I don’t expect Claudia to answer the phone, so when her voice crackles through the speaker, I rush quickly out of my office to the balcony, stepping into the frigid October afternoon. I’m in London, and when Claudia says hello her voice is heavy with sleep. It’s only 8am on the east coast.
Originally published at The Metropolist.
Twenty minutes into our interview, Frank Turner’s tour manager, Tre, enters the small dressing room. She motions it’s time to wrap up. In the middle of his sentence, Turner turns around. “This is my favourite interview of this tour so far, so we’re going to keep talking.”