Ian Broudie is a singer, songwriter and producer whose songs with the Lightning Seeds first saw him top the charts in the 1990s. He was born on Penny Lane, Liverpool, in 1958 and became a big part in the post punk scene in the late-1970s – producing albums for his friends Echo & The Bunnymen, The Fall and many others.
Broudie found success when The Lightning Seeds’ song Pure was championed by DJs ranging from John Peel to Steve Wright.
The Lightning Seeds have continued to sell millions of records, with Sense, Lucky You, The Life of Riley among the biggest hits, before they made iconic football anthem Three Lions with David Baddiel and Frank Skinner. Ian Broudie has always been a collaborator, writing songs with Terry Hall and Nicky Wire and producing music for new generations of bands and artists, including The Zutons, The Coral, The Subways, I Am Kloot and Miles Kane.
As he prepares to celebrate 35 years of The Lightning Seeds with a new tour and Greatest Hits collection, plus new music on the way, he talks about his lifelong obsession with music – and how legendary Liverpool music venue Eric’s changed his life – in his Letter to My Younger Self.
I’d just left school when I turned 16. I wasn’t happy there so a lot of the time I just didn’t go in. I would go to a place called Camp Hill, which is a nice field on the way to the airport in Liverpool, and get stoned and read books. Whenever I left the house I took my guitar. Just on the off chance. The only things I was good at was playing football and playing guitar. And they were the two things I loved. It was all Bill Shankly and The Beatles when I was growing up. And nothing’s really changed.
I didn’t have much of a plan. Like most musicians in Liverpool, I was on the dole. At school, they weren’t big on careers, but once a year they would ask what we wanted to do with our lives and I’d say I want to be in a band. They would say, that’s not very realistic because at that time, even in Liverpool, they didn’t really value The Beatles like they did later. I loved The Beatles from when I was five. They came from my road. I was born in Penny Lane – before the song – and I was brought up on Menlove Gardens, which is just off Menlove Avenue where [John Lennon’s] Aunt Mimi’s house was. So they felt like a local band to me.
When punk happened, I saw the Sex Pistols, The Clash and The Damned. They were all OK, but for me it was all about the Ramones. When I first heard the Ramones I sold every other album I had and started again. Then I got Marquee Moon by Television, Talking Heads’ first album, MC5. We’d get cheap records from Woolworths on Penny Lane – they were called deletions, it was leftover stock, and you could get Faust or Captain Beefheart or Love albums for 49p. It was the stuff I could afford to buy, but it really influenced me. Woolworths loomed large in my world. I got my first electric guitar from there for £14.
The world seemed a big and scary place when I first left school. I was a bit of a loner until I discovered a place called the School of Language, Music, Dream and Pun on Mathew Street. That was where I met Bill Drummond, Jayne Casey, Holly Johnson. Then Eric’s [iconic music venue] opened up over the road. I started to be mates with Ian McCulloch and all the misfits at Eric’s who were into The Velvet Underground. I’d found it hard to know where I fitted in – but when you put a lot of misfits together, they’re not misfits anymore. They’re a scene.
1995: Ian Broudie on stage with The Lightning Seeds, London. Image: Pictorial Press Ltd / Alamy Stock Photo
Eric’s became our world and I don’t think I ever really came out of that bubble. My first proper band was Big in Japan with Holly and Bill and a drummer called Budgie, who went on to be in The Slits and Siouxsie & The Banshees. Then my pals formed bands, which were Echo & The Bunnymen and The Teardrop Explodes. So I would be at Eric’s from midday until 2am every day. We would all rehearse there, I’d be part of the crew helping bands load their equipment in for gigs, I’d watch bands at night then help them load out. And sometimes I would DJ if no one was available. It was the centre of my universe.
As a young musician in the 1970s, you got ripped off all the time. It happened to me three or four times. I had an American manager who nicked all the money, but that was the norm. You felt like you were betraying your art if you thought sensibly about the commerce of it all. So we were like lambs to the slaughter.
I was always obsessed with music. I would sit there playing music in my bedroom, a bit stoned, rearranging the songs in my head. And I always knew how to do it. But I never wanted to be a producer, I wanted to be a songwriter. The Bunnymen were the first band I knew who had a record contract. They recorded some songs and played them to me in their van. They were not sure they liked them – and I told them I could see why. I was very opinionated. So they asked me to produce the record instead. I only agreed if they didn’t put my name on the record. So it was ‘a Kingbird production’ – and I didn’t get the stigma of producing Echo & The Bunnymen [laughs]!
1998: From left, Ian Broudie, Frank Skinner and David Baddiel announce their version of Three Lions for the World Cup. Image: PA Images / Alamy Stock Photo
The song Pure was like a miracle in my life. I hadn’t really finished it, but I sent it to a publisher who was a bit of a rogue, a 1960s cigar guy, and he said we should put it out on Rough Trade. I didn’t have a record contract or a band. I hadn’t even finished the song. But they pressed 200 copies, it would sell out, so they would press more. It started getting played around the world. People think the Haçienda only played dance music, but they played Pure as well. It never quite fitted in, but it fitted in, you know? Which is kind of like me. And I remember getting the call that they were going to play Pure on Steve Wright in the Afternoon [on BBC Radio 1]. Halfway through he took it off. I thought, oh no, he hates it. Then he said, this is fantastic and played it again from the beginning, which they never do. When it got to the end, he played it again. I’d never really sung in public yet, so it was all a bit dysfunctional. I had a hit before I could sing or had a band, I was a producer first, which is the wrong way round. I haven’t exactly maximised my opportunities, I’ve minimised them.
I believe in community, but I don’t believe in politics. I don’t like politicians, and I don’t like politics of any kind. My whole outlook is I that grew up in Liverpool, which is a city about community. So there’s that left-wing community that is all about helping each other out, and I believe very much in that.
I wouldn’t even try to give advice to my younger self on love. I’d rather stick to music. But I’d probably tell him to relax. That’s what I’d tell him about most things. I’ve dealt with death and divorce and a lot of stuff. And what I’ve always found hard to do is live in the moment – I’m better looking back, but at the time it always feels like I’m observing from afar, on a different planet looking in. So I would tell my younger self to enjoy things while they are there – because that is the least of my talents. I feel like I missed everything.
It’s quite fitting that I will be remembered for Three Lions. When I was in Big in Japan, I had this instrumental track that went on an album called Street to Street – which was a very early Liverpool indie compilation. It was called Match of the Day because it didn’t have a title but I figured it would sound good on Match of the Day. Years later, my song Life of Riley – which is written about my son Riley – was suddenly on Match of the Day and being played all the time. So in some ways, it’s probably fitting that a football song, Three Lions, is the song I will be remembered for. But I’d rather be remembered for Pure.
I value people more than music. Music has been my life so my greatest friends come from that world. With Terry Hall, the music led to a great friendship and I’m so grateful for the music leading to that friendship. I loved Terry. And, with Echo and the Bunnymen, it was 40 years ago and Ian McCulluch and I don’t talk very often. But I still think of him and Will [Sergeant] as some of my closest friends. There’s an affinity there that’s lasted. I also feel a real affection for The Coral, I’m still very friendly with The Zutons and work with them every decade or so. Those relationships are very important.
2011: Ian Broudie with son Riley at Friends of Mine Festival. Image: Shirlaine Forrest/WireImage
My son Riley is in the band now. To be working with him and in each other’s lives that much is a very beautiful thing for me. Being with him as he experiences big highs like playing Glastonbury last year has been very special. I’d lost focus on The Lightning Seeds, but having Riley involved has given us a new chapter.
It never ends, but sometimes you worry that it will. So I’d tell my younger self not to worry that you won’t think of another song or write another lyric or want to play another gig. I still haven’t quite made the record I have always been trying to. And I’m still trying to write a song that I will be totally happy with. So in a way everything’s changed, and nothing’s changed. But you’re a lucky bastard, that’s what I’d say to my younger self. I have been doing what I love since I was 16.
3.8 million people in the UK live in extreme poverty. Turn your anger into action - become a Big Issue member and give us the power to take poverty to zero.
