Brendan Benson: Benson's edges

He's from Detroit, thinks current songwriting sucks and once told Jack White of the White Stripes that his music would never be played on the radio. Just who, asks Steve Jelbert, does Brendan Benson think he is?

A few months ago, a single popped through the post, with the unpromising title "Folk Singer", released by V2, home of the Stereophonics and Liberty X (the ones who weren't good enough for Hear'Say) by a man with the uninspiring name Brendan Benson. Yet, rather than being the work of some hapless David Gray wannabe, it turned out to be one of the wittiest tunes of the year, a deceptively simple power-pop song about a hopeful songwriter whose girlfriend puts him down, sharply if affectionately, with the immortal line: "Stop pretending: you're not John Lennon."

Brendan Benson is not Irish (though his hair is a curious shade of green, the colour of an ill-kept lawn, due to a long running hairdressing trauma), but from Detroit, where he hangs out with the White Stripes and other bands on the rather incestuous local scene. Last week he and his backing band, the Well Fed Boys, played one of the best shows of the year, a fantastic hour of his own and other classic pop songs. Not that he's totally convinced, despite the best efforts of his bandmates, drummer Matt Aljian and keyboard player Chris Plum.

"I think people were into that London show because I was screwing up," moans Benson, to cries of "Nooo!" from his cohorts.

"You just went for it," protests Plum.

"They like your songs and they wanted to see you try," adds Aljian, referring to a glorious moment when Benson forgot the second verse of his own tune "Sitting Pretty" (where he comments on how attractive his girl looks when "tied to a chair"– a gag, in both senses of the word).

"If I had played an impeccable show and remembered all the words, would it have gone over as well?" ponders Benson glumly.

"Yes," replies an adamant Plum.

"I don't think so," wails the singer.

"See how you're focusing on the screw-up," says Plum.

"I'm not saying 'Oh, I suck.' But that does provide entertainment. Society wants to see mistakes," replies Benson.

"They were all singing the words to your songs before you forgot them. You can't deny they were totally into it," offers Aljian in an attempt at placation.

"But they were into the songs anyway," says Benson, before reconsidering, "I think there's more entertainment in seeing a band that's shitty, but trying for something, than seeing a generic band do a set perfectly. That's cooler."

But surely you don't want, say, air-traffic controllers winging it? "Well, that's life and death. This is just a rock show," he concedes.

Plum has the last word, "Some would beg to differ." And everyone cracks up.

This Midwestern Seinfeld moment aside, Benson has reasons for a certain insecurity. Once signed to a major, his debut album appeared in 1996, to no great success. After being dropped, he returned from California to Michigan, and set up his own studio, working up songs with Jason Falkner of Jellyfish fame, before eventually securing another deal. Meanwhile, friends such as Jack White have gone on to meet once inconceivable acclaim, while the unimaginative eyes of the business have focused on his home base.

"How bizarre. I told Jack White to his face, 'Dude, your shit will never be played on the radio,'" Benson admits. Oops.

"He wanted me to give his songs to my A&R man and I said, 'All right, but it'll never happen for you. You should concentrate on your little indie labels.' Now I'm eating my hat – I'm on the indie label," he laughs.

White has long forgiven him, though. The Well Fed Boys have been touring for months in the US with the Stripes, and I've never seen a band getting on so well after such an extended stretch on the road. The banter is endless, but it's obvious that the Boys, all experienced musicians and, like Benson, in their early thirties, are endearingly protective of their somewhat diffident leader. Perhaps it's the endless hours spent sequestered alone in studios getting his songs right (the band have been with him for only nine months, though they're all old friends) without direct feedback from an audience. But I'm not sure if Benson is aware of just how good he is.

Certainly, his new single "Tiny Spark", with its queasy synth hook, is instantly familiar, while his album Lapalco, released here later in the year, has some fantastic tunes on it. If the brilliant "Metarie", the best ballad Evan Dando never wrote and a future single, doesn't dominate the airwaves, I'll be amazed, though its unusual title is something of an accident.

"It's a place in Louisiana. I've never been there. I spelt it wrong, too. [Metairie is, in fact, outside New Orleans.] It was going to be called 'Met a Girl' after the first line, but I thought it was too similar to Nirvana's 'About a Girl'. I've never been too good with titles," he explains. "We've had such a great response to that song here. English people really like their ballady, anthemic things."

As if on cue, the new Oasis single starts on the sound system in the bar where the interview is taking place. Benson's taste in music is perhaps as circumscribed as Noel Gallagher's. Live he performs covers of old favourites by the Move, and, perhaps surprisingly, Wings' "Let Me Roll It".

"It's a good song. It should not be forgotten. Most of my record collection is older music, and they're just fun to play. After all, what Depeche Mode song could you play?" he asks, not unreasonably.

"If you covered something from the Eighties and Nineties, it'd just come across as kitsch," chips in Aljian.

"That's when songwriting was at its peak. I don't think they were even conscious of it. Their parents were listening to big bands and jazz and classical," offers Benson, unconsciously echoing Ian MacDonald's explanation of the Beatles' songwriting excellence expounded in his classic analysis Revolution in the Head.

"But how do kids get the chance to get turned on to the good shit? I had an older brother. I heard a lot of different things," Aljian continues.

"So we put our faith in the great uncle now," adds Plum. "The great uncle will save rock," the three of them declare.

"My nieces and nephews, all the kids I know, listen to shite. Boy bands and all that crap," moans Benson, "I hear it and think, 'This is the furthest thing from music.'"

Who knows? Perhaps they'll twig one day what Uncle Brendan is up to. Rock critics always fall for this sort of stuff, of course, as it's stipulated in the contract that we have to sign with the devil to secure our posts in the first place. But if you've ever loved straightforward songs, played and sung well, he's a real find.

'Tiny Spark' is released on V2 next month; 'Lapalco' follows in September