive. 

As someone who also moved to the city from a fairly small town, do you think you still have to move to cultural hubs like Manchester to carve out the kind of career and community you’ve created here?

It does help. I’ve always thought that. I’ve got some friends and there are people I admire who don’t live in big cities and have a more humble existence. They enjoy nature—which I fucking love—a lot more than the city and still are able to do their practice. I have no idea how they’re able to do that. But then the city can also be a massive distraction. I could go out every night of the week and not do anything creative—and that happens. When you lose your train of thought and start getting distracted by all that’s going on. There’s definitely a balance there. 

I think in the future, I’d like to live by the sea, but I think if you’re going to live in the city, as everyone says, it’s good to do it while you’re young. While you haven’t got any commitments and you’re just flying around like a nutter. I’m kind of glad for that, but I’m [also] glad that I come from a small town. Lancaster is a nice spot, but I find it boring, I want something more. It’s always that—I want something more. But it’s nice not to have that ‘more’ too. 

To always be striving.

Yeah.