Jenius

Ask Paul Heaton how many songs he’s written and he’ll tell you he’s not really sure. Perhaps that’s unsurprising: this summer it’s 40 years since The Housemartins released their debut album, Hull: 0 London: 4, peaking at number 3 in Britain. Subsequently, he’s released, in various configurations – with The Housemartins and The Beautiful South, solo and with Jacqui Abbot, not to mention as Biscuit Boy  –another 21 studio albums, plenty going gold, some multi-platinum, as they’ve risen to the charts’ highest reaches. For each, moreover, he’ll have written many many more songs than he’ll ever include.

Now, less than two years since The Mighty Several – itself his sixth album to go Top 5 in a dozen years – this prolific, poetic observer of human nature is back with another fifteen gems. “I’ve had stuff coming in and out of my brain since I was 17 or 18,” he laughs, “but I’m surprised the tunes keep popping into my head. You’ve got to get it out of your system, though. Writer’s block just sounds made-up. You don’t get plumber’s block. If your toilet’s full of shit, you don’t think, ‘Do you know what? I can’t get my head around this.’ You either call a plumber or do it yourself. That’s how I see it with songs. Don’t leave it in there. Just get it out. Even if it’s shit.”

To observers of the Manchester-dwelling songwriter, such self-effacement will be familiar. Few artists are as modest, a spirit Heaton carries over into his lifestyle, whether taking the tram to the studio when’s it raining or touring England by bike in 2010 (and the whole UK two years later.) “I’ve just tried to be myself,” he says, humble once more, “because I’m not a rotten person. I don’t think most people are.” He’s also uncommonly willing to share his microphone, letting others make his songs their own. This time, Rianne Downey picks up where she left off on The Mighty Several – having first covered for an ailing Jacqui Abbott on tour in 2020 after Heaton discovered her on social media – while Ireland’s Declan O’Rourke brings out her Dolly Parton side on rambunctious country bacchanal, ‘The Whisky Did’.

Jenius, Heaton’s new album’s title, is a symptom of this unassuming style. “If anybody ever calls me a genius,” he explains, “I always say, ‘What?! With a J?!’ The spelling would obviously be wrong.” Fortunately, there’s nothing bashful about these songs, something reflected in the LP’s cover, the first to feature a photo of Heaton since the Housemartin’s debut album. Indeed, Jenius betrays the truth of his talents, and its songs – of love and loneliness, pubs and booze, community and counsel, a nod to football, the state of the nation, and the overall wisdom of kindness – are distinguished by his notably tender voice, his enchanting melodies and a meticulous, effortless craft. “If I can get a variety of people of all sorts of backgrounds to say, ‘Oh, that could be about me or you,’” he says, “then I’ve been successful”.

Such diversity isn’t restricted to his lyrics. Kicking off with ‘Can’t Get Next To You’’s rowdy three-chord rush and rounding things up with ‘A Son A Father’’s extravagant but barbed glam rock, Jenius dips its toes assuredly into rock ‘n’ roll, country, soul and ska, blues, Yacht Rock, even Latin terrain. Again, his duets are as charming and loaded as Nancy & Lee’s, yet, on the likes of the fragile ‘Jet Back Sky’ and bittersweet ‘Send In The Clowns’, he explores what he considers more “atmospheric” territory than ever before.

All of this is shot through with his quintessential blend of empathy, wit and contempt. His protagonists pine for the elusive (‘Can’t Get Next To You’) and revel in flaws (‘My Favourite Kind Of Idiot’). They find the best in their circumstances (‘She Ain’t Pretty’) or find themselves written out of history (‘Do Not Ask Me’). They commit to romance (‘I Want The Job’), watch it “screwed up or binned” (‘Sad Songs And Lawsuits’), or concede that it’s not for them (‘Good For The Bees’). They rail at racists (‘One Eye Open’) and berate buffoons (‘Send In The Clowns’), get pissed (‘Don’t Lean On Me’), and if at times they extol the benefits of maintaining good humour (‘Go Upstream’), at others they spotlight uncomfortable truths, like the insanity of humanity’s impatience (‘Before Before’). Indeed, there aren’t many chart-topping songwriters who can pack a punch with Heaton’s prowess, as when he crowns ‘A Son A Father’’s belting eulogy with “… Husband and a cunt.”

Jenius would be a remarkable album at any time, even more for a man who turned 64 this spring. But it’s still more remarkable because it sounds like it was a joy to make but was recorded as his ten-year marriage ended. There is, however, no point seeking clues to this development in its songs because they were begun in the months following The Mighty Several and penned, like so many before them, during cycling breaks in Holland. They were finished there, too, in a village north of Amsterdam, with guitarist Jonny Lexus. Having worked with Heaton since 2010’s Acid Country, this time he earned eight co-writing credits as well as helping arrange other tracks. “It’s nice writing songs by yourself,” Heaton says. “…but it’s really nice writing them with Jonny.”

Like 2022’s N.K. Pop, Jenius was recorded in early 2026 at Manchester’s Blueprint Studios with a loyal coterie of associates. Bassist Chris Wise, who’s done a dozen years in Paul’s band and drummer Pete Marshall, a cool 17 years, returned again, though duties with Squeeze meant keyboardist Stephen Large was replaced by Toby Chapman. (“They all told him, ‘Just do the opposite of what you’d expect the song would need, and Paul would probably like that.’”) It was also produced, like The Mighty Several, by the legendary Ian Broudie. “Everybody in the band said he’s the best who’s worked on their instrument, and I could hear the difference,” Heaton says. “I think the production’s probably even better this time because I’ve trusted him even more. I’m not technically musical, but he understands where I want to get to and he’s given me shortcuts. I remember with The Housemartins I said something sounded ‘too milky’ and they’re like, ‘What do you mean, ‘milky’?!’ It’s really nice to have somebody who translates that. He’s like me, but with knowledge!”

This December marks forty years since Heaton’s first number one, The Housemartins’ cover of the Isley Jasper Isley’ song’ ‘Caravan Of Love’. That said, despite the many hits he’s had – from exuberant anthems like ‘Happy Hour’ to poignant portraits like ‘Old Red Eyes Is Back’, from platinum singles like ‘Rotterdam (Or Anywhere)’ to number one albums like Manchester Calling – Jenius feels like a real achievement. “I’m particularly proud I’ve done this record at all,” he admits. “I didn’t want the band to see what was going on in my private life, but going into a studio and seeing your friends and people who love you was a break from what was happening. Normally I write happy tunes when I’m skipping to the shops, but I’ve not been out and about much, whistling. I don’t know why it sounds like fun, but, yeah, it is, and I’m glad it sounds like fun.”

Ultimately, Heaton estimates he’s now written some four or five hundred songs. In so doing, he’s established – though he’s too self-deprecating to state this himself – his own distinctive, if unconventional brand of quasi-English folk. Moreover, these singular classics not only keep coming but somehow keep getting better. “Even though I treat it like a job,” he concludes, “it never feels like a job. When I go into writing mode, I take it seriously, even if I’m having a drink. I feel proud of the person I am when I’m writing. I’m really in the zone, as they say. Then I ruin it in moments of silliness afterwards!”

Silly or serious, poignant or pointed, therein lies Paul Heaton’s Jenius.