Backstage Banter in Barcelona with The Kooks' Hugh Harris: Glamour, Chaos & Ginger Shots

For nearly two decades, The Kooks have quietly provided the soundtrack to growing up. Their songs drift through late-night walks, messy breakups, festival fields, and the strange optimism of your early twenties. Somewhere in the background there’s usually a jangly guitar line tying it all together—most often played by guitarist Hugh Harris. Since the band emerged from Brighton’s mid-2000s indie explosion alongside frontman Luke Pritchard, Harris has been the melodic architect behind much of the band’s sound. Songs like Naïve and She Moves in Her Own Way didn’t just become indie hits—they became generational markers, the kind of tracks that instantly transport listeners back to a moment in their lives.

But behind the breezy riffs and sing-along choruses is a songwriter who thinks deeply about feelings, time, and memory. Backstage at Razzmatazz ahead of the band’s show in Barcelona, Roe Magazine’s Lise Desmee sat down with Harris for a conversation that moved effortlessly between tour chaos, songwriting patience, and why music—unlike most art—never really leaves us.

“Inclusive, fun… rock and roll.”

Ask Harris to describe The Kooks in three words and he immediately breaks his own rules.

“Inclusive, fun… uh, rock and roll,” he says, counting words in real time and laughing when he inevitably overshoots the limit. “That’s four or five. Can I get ‘rock and roll’ in one?”

It’s the kind of answer that sums up the band itself: loose, slightly chaotic, and ultimately joyful.

“It’s a beer today. We’re in Barcelona, of course.”

Pre-show rituals vary depending on the city and the mood—but the beverage hierarchy is strict. “Coffee is for the morning,” Harris explains. “I stop drinking it around midday. It helps me sleep.” Tonight, though, the rules bend slightly. “It’s a beer today. We’re in Barcelona, of course.” Tour logic.

“I give a calm energy, but actually it’s chaos inside.”

Despite projecting an easygoing presence, Harris admits he might secretly be the most chaotic member of the band. Asked who’s most likely to arrive late for a show, he answers immediately: himself.

“I quite like to stay behind and get involved in extracurricular activities,” he says diplomatically. “So I’m often catching up with the tour bus to the next city.” It fits with his self-diagnosis as someone who appears calm but isn’t. “I give a calm energy, but actually it’s chaos inside.”

“Sometimes we just do a ginger shot instead of tequila. Which is pretty unhinged.”

Every band has its pre-stage rituals. The Kooks’ version involves a song everyone knows—but Harris momentarily forgets how it goes. “We play ‘Tequila’ before we go on,” he says, pausing mid-explanation. “Oh my God… how does it go again? ‘Tequila!’ That’s how it goes.”

Traditionally the ritual involved an actual tequila shot. These days it’s evolved.

“Not all of us are drinkers anymore, so sometimes we do a ginger shot instead of tequila,” he says. “Which is pretty unhinged, if you ask me.”

Rock and roll, detox edition.

“You can’t take the money when it’s time to go.”

When conversation turns to the band’s recent music, Harris lights up discussing the song Never Know.

“If one of our songs was a feeling,” he says, “that one would be glamour, optimism, hope.” The lyric that sticks with him most? “You can’t take the money when it’s time to go.” “It’s kind of talking about the afterlife,” Harris explains. “So let’s blow it like we’re movie stars. I love that line—it’s glamorous and fun.”

It’s the kind of philosophy that sits comfortably inside a Kooks song: existential, but delivered with a grin.

The Roe team ahead of the interview.

“I finally nailed a vocal I’d been chasing for three years.”

For Harris, writing songs isn’t about quick inspiration—it’s about patience.

“You can construct the skeleton of a song,” he says, “but if you’re not ready to nail the vocal, that can take months.” Or years. “Yesterday I sang a vocal for a song of mine I’d been trying to get for maybe two or three years. And I nailed it for the first time.”

The reason it took so long? The song dealt with an ex-relationship—moving her into an apartment in New York while the relationship quietly collapsed.

“I just couldn’t quite feel the confidence to sing the lyric,” he admits.

When it finally worked, the feeling was unmistakable. “It felt like completion. Like closure.”

“Songs open up your heart and your soul.”

Harris talks about songwriting the way people talk about therapy. “I think songs open up your heart and your soul,” he says. “You’re looking for closure over a feeling that’s unresolved or unfinished.”

Which explains why inspiration doesn’t always strike at glamorous moments.

Sometimes it’s in the shower. “There’s this harmonic resonance in bathrooms with tiled walls,” he explains enthusiastically. “Your voice makes this resonant note. I love just droning with the room.”

Meditation under hot water.

“Music is very elastic—it can take an emotional battering.”

One of Harris’s favourite ideas about music is how differently people interpret the same song.

“A sad song can be uplifting,” he says. “A happy song can remind you of someone you’re not seeing anymore.” Unlike most art forms, music invites repetition.

“You watch a film once and that’s kind of it. But music—you come back to it again and again.”

His metaphor for it is surprisingly tender.

“It’s very elastic,” he says. “It can take a big emotional battering and it’ll always be there for you.”

In other words: more reliable than most relationships.

“It’s a time capsule.”

The real power of music, Harris believes, is memory.

“When you hear a song ten years later you suddenly remember exactly where you were,” he says. “It’s a time capsule.” Albums, in that sense, become chapters of a life.

“And for us as artists too,” he adds. “Each album is a different part of growing up.”

“I am a complex mess of egotistical insecurity.”

When asked to describe his bandmates, Harris reaches for animal metaphors. Luke Pritchard? “A koala bear—cuddly and lovely and snoozy.”

Bassist Alexis Nunez? “A stable horse. Strong, grounded.”

Drummer Jon “John” Davis? “Explosively creative. A bit enigmatic.”

And himself?

“I am a complex mess of egotistical insecurity and a work in progress.” After a moment, he offers a more positive revision. “I’m quite fun. Quite artistic. And I’m very encouraging of other people’s creativity.”

“Start the business. Do the thing.”

Before the interview ends, Harris offers the kind of advice that sounds reckless but strangely motivating.

“Start the business,” he says. “Do the thing. Don’t worry about the money.”

Failure, he insists, isn’t something to fear.

“If it fails, disaster is okay.”

It’s a philosophy that sounds suspiciously like the origin story of most beloved indie bands.

“Thank you for giving me this job.”

Before heading back toward soundcheck, Harris records a quick message for fans in Barcelona. “I hope there’s more than one of you,” he jokes.

Then, unexpectedly, he turns sincere.

“Thank you for giving me this job. I’d suck at anything else.”

For a musician who’s spent nearly twenty years turning feelings into guitar lines, it’s probably the most honest thing he says all evening. And judging by the crowds still singing along to those songs, the feeling is mutual.