A La Fu

About me:

He'd say inconsistent where we'd say experimental. He'd say distracted, not inquisitive. Not artistic, but erratic. Not waving but drowning. But, you'd forgive the boy for an occasional temperament that makes Nick Drake appear eruptively ecstatic. Born of fire into a land of perpetual winter, 20 odd sunless seasons at 57o N, might have taken the shine off of A La Fu's bright future but in some ways the absence of it's garish glare has made room for a more contemplative attitude. Not exactly corrupted by the lust for a cheap buck he remains broke but perhaps with at least, his soul intact. His rather unorthodox approach to music production leaves a lot of room to develop and evolve at a more natural pace. Like all good Scots he's emotionally hopeless, pent-up, temperamental and often drunk. Frustratingly humble, he'd be the last to admit that his genuine care and attention coupled with meticulous fine-tuning has led his work to resound with a real sincerity and quality. Unable to cope with even the slightest compliment, it's a wonder that his ego maintains any level of self esteem at all, and you'd do better to point out his crooked teeth, clinical neurosis and inept emotional state. Remarkably well adjusted considering he's only got a featureless wasteland of despair to inspire the fire in his belly when keeping on in your traditional man-skirt is all you can do. Still, he's good with his hands, in his words, “next stop, f**k all.” All that remains to be said then is that he has the style that you need. Possibly.