He surrounds himself with beauty, has everything he’s ever wanted and really, really loves his dog. So why is the Atlantan indie rocker writing about the killing of Jo Cox and the end of the world?
The door to Bradford Cox’s wood-framed house is unlocked, so I wander in. Set in a leafy bit of Atlanta, it is the kind of place that would make Marie Kondo freak out, with the entire contents of Cox’s brain seemingly emptied on to its handsome wooden furniture: a topography of shells, tools, vials and records. His voice calls out a greeting, digitally garbled through a loudspeaker, and a dog treat fires across the room. Faulkner, Cox’s stocky mutt, skids on to the kitchen floor. “I love you boy!”
Cox is on his way back in his Volvo, but is using an app to monitor, talk to and remotely feed Faulkner. “I love dogs more than humans,” he tells me later. “I don’t like hateful things. I like sweet dogs with velvet ears.”
As the frontman and creative engine of Deerhunter, Cox’s ambient rock music – forged at the crossroads of shoegaze, doo-wop
He has double-booked me, and apologises: would I mind going to his friend Michael Stipe’s birthday party? As inconveniences go, it ranks low, and so we head off to Athens, the next sizeable town to the east. This is where Cox grew up, poor, and had a tough childhood: complications resulting from Marfan syndrome left him his rake-thin