Scott Walker – the star who walks alone
He’s really very approachable, Scott Walker. All that mean, moody and magnificent image stuff that gives you the idea he’d smash you in the face as soon as look at you isn’t true. He’s intent, serious, yes and he talks about himself almost in the third person as if Scott Walker was someone else.
Of French – German origin, his real name is Engel. He will tell you Walker is a horribly nervous person, will never listen to anyone else’s point of view in case it destroys his own arguments; goes and gets drunk and feels better for it afterwards.
In this schizophrenic manner, Scott will discuss almost anything about himself. Objectively. Coldly.
Even the way he lives shows a sort of contrariness. Scott has chosen to ensconce himself in the basement of an elegant terrace house in North London. With the curtains drawn, day and night. It seems like part of his withdrawn image.
“In fact,” said Scott, “the street is right outside, and if I don’t close the curtains, people keep peering in all the time.”
It was said matter-of-factly, not neurotically. Scott’s room depicts how self-sufficient he is. Within reach of where he sits in a high-backed, shielded chair are his telephone, its receiver cracked in half, his hi-fi record-player, his fat books stacked three feet high, his miniature tape recorder and a guitar that’s slung on the bed.