'If Burt Bacharach says you're good, it's time to start believing in yourself'
August 30th, 2010 by Grace
Rumer: 'I want to weave a spell where we can all fall into a beautiful musical dream' Photograph: Suki Dhanda for the Observer
If dedication can be measured by the number of odd-jobs a musician is willing to undertake to keep his or her career dreams alive, Rumer must be one of the most dedicated musicians on the planet. "I've done everything you could possibly imagine," she tells me when we meet for coffee in King's Cross in London. "I've worked in hotels. I've done loads of washing dishes. I fixed iPods in the Apple Store on Regent Street. I sold advertising space. I was a teacher. I was with the Arts Council for a while. I did admin. I sold laptops. I was a cleaner, a waitress, a barmaid. I worked in a hairdresser's washing hair and making tea. I worked behind the popcorn desk at a cinema…"
All this while labouring over songs, gigging in innumerable small venues around London and searching for the right producer to guide her towards that elusive record deal. "Did I ever feel like giving up? Every day! I'd tell myself: 'I should train to become a teacher instead.' But every time the application form came in, I just couldn't do it. I've always believed I had something to offer and I knew my music was good."
It's a good job she stuck at it, because now, after 10 years of toil, Rumer is in the process of making it very big indeed. But not for her any tabloid-baiting antics: in person, she is no-nonsense and quite intense, with the steeliness of one who has seen too many opportunities slip away. She presents herself unassumingly: for our interview she is dressed in jeans and a plain grey dress. Her music, which harks back to classic American singer-songwriters of the 70s such as Carole King and Laura Nyro, is powerful without having to raise its voice. If you've been near a radio recently, you'll have probably heard her debut single, "Slow". At first listen, it feels pleasantly lulling, with a hint of Norah Jones about it, but closer inspection reveals a sharp edge honed by unrequited love.
Likewise, "Aretha" seems triumphantly uplifting until you realise it's about an isolated child walking to school with only the music in her headphones for comfort. "Mama she'd notice but she's always cryin'/I've got no one to confide in/No one, Aretha, but you." At its own unhurried pace, Rumer's music opens up to disclose a lifetime of hard-won experience.
She was born Sarah Joyce (Rumer comes from author Rumer Godden) 31 years ago to British parents living in Pakistan, the youngest of seven children. Her father was an engineer on the huge Tarbela Dam project near Islamabad and the family lived in a self-contained expat community, a "bubble" where, in the absence of TV, children created their own entertainment. "My brothers and sisters were always making up songs and playing guitars, so I grew up with music," she says. "It was a normal part of communication."
When the family moved back to England, the idyllic bubble of her early childhood burst. She found it hard to adapt to school and the British way of life, and took solace in television, where she cultivated a love of Judy Garland and movie musicals. Then her parents split up.
She was 11 when she came to understand the circumstances. Back in Pakistan, her mother had had an affair with the family's Pakistani cook. This man, it turned out, was her real father.
According to Rumer: "My mother was this well-educated and beautiful, fair-haired English woman. And this quite old man was working to support his own family in a mountain village. But they had a connection. My dad was very noble about it. He didn't treat me any differently, though, yes, it has been very painful for everyone."
drive from www.guardian.co.uk
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