I grew up in Southwest London. We had a piano in our drawing room – an old honky-tonk thing. My parents didn’t know how to play it; they’d just inherited it from somewhere. When we were kids, I played guitar while my younger brother taught himself piano. He used to drive everyone batty, playing and playing, but he became a singer-songwriter and worked in the record industry.

John Waters. Photo © Peter Brew-Bevan

My dad was very into music. He sang his way through his life. He loved close harmony singing, particularly Black American musicians like The Mills Brothers.

It was my dad who took me to my first concert. It must have been around 1960. I was 11 or so, and he took me to the London Palladium to see Antonio and his Spanish Dancers, which was an act from Seville that was touring Europe. There were four guitarists stamping their feet, as flamenco bands do, and these incredibly sexy women swirling their beautiful skirts. I remember walking out feeling so thrilled by it. My dad said I was drumming my heels on the pavement.

It wasn’t...