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NEWS BEATS

Paddy McAloon likes words like a dog likes lampposts, darting from one to the next, meandering back again, cocking his conversational leg to spray another shower of the things wherever they land. If McAloon’s conversation set out in a boat from Newcastle to Ireland it’d go via Africa with a few days off in Hawaii.

February 1, 1986
Sylvie Simmons

PREFAB SPROUTING ALL OVER

NEWS BEATS

Paddy McAloon likes words like a dog likes lampposts, darting from one to the next, meandering back again, cocking his conversational leg to spray another shower of the things wherever they land. If McAloon’s conversation set out in a boat from Newcastle to Ireland it’d go via Africa with a few days off in Hawaii. The man knows how to ramble in interviews. He also knows how to be acutely succinct in songs.

Elvis Costello likes Paddy McAloon. Critics with English degrees like his like him, and people who like gorgeous songs, reminiscent of late-night jazz stations, passionate and cool— quirky-cool not hip-cool—like him. Paddy’s in Prefab Sprout; he’s their songwriter, guitar player, lead singer and founding member (he put the group together with little brother Martin 15-odd years ago, at age 13; Martin’s still there, alongside Neil Conti and the ethereally fragile-looking Wendy Smith), a sort of Marc Bolan spirit in Steely Dan’s body listening to Dylan and the Beach Boys while fasting for Lent.

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