With musings upon personal reinvention, cottages in Scotland and the wisdom of dancing cheek to cheek with a music industry legend. ONE NIGHT, I was having dinner with Arnold in Morton’s on Melrose Avenue in Los Angeles, and after we had ordered I ran past him the idea I had for the next album. I said, ‘I think I should do a record of standards.’ Could it be that, at this exact moment, a crumb of bread roll went the wrong way down Arnold’s throat? I couldn’t be sure, but his face had gone very red and he seemed to be having trouble suppressing a fit of alarmed coughing. I carried on, regardless. ‘Yes, a standards album – the wonderful American songs, Cole Porter, Irving Berlin, Rodgers and Hart. The songs I grew up with, the stuff I heard while sitting on my dad’s knee.’ I could see Arnold trying to compose his face as if I hadn’t just announced a near-certain death wish. In due course, he said, ‘Can I be absolutely honest with you?’ I said, ‘Of course.’ Arnold said, ‘I think you should store that idea away for a decade or two.’ And he was absolutely correct.
