I have always thought the British postcode carries an unreasonable amount of social information for something printed beside a stamp. In London, a few letters and numbers can suggest geography, status, allegiance, memory and the length of the journey home after last orders. That makes Proud of My Postcode a wonderfully loaded title for an album by an American. Longboat began in Seattle, while its founder now spends enough time in Britain for affection to acquire a specific address.

Set for release at the end of September, the 37th Longboat album was recorded at Strongroom Studios in Shoreditch with engineer Will Davies. Those are the clean press-note facts. The title tells the more interesting story: an American has looked at one of Britain’s plainest administrative details and found a declaration hiding inside it. Before Proud of My Postcode reaches listeners, we spoke with the musician behind Longboat.

You began Proud of My Postcode as an American writing about Britain, but creative work has a habit of exposing the author’s own blind spots. Which belief about the country became harder to defend while you were making the album?

Well, first off, this album is about impressions and not so much beliefs. There’s a lot of history and mythology that I try to evoke as brief tales. Only one tune, “Dead Man’s Hand,” brings up the less fortunate side of colonialism. But otherwise, I am often surprised by how much I like the UK and how well I fit into my surroundings.  

The word “proud” can express affection, defiance, patriotism, ownership or satire. Which meaning governs the title for you, and which interpretation would make you deeply uncomfortable?

The title itself is meant to show that many in the UK exhibit their pride in small ways. Even in a bustling city like London, there is an underlying quaintness that I find reassuring.

An all-electronic record could be assembled almost anywhere, yet you chose Strongroom Studios in Shoreditch. What became possible inside that room that a home setup would have changed?

I really like the experience of being in the studio. And even though it was mostly two people doing all the work, it had the feel of something bigger. It’s a difficult thing to capture working at home. At some point in the process, it has to feel like a performance. And on top of everything else, I’m a musician, not an engineer, and I really don’t mind not knowing anything about ProTools. 

Engineer Will Davies was the first person involved who could hear the project from outside your own head. What did he challenge you on, and which decision changed the album most?

I am always careful to ask for things that are practical. They generally sound the best. Elaborate automations and effects often don’t turn out great. There are exceptions, but I really didn’t want to waste Will’s time chasing after a sound or a vibe that didn’t satisfy. As the recording process progresses, it becomes more about how the sounds are seated and how the voice lives in that environment. Will was fantastic at bringing all those elements together. 

Longboat often begins as a solo studio operation and then expands onstage. Which track from Proud of My Postcodewill require the most radical live reinvention, and which musician or instrument would you bring in first?

Right now, Longboat is just me at the piano. I have taken about 100 of my own tunes and pared them down to their elements. It’s my goal to play and sing them around London, while constantly adding to the repertoire. I’m currently writing several albums that feature solo piano or piano and vocal. In this age of AI slop, I’ve found that the more intimate approach is the way to go. I want even the most ridiculous of my tunes to sound very real.

You created this as a complete album while streaming platforms encourage listeners to separate records into individual tracks. Which relationship between two songs disappears when they are heard apart?

As the creator, I generally consider each album as a single work. Sure, I have my favorite tunes, but those don’t always make the best singles. And since each track is about something different, there’s no loss of cohesion when the songs are played individually. 

Proud of My Postcode moves through different periods of British history. Choose one track to play in London in 1926 and another in 2126. Which tracks would you send, and whose reaction would interest you most?

For 1926, I’d pick “The English Summer Chill.” Of course, after this summer’s successive European heatwaves, it’s taken on some ironic freight. But there used to be times in midsummer when everyone would have to bundle up. Someone from 1926 would recognize that and perhaps appreciate the gentleness of the fickle English summer weather. I’d want “A Fox in Hoxton” to represent 2126. It’s about humans quitting the urban landscape and nature taking over. Foxes once again roam freely as they did in the past. I’m just interested in whether it happens, whether there’s anyone around to notice and how the foxes feel about it.

With over 500 songs in the Longboat catalogue, memory must become part of quality control. How do you distinguish a fresh idea from an older one returning in disguise, and when does self-quotation become creatively useful?

Well, since my music sensibilities are always evolving, I don’t worry about repetition. Like all musicians, I work with the same 12 notes, pushing them around until I achieve satisfactory results. But it’s not just that. When you’re involved with something you’re truly dedicated to, it always has to become something else. If you’re just writing the same song over and over again, what’s the point? I try to evolve both music and subject matter. This album represents that and continues on the next. 

Suppose a historian discovers Proud of My Postcode a century from now and treats it as evidence of everyday Britain in 2026. Which conclusion would please you, and which conclusion would reveal that they had misunderstood the country you were documenting?

All I want to express is that I enjoy this part of the world. It has vitality, history and character. It can also be quite odd and tragic. Again, these are my impressions and to a certain extent, my fabrications to support those impressions. Modern British society isn’t perfect, but it can seem very familiar and somewhat alien at the same time.

Thirty-nine recorded albums contain many earlier versions of the person behind Longboat. Which past album includes a creative decision you would argue against today, and does an artist owe greater loyalty to the person who made it or to the person listening back years later?

I stand by each and every of the 500+ tracks that I’ve recorded. Some are better than others, but all were created in the spirit to communicate some essential situation, feeling or emotion without resorting to the well-trod path of love songs or various other cliche traps. All I can do is create these albums with all the skill I can muster. Whether they resonate with an audience is beyond my control. One thing is for sure: I will keep making music for as long as I possibly can. 

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