Aside from the creation and playing of their music, funniness and Del

Amitri belong together.

David Belcher looks on the bright side of pop with Justin Currie

HIS perennial bonhomie under attack, Justin Currie finds himself once

more treading what he calls ''the promotional hamster-wheel.'' A fine

new Del Amitri album, Twisted, is nearing release by A & M. Having just

spent three weeks buttering up the mainland European press by staging

gabfests and acoustic gig-ettes, Justin must now submit to the

telephonic attentions of such organs as the West Hartlepool Bugler and

Advertiser and the Osmondthorpe Bi-Weekly Courant. The process can

become arduous.

''I'd have been thrilled if my initial Del Amitri job description had

read: 'You will talk about yourself for eight hours a day for six weeks

per annum.' It's a position of privilege, being asked your opinion;

being given the chance to address the nation.

''And I hate bands who whinge about becoming commercial travellers,

selling a product for the record company. But being asked eight times a

day how the band started, and how to spell my name, and the band's names

. . . it can be gruelling. But do you know the worst thing about it?''

No. What?

''You'll get to the interview's end and hear a little voice over the

phone saying: 'Now then, Jason -- any funny stories?' ''

I carefully hide my notepad, with its incriminating final question,

from Jason's . . . sorry, Justin's gaze. But the problematic thing is

that, aside from the creation and playing of their music, funniness and

Del Amitri belong together.

Yet because Del Amitri are an innately witty, humorous, ironic bunch

who manifestly fail to take themselves with po-faced rock-star

seriousness, their work is often accorded less serious regard than it's

due.

Justin is aware of this. ''I take a pride in my work, but it's not

work with a capital W, like Van Gogh. I take a pride in gigs, in songs .

. . I'm as pleased as punch with the creation of some temporary jewel.

And I know that when the radio stops playing us, or the label drops us,

I'll continue making records and singing to people because my knees

always knock together with excitement when I've created something new.

''But a love of pop shouldn't distract you from being aware that, as a

pop singer, you're contributing to one of the shallowest areas of

culture. But I also know that some people who like our band would want

me to be more arrogant, and to behave more like a star . . . and I like

stars who act like that. I enjoy Noel Gallagher insisting: 'Oasis are

the world's No 1 songwriters.'

''But I'm not sure I'm worth it. I wouldn't be comfortable with it.

'Stop being silly!' I'd be saying to myself.''

Not that there's anything silly about Twisted, although its title was

partly inspired by a scene in the comic rockumentary Spinal Tap. Hear

Twisted, and you will be impelled to salute Del Amitri's ongoing prowess

in the classy, radio-friendly rock-pop stakes, and hail Justin Currie

for his grasp of all the arts of melodic songwriting . . . but hang on,

Justin's looking modestly pained again.

''Writer? Songwriter? Tunesmith's better. Writing pop songs is nothing

to do with writing -- it's bolting tunes together rather crudely. In

fact, the more crudely the better. You've a verse and chorus that go

together and then what gets called a middle-eight -- ie a funny bit that

shouldn't be there, and the more abrasive and out-of-place it sounds,

the cooler it is.

''Take the Boo Radleys' new single, Wake Up . . . it simply breaks

down part-way through, and that's the joy of pop, as opposed to the

fluid, melodic coherence of Cole Porter. And the difference between

writing and writing a pop tune is because a lot of pop tunes are just

four lines . . . one of the best pop songs ever is the La's There She

Goes -- four lines!

''I'm kind of offended to be called a writer, falling down drunk in

the gutter to be able to write The Lost Weekend. Maybe if you're a

novelist, you wander around looking at other peoples' lives for morsels

of inspiration . . . but people who write pop songs? I mean, the very

idea of being homeless and Phil Collins seeing you and popping back to

his mansion to write a compassionate song about you -- it's grounds for

justifiable homicide!''

Forswearing earnest analysis of his songs -- ''like dissecting a frog

. . . it dies under the scalpel'' -- Justin will allow that Twisted's

chief lyrical persona is ''deeply disturbed and distinctly

non-autobiographical. I've tried to get away from a horrible sixth-form

poetry confessional style.

''There's another change in approach in that our last album was the

first I wrote knowing that there would be an audience . . . that people

would definitely be listening. And so I got paranoid. 'What are people

going to expect?' This record was written for us, to our expectations

and no-one else's.

''We recorded it pretty quickly. In seven different studios, including

Jools Holland's, where we experienced our only real problem. You can't

record vocals there during the day because Vic Reeves and Bob Mortimer

have a rehearsal room above the studio, and they spend their time

stomping about, pacing out routines and falling over laughing.''

Del Amitri: in their own unique and funny way, Scotland's most useful

pop artisans. And I'm not joking.

* Del Amitri will launch Twisted by playing live in Glasgow's Tower

Records at midnight on Sunday.