Squeeze frontman Glenn Tilbrook tells Tom Hodgkinson about his songwriting superpowers, how failure has its own rewards and why he and Chris Difford are now releasing the concept album they wrote together as teenagers

Glenn Tilbrook of Squeeze was a mere 16 years old when he and co-songwriter Chris Difford, then 19, wrote an entire concept album based around a Soho nightclub called Trixies. It was 1974 and maybe Glenn was grown up beyond his years: his parents weren’t around much and he’d already moved into his girlfriend’s house. Certainly the lyrics indicate the sophistication and worldliness of someone much older. Over the last few months Difford and Tilbrook, clearly reconciled after well-publicised feuds, went back to the original tape they’d made of the songs and rerecorded the lot. The result is a joyful romp through London nightlife, imagined or otherwise, with a lot of the cheekiness and storytelling that would characterise Squeeze’s later songs.

Readers may know we’ve worked with Chris Difford at the Idler for some years: he made our online song-writing course and has spoken a few times at our festival events. But this was the first time I’d met Glenn Tilbrook. We chatted amiably on Zoom and Tilbrook, as you might imagine, is a true gent of pop who’s been round the block a few times and has developed the wisdom of a philosopher as a result.

Tom Hodgkinson I suppose the first thing to say is that Trixies is amazingly grown up, considering you were 16 and Chris was 19 when you wrote these songs.

Glenn Tilbrook I think you’re right in that and I don’t think we wrote anything vaguely like it afterwards. In a way, we were set back by punk, because in order to fit in we had to appear to be even more stupid than we really were.

TH You’re saying punk retarded your musical development? That can’t be the case.

GT It definitely is not the case. There was a lot of punk that was great. But if you think about the fact that we were writing this stuff in 1974 – it’s quite sophisticated. And people have asked sometimes why we didn’t go back to it earlier, but there never seemed to be a good time, because I think Trixies is so much a product of its time. You could spot the influences very obviously. I think that’s its charm. You can go, “Oh, that’s David Bowie, Beatles. This is Sparks. That’s Paul McCartney.” And the songs are all those things, but they somehow miraculously transcend all of that. And I wouldn’t have known how to say that, or even think that, back then.

TH With great poets and artists, they’re not really quite sure where it comes from. Obviously, they have to do all the practice and put in an amazing amount of hard toil. But somehow artists open up to some weird outer force that speaks for you.

GT I know exactly what you’re talking about. For most of my life, though, I’ve really hated analysing how I work. It scared me because I thought if I looked at it too closely, it might disappear. But actually, I recognise now that it’s always been a thing. I wrote my first song when I was 11. I dreamt it, and woke up and remembered it. It’s called “All Alone” and it’s as sophisticated as anything on Trixies. It just literally came to me. But I think you have to be absolutely ready to receive. I don’t think it happens very often. So, over the years I’ve learned to write and then stop. Because when I’m writing, I’m very analytical about everything I hear. But when I’m not writing – I like just listening to music and going, “Oh, that’s really good,” and not picking it apart.

TH Before you decided to record Trixies, you were working on some songs for a new album, weren’t you? How was that going?

GT When we started writing [the as-yet unreleased new album], I spent two months working on one song, and it ended up being good, but it was too much like really hard work, and unpleasant, and I was just glad when it was finished. Towards the end of that process, I wrote two tunes in 10 minutes that were absolutely amazing. And I didn’t stop. I didn’t think. I sat down and played, and out it came. And I think that’s the state of mind you get into once you’re involved in the process. A state that allows you to actually think less and be more in the moment.

TH So what happened with Trixies? Did you just “rediscover” it one day?

GT There’s a story going around about how we found a lost tape but we’ve always known it was there – we’ve just never gone back to it in any sort of detail. But listening to it again, I thought, “We’ve got something really great here.”

TH How did you record the songs at the time?

GT We borrowed a reel-to-reel tape recorder and set up in a rehearsal room with a couple of mics, and that was enough to get the bare bones of the songs. And what’s remarkable is that the song-writing was way ahead of our ability to sing or play as a band. We were like a bunch of five-year-olds chasing a football – everyone was going everywhere all at the same time.

TH And what was going through your minds, culturally speaking, at the time? It’s 1974 and you’re only 16. Were you interested in rock operas or musicals?

GT Growing up, one of the first things I remember was seeing West Side Story at the cinema. It was really impressive – the dancing, the singing, and the songs. It’s an amazing piece of work – so ground-breaking and forward thinking. The other side of my musical development was Cliff Richard’s “Summer Holiday” and then The Beatles. I was absolutely into pop music. I was the ideal age to be the recipient of all those sixties songs that remain the bedrock of my musical understanding.

TH What about other influences, like the Bowie/Roxy Music end of things?

GT Actually I was really influenced by the music my parents liked – Dave Brubeck, Carmen McRae, Ella Fitzgerald, Frank Sinatra… All those things had a place in my mind. I had a bit of a weird upbringing – single parents – and I think my mum was agoraphobic or something. Anyway, we used to live with the curtains drawn, and no one would come around. It was quite a withdrawn life, and I had a guitar and a piano and the ability to amuse myself. As for seventies influences, Chris could single out, for instance, Lou Reed, Roxy Music and Bowie. But I would add to that the Glitter Band, T Rex and Paul McCartney. I wasn’t aware of what was hip and what wasn’t, and so it all went in. I would say Stevie Wonder was a massive thing for me too. I managed to teach myself loads of stuff through him – the bedrock of my ability to write.

TH Chris Difford has spoken at the Idler Festival about how his parents said, “Don’t be a pop star. You’ll end up divorced, alcoholic, penniless and homeless.” And he said that actually happened. But I suppose you get wiser over the years. What do you think success is?

GT I have a very clear definition of success, and it came to me through having been successful and then having a big period of relatively fallow years. I think a lot of people feel ashamed by a fall in status and perceive that to be embarrassing and weak and would rather stop. Whereas I felt I was lucky to be doing this. If I’m playing to 30 people, or even six people, I’m still out there doing this. So that period of playing to not many people became my superpower. What led to that stage was being with Squeeze and being A&R-ed to death and rewriting the same song four times. I’m not proud of it. I did it to other people’s specifications, willingly. But I never, ever want to do that again. I want to be proud of what I do, and if it’s successful, then that’s fantastic. And what we’re experiencing now is fantastic. The fact that I’ve managed to do this all my life makes me very proud.

TH Have you ever had a nine-to-five job or considered a “career”?

GT When I grew up, if you went to the careers officer and said, “I’d like to do something in music,” he’d just send you to the sheet metalwork factory in Plumstead. I couldn’t have done that. I would never have fitted in. I would have been bullied. It would have been horrible. I worked in Bill Lewington’s, which was a brass and woodwind instrument shop in Cambridge Circus. I worked at a hippie shop – things that suited me at that time. And, you know, Bill Lewington’s was a great job. Ronnie Scott used to come in and buy reeds. Some afternoons he’d play for us in the shop before going back to the club. But one day – it was the 19th of December, 1975 – we had a gig and I asked if I could get off early, but they wouldn’t let me. I said, “Well, I’ve got a gig so I don’t care.” I didn’t go in again, and that’s the last time I ever worked.

This article is from Idler #109 May/June 2026 – out now.

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