If Andrew Sutcliffe hadnt been a musician, he definitely would've been a politician. Everything you could ask for in a frontman, he seems born for it, endlessly tall and immediately smiling. When he and the rest of the foursome turn up, its Andy who remembers literally everyone's names from the last time he saw us. He greets each of us with hugs that swallow their entire bodies and pecks on the cheek, and you immediately feel comfortable with him. He's even seemingly immune to criticism. One of the staff writers starts by asking if he thinks there's any chance that wife Harlowe Montauk only married him for what's undoubtedly in his trust fund, and what he's set to inherit when his Forbes-listed mother passes away, but Andy laughs and shrugs. "There's three of us to split that. She's really fucked up and only married a millionaire."

And this is Andy always. Bright and funny and despite their sometimes difficult relationship, it reminds you of watching his mother Daphne Sutcliffe doing interviews of her own. There's something that makes you feel at ease when they speak, like either of them could convince you to do anything. It's a sharp contrast from watching his footballer father and older brother, who are the embodiment of gruff northerners, though not without their own charm. Andy is animated when giving music recommendations, insisting that we listen to No Rome's "Seventeen", which he deems "a fucking bop" by someone who is "dead talented" before the interview itself begins. When asked which summer album he's anticipating most, he shouts "Drake!" before launching into a miniature lecture about his contributions to hip hop music, a genre of which Andy considers himself a big fan, tapping the wedding band on his left hand as he explains that someone's crushed his dreams of a rap career of his own.

He's too lanky for the chair he attempts to fold himself into, but they all are. I suggest that, in another life, they might have all been professional atheletes, and the foursome erupts into laughter. Alan played cricket in school, they said, Marc and swam, but they both abandoned that to play music, Paper Sea (known then as The Morning After) devoured their spare time. And they weren't very good at their respective sports, Andy points out, prompting half-hearted glares from the other two. Three of the four members had been close since childhood, all attending the Manchester Grammar School in their hometown, and even though Ian is relatively new to the group, you can see how strong their bond is any time you get a pair of them together. One of the first things you notice when you meet them is that they speak their own languge. It's like a secret club that you're not part of, but desparately want to be included in. Andy thinks his accent has faded after spending so much time in London and the US, but each time he turns to address Ian, Marc, or Alan, the gentle 'f' sounds that replace his 'th's become stronger, his as shorten, and all of the medial 't's (think words like Saturday, butterfly, or little) sort of disappear.

I wonder aloud if they think that fame has changed them and their friendship for better or worse, and although he's been fame-adjacent since birth, Andy shakes his head. "I think that it made the bad parts of us worse. Or, the bad parts of me worse," he admits, but he's quick not to put the blame onto his celebrity status. "But fame didn't create any problems that were not already there," Andy states, not quite mentioning his trouble with drugs, but you know that's what he means. "I can't really speak for anyone else, but it's made me more aware of the impact that artists have on the world. People listen to what we say and take us seriously, even the careless comments. So I appreciate that it has made me more self-aware. When you live with your best mates for months at a time, you fucking loathe them some days, but we do love one another. It's like having siblings. Someone eats your yoghurt and you want to peel their skin off cos it's the last in a list of annoying things that've happened after you've been awake for four days, but you're quite protective of them. Anyone who says that they preferred life before they were famous is lying a bit, but the never-ending criticisms are particularly terrible. And being on tour can be a bit lonely, but it isn't worth the trade. I would never go back to being just my parents' son. It would kill me not to have this, and not to have them."

It's this love for each other they credit for their success. Hard at work on their third album, drummer-slash-producer Alan Cross says he believes they're "nearly there", and continues to explain: "Andy going to America for a bit was good and bad. It forced us to shuffle the schedule a bit, but he's written loads whilst away, and when he got back." This is what they've referred to as a "brief break" before recording picks back up again, finalizing things before they give us an official release date. "October," is the most any of them will give me, and it's all hush-hush, which only makes me eager for more information. Same goes for the fans. The Paper Sea fandom is massive and easily excitable, much like the band's lead singer, but there's no member of the group who believes Music For Cars will be anything less than a phenomenon. They're talented, and they know it, an arrogance that you find alluring. My favorite stories are Paper Sea fan stories, and each time I've had the chance to interview them, I ask about the craziest thing a fan has done to meet them, hoping the new story will top the last. "The photo guy!" Ian says, doing that fingersnap thing I've found only English people know how to do. The other three burst into laughter, nodding in agreement, and between guffaws, he explains: "Some guy said he was going to eat a picture of Andy every day until Andy agreed to eat one of him and film it. It's on youtube somewhere, I think." Foster apologizes, pulls out his phone, and finds the youtube channel for me. The owner has 426 videos. "That's 1.17 years," Andy says, doing the math in his head. When asked if any of them plan to respond, they all shake their heads. "My stomach couldn't handle it, but maybe I'll send him a free copy of the new albums."

Then Andy corrects me. "Don't call it Music For Cars in the write-up. We're calling them something else." Immediately, he looks towards manager Doug Evans (one of the co-founders of the record label Dirty Hit), double-checking to see whether or not he's said too much too soon. He offers Evans a cheeky smile and recieves an eye roll in return, followed by a dismissive wave. "That means we can say what we'd like. He's a saint, isn't he?" he says referring to their manager. "He's responsible for all of this. Eighteenth February, two thousand twelve at borderline in London. It was our first show, and we went on at half eight." The room is silent as Andy drags his chair over beside Doug's, imitating Will Smith in Men in Black, then leans across the arm to give him a hilariously awkward half hug. "The worst was the struggle to get signed. People think that there's some sort of ... blanket simplicity to getting a label to sign you, but nobody that my parents knew was in a position to make that happen for us, so we begged and pleaded just as everyone else does. There were a lot of nos before finding the best fit for us. Someone who would allow us to keep control of what we made. Alan knew fuck all about making records when we started and look at him now -- look at us now. That's this one."

I'm glad that I'm not the only one in the room, trying to scribble notes on the interview, because my assistant points out that I've missed something. Andy said "them". We're calling them something else. "Go back, go back!" I beg, needing to know what he means by them, but nobody answers. Andy winks, because that's the sort of person he is, and we're left to change the subject, finally coming to their upcoming Live Lounge performance, which apparently may not happen as soon as we all think. "I don't know what we're doing, this one," Marc points to Andy, "can't decide. He wants to wait until October. Maybe we'll ask twitter for suggestions."

Well, Twitter? Let's have them.

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TAGGED: andy sutcliffe paper sea marc hindley alan cross ian foster