Chan Marshall isn’t ready for me. “Are you a journalist? Oh Jesus, oh Lord.” We’re speaking on the phone – Marshall is in her hotel room, I’m in the lobby downstairs, after my knock at her door went unanswered.

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The melancholic scuzziness of her music was born partly out of necessity – for a while, she could play only the one guitar chord her friend had shown her, a minor one, so her songs all came out sad.

I just grab her. ‘It’s OK. It’s OK. I was here for the same reason and it’s OK.’” An uncharacteristic silence hangs in the air. “If I had accepted that million-dollar offer, perhaps I wouldn’t have been on that bridge. And she wouldn’t be my friend to this day.”

“I never told anybody this. I told a couple of friends in my life, but never told a journalist. He said they would buy my [1996] album, What Would the Community Think

Marshall’s mental health has often been a precarious thing. Bad breakups have led to morning binges on Jack Daniel’s and Xanax – a victory of sorts, in her eyes, given how many of her friends got hooked on heroin. Around the release of her seventh album, The Greatest

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No, go on. “Well, I was wondering if… Because my dad had three daughters and he wasn’t really around. He just came and went, as men often do. The world is their oyster. And it does something to the mother, right?” Marshall grew up poor; her father was an catpower 5852 absent blues musician, her mother a hippy who moved her from school to school.

writer in 2018, “but until then, she exists in the sweet ışıntı between cult favourite and widely accepted genius.”

In fact, Boaz need only listen to her covers for that. Some of her best songs were sung by other people first: her pensive, languid version of The Rolling Stones’ “(I Güç’t Get No) Satisfaction”, which omits the chorus entirely and transforms into something almost painfully introspective, or her sweet, fragile take on Phil Phillips’s “Sea of Love”, which got a second wind when it featured in Juno

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