Kasabian’s Serge Pizzorno: ‘I’m not an extrovert; I’m a songwriter. Now I’m the frontman of this huge band’
Born in Salford in 1980 and raised in Leicester, Serge Pizzorno is the co-founder and songwriter of Kasabian. Its four members met at school in the 90s. Inspired by Britpop and rave, they signed to Sony in the early 00s and released a string of hits including LSF, Club Foot and Fire, scoring six UK No 1 albums and headlining stadiums. In 2020, Kasabian announced it had asked singer Tom Meighan to leave the band before his conviction for assault against his partner Vikki Ager. Pizzorno now fronts the band. Their eighth album, Happenings, is released on 5 July, with a hometown show in Victoria Park on 6 July.
This is me in Victoria Park in Leicester. I was a curious, quiet and thoughtful three-year-old, and I loved that jumper. I suppose the colours are like the Italian flag – my dad was from Genoa and he was keen his heritage was passed on to the next generation.
I had a pretty straightforward childhood. As Dad worked a lot, I was mostly brought up by my mum and my sister, who was 10 years older than me. I reckon it had an impact on me, having that feminine influence; maybe it made me more sensitive. Mum was really into clothes and gradually I became obsessed, too. When I was eight, I came up with a whole brand concept – I drew pie charts and designed tracksuits, tennis wear, trainers. It was all nonsense, but an example of how deep I’d get when I was really into something.
I had to keep my wits about me as I’d wear outlandish colours, and because I was of Italian heritage
When I was 11, I got interested in the rave scene. I was too young to go to them, but I liked how scary and otherworldly they seemed, and I really wanted decks so I could make that music, too. When I was 12, my parents got me some, but they were working-men’s-club disco decks with flashing lights on the front, like something out of Peter Kay’s Phoenix Nights. They were so loud and I couldn’t mix on them as they were just meant for playing old-bloke rock. Eventually, I got a sampler and Atari Cubase software, and started making tunes. I was producing before I had any clue about instruments.
At school, nothing excited me so I just did my time and kept my head down. Socially speaking, I was a freelance guy: I could hang out with the football crowd as much as I could vibe with the art or music guys, the geeks or the ones doing poppers and smoking. I didn’t belong anywhere. I feel the same now. I don’t really fit in, but I appreciate the different tribes.
These days, everyone’s got a weird name, but being called Serge in 80s Leicester marked me out. I had to find a way to overcome being different without getting into shit, and for me that way was football. I still had to keep my wits about me if I went to the park, though, as I’d wear outlandish colours and styles, and because I was of Italian heritage. Trying to navigate the nasty lads throwing darts at you was good preparation for the rest of life. If I ever met a similar sort of character, I’d just think: “Oh, you’re just one of those local dickheads who bullied the younger kids because you’re so insecure.”
When Tom was fired I didn’t know what anything meant any more. I was terrified it might be over
I started writing songs on the guitar when I was about 15. The intention was never to be Jimmy Page or Jimi Hendrix, I just wanted to figure out the chords so I could make a song. Then me and Dibs [Chris Edwards], our bass player, decided to start a band. Cool Britannia made a massive impact on us, especially coming from a satellite town. The ethos was that you didn’t have to be that good, but if you had a bit of an attitude, a belief, you could make it. There was no shame in wanting to be big. And being a rock star seemed way more interesting than a printer or shop fitter, which were the jobs on offer for me.
When things took off with Kasabian, it was incredible. We lived like our heroes: it felt like we were the Rolling Stones in 67, Lou Reed in the early 80s, Kurt Cobain in the early 90s. Life was wild, and I can’t believe I survived it. Especially the first couple of albums: it was full throttle, touring constantly, no sleep. But we had good people around us. We were always safe and we were in it together. It didn’t even bother me when we were called “lad rock”. If I wasn’t going to bask in our success, then I couldn’t focus on the horrible shit, either. I fly my own flag. Even though we were, sometimes, lads.
Kasabian is my life’s work. I’ve written every song, every lyric. When [Meighan was fired from the band] I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t have any grounding. I didn’t know what anything meant any more, and I was terrified it might be over. It’s incredibly personal because that decision affected my family, my management and the rest of the band. Because of the trauma that we went through for 10, 15 years [within the band] we decided we weren’t going to say anything about it publicly. We know what happened, the truth, and we’ve known for a long time. Now we just feel lucky we can carry on playing these songs to the people who want to hear them.
In the aftermath, I threw myself into work. It’s where I feel safe. But we had no idea what people were going to make of us as a band any more. The one thing I knew was that there was power in my words. They flow through my body and I can connect with them. Music changes my whole physiology; it’s like the atoms in my body react to it when I hear something I like. So I decided when I’m on stage I’m going to tap into that and just stay true to what I feel when I listen to music.
The clothes I wear have also been really important to me. I’m not an extrovert. I’m not that guy standing up at the dinner party giving you the stories. I’m a songwriter. That’s what I live for. Now I’m the frontman of this huge band, the outfits I wear are like costumes. It probably sounds silly, but once I put on an outfit, I know I can do it, even if sometimes I don’t feel I can.
What’s always been tricky to navigate, especially now I’m at the front, is what to do after the gig. When the crowd is wild, you absorb it. Suddenly it’s over and you’re backstage and think: “What the hell is this? This adrenaline is not going anywhere.” I’ve started to do ice baths. It’s the closest I’ve come to shocking it out of my system. They’re sometimes tricky to get hold of, but I’ve had some good ones. We did a show at the Eden Project, and they gave me this amazing 70s suite with a plastic corner bath filled with ice. They even lit candles around it. It’s times like that you think: “What is my life?”
When I started writing music it was pure instinct. I still try to keep that childlike innocence, as well as feeling the benefits of not giving a fuck as much because I’m more experienced. I’ll always try to blow people’s minds with music, and I’m excited about the phases I’ve yet to go through. Forever moving on, forever curious.
