Ed Harcourt

But don’t pigeonhole Strangers as gushy, the singer insists. “It has a few stories on it, like ‘The Trapdoor,’ about a kid who finds a trapdoor in the middle of a field and goes down and meets Death. He looks Death in the eye, and there’s a whole sea of skulls underground—a real catacombs sorta thing—but these angels kinda fly him back up. And the song ‘The Music Box’ is about a war-torn town in Eastern Europe, with an army coming. And ‘Kids (Rise From the Ashes)’ is all about the apathy of our future generation.” The album’s most chiming, optimistic-sounding composition is “a song called ‘Loneliness,’” Harcourt chortles. “And it’s really upbeat.”

Perhaps the most telling number is “Open Book,” an aching, elegiac ballad that multi-tracks the artist’s lissome voice on the chorus. “As children make their way to class I sit and raise another glass / ‘Cause you don’t dwell much on the past when it keeps haunting you,” Harcourt moans, in somnolent tones. And in vino veritas, as the old saying goes. With apologies to Ray Milland, Harcourt cackles, “I had a real lost weekend, but mine lasted six whole months. I partied as hard as possible, having a bottle of wine a day, plus whiskey and vodka. I had a bit of an annus horribilus last year and the year before—my grandmother died; I had to get rid of a few people along the way, like my manager, who betrayed me and was acting in his own interests instead of mine.” He looks both ways to make sure no other rail riders are eavesdropping, then murmurs, “I think I went a bit mad, actually. And also, I was in a relationship that was pretty self-destructive—I needed to get out of it, and it was good that I did.”

That’s when fortune smiled on him and he met Gita, Harcourt purrs affectionately. At this point, perhaps sensing her name being mentioned, Langley awakens, raises her head and rubs her eyes. Had her future beau sunk into clinical depression before they hooked up? “I dunno,” she ponders. “I didn’t see him as being extremely unhappy when we first met. But then again, we met in a relatively professional atmosphere”—i.e. Langley bowing her violin on Harcourt’s sessions. In January ’03 they started dating. “And my lost weekend offfcially ended when I met Gita, really,” Harcourt recalls. “And now I’m a bit more laid back in my songwriting, and I’m not trying to impress as much. I have a bit more confidence about me, so I’m no longer trying to please everyone. And I truly think Strangers is the best thing lyrically that I’ve ever done—I was re-editing and rearranging everything all the time, and just looking at the song and going, ‘No! That’s not good enough!’ and trying to make it better.”

An hour later: Reading. Hand in hand, Harcourt and Langley race off to check into their hotel, then head over in time to catch The Libertines’ rowdy evening appearance. One final word from the singer before he goes, though: “You know, I’ve always acknowledged—and liked—the dark side of me,” he concedes. “But I’d rather write songs that are … well, I’ve said this before, but it’s really hard to write a happy song. Or hard to write a happy song without it being cheesy. But I wrote this new album while living in London, so it’s a completely different feeling; it’s much more upbeat. So this one seems a little more straightforward, really. As opposed to talking about nature and spiders and things like that.”

Before the pair makes it to the festival, Barat will sit in his tour bus, cracking up over his kooky buddy. “Did he show you his Gita tattoo?” he wants to know. “Did you actually see how big that design is? How much trouble do you think he’s gonna be in, once her parents find out?”

Good question. Only time—and Harcourt’s next tell-all sonic confessional—will tell.