JOHN EARLS

PHOTOS BY ANNA WEBBER

For a band who haven’t stayed still in 50 years, little changes in Sparks’ day-to-day routine. The Mael brothers keep office hours. You can never predict what will result, not least because Russell and Ron never know what they’ll do next. But the practicalities of Being Sparks stay the same. Ron goes to Russell’s home studio around the same time every day, picking up coffees from the same café on the 15-minute walk from his apartment. “I set out like a banker going to his job,” explains Ron, at 74 three years his brother’s senior.

“I dress smartly. It’s not like I put on a tuxedo, but I don’t own any blue jeans either. That puts me in the right frame of mind – that I’m working seriously. It’s not drudgery in any way, but it is a job and it’s important to maintain discipline.” The brothers allow themselves some distractions. “There are windows,” notes Ron. “That wasn’t the case at the £400-an-hour studios Sparks used to record at. Seeing the world outside is a good distraction if we get stuck.” Of course, that routine has ceased in the pandemic. Classic Pop speaks to Sparks in May, in the week new album A Steady Drip, Drip, Drip is released digitally. The LP is as good as any Sparks have made, rich in the mischief that’s been a constant since debut album Halfnelson was released in 1971. Russell recalls signing their record deal: “It was the best thing ever, and it still is. Here we are, still doing the same thing, still just as excited. We’re always wide-eyed at the state of Sparks.” Even in isolation, the Maels have stayed creative: Russell’s online singing lesson video takes a fabulous left-turn, while Ron’s series Lyrically Speaking about his Sparks lyrics is equally sombre and teasing. “There’s a spirit of what Sparks is,” reasons Russell. “We can still create events under these circumstances, but we want to do it in a certain way.

I don’t like everybody suddenly deciding they’re an acoustic act, that the only possibility is picking up an acoustic guitar when it’s totally contrary to what you musically believe in.

That really rubs me up the wrong way, because I think it’s the wrong way to channel this period.”

GLARE OF DEATH

Sparks’ public image has changed little since Ron’s death stare on Top Of The Pops performing This Town Ain’t Big Enough For The Both Of Us in 1974 instantly became a key moment in synth-pop history, setting the flamboyant singer/doomy keyboardist template followed by Soft Cell, Pet Shop Boys and Erasure. Ron has previously told Classic Pop his stony glare was the simple practicality of staying focused on his keyboards, unaware of his impact on viewers. Like his brother, Ron is the opposite of stern away from the stage.

They’re charming and almost disarmingly friendly but, while Russell states “We’re trying to put a positive spin on everything,” Ron admits he’s struggled to stay creative in lockdown. “I can usually work in any circumstance,” he says. “But I’ve felt dwarfed by this whole situation, trying to come up with a reason why you’re significant at all when all this is going on. The inspiration to think one has significance is hard, but I’m trying to find a way through it all.” Both Maels can’t wait for their routine to resume – “I miss us not being able to work together and I miss being able to get good coffee,” Russell summarises – because the studio is the perfect place to channel their permanent enthusiasm. “We’re always fooling around,” explains Ron. “Because we work in Russell’s home, we can afford to just flick a button and see what happens. Having that ‘What if we try this?’ attitude often makes for something special