The Journeyman

He sparked a rock revival at home. Then he wandered into the wilderness. Now get ready for the second coming of Sam Roberts

Story by Mark Lepage
Photos by Matthew Stylianou

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Sam Roberts is glowing. Framed by the grey light pouring through the window of a superchic Montreal hotel, he looks over the balcony, to his left. Formerly attached to an old haunted church, this is the building he once stared at from an apartment next door, where he lived for eight years, splitting the $450 rent with three roommates. At 31, he is inside now, looking out.

Behind him is a three-year rocket ride that boosted a Montreal indie rocker from obscurity: landing three number one Canadian singles; playing Live 8; opening the 2003 SARS benefit before a crowd of half a million; sharing backstage canapés with the Rolling Stones, the Tragically Hip, AC/DC. Ahead lies the ignition of a new album, out next month, that has his record people hyperventilating with anticipation.

As he obliges the photographer at this photo shoot, Roberts is warily amenable, self-deprecating, polite. But underneath the easy exterior is a songwriter who is by now well-versed in the score. This is the musician, after all, who deked out his label and fled 15,000 kilometres to Byron Bay, Australia, to record his new album in another old abandoned church.

Roberts vetoes a pair of $800 shoes but acquiesces as a stylist adjusts his shaggy hair and fine-tunes his beard. His lambent blue eyes cloud over.

“Hey, Sam. Anybody ever say you look a little like Jesus?”

“Yes, I guess he’s got a patent on long hair and a beard,” he says wryly. “I’m rewriting the story of Jesus. A somewhat less inspiring version.”

His publicist works a Crackberry. And somewhere, his record label is planning the second coming.

Well, Sam Roberts did spend a long time in the wilderness, and he’s been known to wander the desert for inspiration. (He will later show me the humble handmade arrowheads he brought back last year from the Kalahari.) Eyes alight, Roberts compares performing to being “a minister” or even “a snake charmer,” with the tousled good looks and wiry frame to match. Musicians “project themselves to the world as fragile souls,” he admits, “but there’s a resilience there that is unparalleled by anyone except Olympic athletes.” There is no self-importance in his demeanour, despite the critical mass of opinion among his handlers that he is about to be huge.

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