I wrote White Bird a few years ago whilst living in an attic flat that looked like a Swedish sauna in Tufnell Park, north London. I was new to the city, and felt as if I was covered in country mud and had bits of hay in my hair; you walk around imagining you'd know what the hell to do if someone tried to stab you in the eye for your wallet, or what to say if a crazed babbler turned their attention to you in a dark corner. But the spark of the city just out and out beat being at home.
I'd often walk past a school playground with a high white wall, and each time I did, a dove that had a pigeon parent would stand out from the flapping crowd and show off her perfect hybrid form. White body, jet-black tail, sticking out like a pretty, sore thumb. I felt like I looked like that - clean from a rural upbringing, innocent and full of trust, trying to act like all the other city dwellers who looked like they knew their way around.
Half city, half country. The dirty street, the bright sky. They look really good together.
But the song turned into a bigger thing, a feeling that we are the black tail on a perfect world. We are the vermin; it turned into a bit of an apology about what we're doing to the planet.
