Martin Stephenson: The escape artist

At the height of the Daintees' fame, the singer-songwriter Martin Stephenson swapped the 'nightmare' of the London music scene for the solitude of the far north of Scotland. On the release of his new, roots-inspired album, he tells Gavin Martin why he had to flee

When Martin Stephenson first came south to London from his native Durham in the mid-Eighties, he was a man out of place and time. As the Daintees' lead singer and songwriter, Stephenson had a warm-hearted but capricious nature that was patently at odds with the impersonal music business. "The Eighties," he says now, "were a nightmare for me. Everyone seemed clever and businesslike. I felt lost."

In the intervening years, Stephenson took flight, away from the industry and London. Seven years ago, when he moved to Rosshire, 40 miles north of Inverness, he made his escape final. But tonight, on a rare visit to the capital, he loses no time in turning the 12 Bar Club, a longtime way-station for travelling troubadours, into his natural habitat. His songbook allows him to roam wild and free – from the hippie soul of his Daintees heyday ("Humble Heart") to selections from his new album, Collective Force. The latter includes the reflective wisdom of "Home" and a deep meditation on loss and grieving, "Long Forgotten".

When Stephenson praised the noted 1930s blues guitarist Reverend Gary Davis on the Daintees' Boat to Bolivia 1985 debut, it was no mere affectation. Over the years, he has studied and subsumed the old masters' techniques and trades quicksilver solos with his excellent guitar counterpart Jim Hornsby, blending delta blues and Highland flings, gospel sing-alongs and back-porch country picking.

Between the tunes, he talks non-stop, his spry, soft Geordie brogue spilling out stories and observations. His eyes light up, like James Stewart on a spree, or roll in mock astonishment, like Frankie Howerd after he has heard a saucy tale. He spots a fan who favours the type of headgear that's become his trademark. "Whay aye, lad, but have you got a helipad underneath?" he says, raising his hat to reveal a bald spot.

"This is Andrea from Aberdeen. She's a real soul sister and she kills fascists. Listen to that – she's swearing already," he says, introducing his guest vocal partner, Andrea Mackie. Since 1990, Stephenson has recorded 12 albums, many limited editions made on mini disc and sold through his website. No surprise, then, that three hours after he takes the stage, the show is still going strong and Stephenson is still dipping into his reserves of arcane knowledge and absurdist humour. The next morning he's blinking in the sunlight on the balcony of his west-London hotel, starting the day by playing a guitar duet with Hornsby.

Unlike Kevin Rowland and Mike Scott – fellow post-punk performers with an interest in roots music now outside the mainstream – Stephenson gives off an air of contentment, someone who has found exactly the musical path he's looking for. "Definitely, I hadnae the skin for the music business. I was always looking in a different direction with the Daintees. We started off to entertain our mates while they were playing cards. The thing is, some entertainers are quite shy people. I'm like that, I don't like much attention when I'm not working. It's just something I've picked up over the years, trying to keep people happy as you're working."

Although Stephenson's approach suggests otherwise, he did not have a traditional musical background. "But my dad had a brother who died when he was 17. He was a special kid, very gifted musically – my dad's 72 and he's still grieving for him, which is weird. But the first time I ever saw anybody connecting with people and making them laugh was when my dad had a travelling shop, driving round the council estates. He was good at working the people, I think I clocked that."

Just turned 41, Stephenson's first discovered music when he was introduced to the Doors, Frank Zappa and Santana as a pre-teen at his local table tennis club. "I always thought music came from a different time, then punk came along and I thought if they can do it, I'm going to have a shot." At the same time a friend's father taught them to play rockabilly. "Like an army captain, he was that strict you had to have every note right. Mad really, but it was good training. We were going to emigrate to Australia on my 17th birthday but we had a revolt against the band leader; he was taking all the money and spending it on shopping."

Then came the Daintees – critically acclaimed, top tunes and a formidable live reputation, but ultimately overshadowed by their Kitchenware labelmates Prefab Sprout. "I was basically a busker who was cocooned by the folk around us who were into money. I remember taking a lovely drummer down to record in London, and the producer spent hours trying to get a snare sound, basically using us as his guinea pigs. So I started connecting with a slide player called Gypsy Dave Smith. We were meant to be playing 2,000-capacity venues and I'd bugger off to play folk clubs. I just got fed up and headed for Scotland."

Had he no qualms about deserting? "No, I felt it was just the medicine; they needed to be honest." In Scotland he discovered musicians with the love of bluegrass, mandolin, fiddles and banjos that he shared. "When you carry songs you have a great excuse to bring people together, it's like making a fire. You can either warm yourself or share it; if you share it, you get a better dimension to what you do. One of the great things about travelling with a light step and not making too much noise about yourself is that it gives you a chance to get right into the central nervous system of a community. That's what it should be all about, it shouldn't be going in and doing a raid, taking as much from it as you can and running away."

Collective Force unites a large cast of musicians from Sussex and Scotland with songs that are a product of Stephenson's socialist roots and esoteric thought. "You can still see so much of the Roman consciousness in the modern world; I sing about that in "Long Forgotten". To me, the Jerry Springer Show is like the Gladiator syndrome. It's going to leave the planet soon, I hope. Though there's great things that come out of the Roman civilisation, like central heating," he smiles. Next up for Stephenson is an album recorded in North Carolina with an expansive group of musicians ("their ages range from 15 to 92," he says proudly). Then the first four Daintees albums will be reissued and remastered with additional tracks. Are there any plans to look up old Kitchenware buddy Paddy McAloon?

"The last time I worked with Paddy was 1983; I nearly throttled him. He's a nice lad but a perfectionist, the total opposite to me; we're on a different trip. The focus on Paddy is that he's the genius. To me the genius is the audience; I'm just a log for their fire."

The new album 'Collective Force' is out now on Collective Force records. Details at www.martinstephenson.com