When I think back on the early to mid ’00s radio hits, I think of Fergie, 50 Cent, MGMT, and, naturally, The Darkness. In a zeitgeist dominated by pop and R&B, Paris Hilton saying “That’s hot” and Motorola sidekicks, The Darkness exploded onto the scene in 2003 like a resurrected love child of every great ’70s rock band coupled with the comedic theatrics of Spinal Tap. Their personas, music videos, and outfits all came across like a frivolous mockery/tribute to the legends by whom they were inspired. Yet their distorted guitar solos and radio-friendly choruses transported you to a time where Lester Bang-mustaches and bellbottoms were the only suitable closet pick. For those who wished they had been raised in the time of ’70s Queen, Black Sabbath, and David Bowie, The Darkness provided a reassuring jolt to the system: British rock ‘n roll wasn’t dead; it had just taken a well needed nap.
Last year, the band hit Number One on the US iTunes Rock Chart thanks to a little known singer by the name of Taylor Swift dancing to the band’s iconic 2003 hit, ‘I Believe in A Thing Called Love,’ at the US Open. Justin Hawkins’s YouTube channel, on which he plays and analyses music, both old and new, has amassed over 600,000 subscribers. And now, 22 years after their first record, The Darkness released their eighth studio album, Dreams on Toast, on March 28, 2025. Having just played at the OVO Wembley Arena in London, The Darkness is getting ready to embark on a global tour to promote their latest album.
A sneeze away from Wimbledon Park station in London, frontman and lead guitarist Justin Hawkins meets me at the Saucer & Cup, one of his favourite spots in the city when he’s not back in Switzerland, where he’s lived for several years. Most of Hawkins’ skin that isn’t sheathed by his long hair or leather jacket is covered in extravagant ink, the silhouetted faces of the members of Queen tattooed across his knuckles.
“I never saw Queen live. Gutted,” he says, still stung with disappointment. “But one day, I was walking down the street in London, and a guy drove past and yelled out the window, ‘Freddie Mercury is dead!’ And he died the next day. It was so weird.” As for his favourite Queen album? “It varies between Sheer Heart Attack or Jazz.”
It’s strange to think that the man now sitting across from me, who speaks like an Oxford-educated music professor, is the same shirtless, guitar-wielding tornado I’ve seen perform on stage. And yet, one glance at the album cover and title, one realises that the band still doesn’t take their image too seriously.
“I think the comedic side of our band is what stopped us from starting even earlier than we did. My brother (Dan Hawkins, founding member and guitarist in The Darkness) and I were in a band before, where I played the keyboards and occasionally extra guitar. Our lead singer at the time couldn’t work a crowd, so I’d have to jump in and speak. Instinctively, I started doing the same stuff I do now, just saying stupid stuff to make people laugh. When it became clear that we weren’t going to get to the next level with that singer—even though he had a great voice—we kicked him out and auditioned lead singers for two years. I even auditioned myself, but because of my character and how I behaved on stage, I didn’t get the gig! We all split up, and I started doing music for adverts (one lucrative IKEA advert helped finance the production of their first album, 2003’s Permission to Land), and when we finally linked up again, everyone decided to embrace my personality and my voice, and thus came The Darkness.”
“But it has been a real issue,” he adds quickly. “Especially in the olden days. This idea that we came across as stupid, theatrical, and silly undermined the emotional resonance for a lot of people. There was also this weird suspicion that we were some manufactured, industry plant created by, like, Simon Cowell or something. Like, are you kidding? Who the hell would build a band like that? It’s insane. And it really pissed me off for a while,” he pauses reflectively, “I mean, not enough to change anything about it,” he laughs. “But it felt like we really had to be amazing because if we weren’t, then nobody would believe we were genuine, and no record company would take a chance on us.”
Their latest album, Dreams on Toast, with its balladic, existential songs about heartbreak, identity, and a rediscovered lust for life, feels like a call for redemption.
“So you’re saying it’s a midlife crisis album?” he laughs. “I think it’s about realising that I really don’t need these fancy, luxury items in my life. But also about my relationships. I think I’ve tried to find a way to love myself enough to be a suitable partner for someone, rather than just being a dependent. And then there’s the reality of being at this stage in life (he just recently turned 50), and how I’m trying to deal with things like remorse and self-loathing; our name is The Darkness after all, we’re a bunch of depressives. But you need stuff that resonates emotionally. There are enough words in the lexicon to write something authentic, it just takes time. Nothing makes me more disappointed than when you hear a song and you know they just phoned that lyric in. That’s what average is: people not putting the effort in. It drives me insane. Jack White doesn’t do it. Why should anybody else?”
Having released their first two albums, Permission to Land (2003) and One Way Ticket To Hell and Back (2005), via the musical juggernaut Atlantic Records, the band has since moved to the indie labels Cooking Vinyl and Canary Dwarf for their last few albums. So what does he prefer, the bigwigs and big budgets or the freedom with the smaller guys?
“The punk answer is obviously to stick it to the man and say that big labels suck and indie is the way to go, but truth be told, it’s the other way around,” he reveals. “If you’re with a major label that believes in you and gives you the creative freedom to make what you know you want to make, you’re in heaven. And I know that’s not what I’m supposed to say,” he laughs with a shrug, “but it’s true.”
“If you’re consulting a focus group on what your new record should sound like, you’re trapped. Without any bitterness, you can’t have that relationship with your audience if you want to be creatively fulfilled.”
Justin Hawkins
As to whether or not his ethos is more punk—sticking it to the man and never selling out—or rock and roll—soaking up the glory of private jets and sold-out arenas—he admits that he’s a bit of both. “You scrape by for years with a minor yet dedicated fanbase, to selling out massive arenas. The difference is that the arena crowd is a transient audience, whereas the day-ones who stood by through thick and thin can also feel a sense of ownership over you, which I find really galling.”
I’m reminded by something Paul McCartney noted about his recent concerts: whenever he starts playing ‘Hey Jude’, the phones come out and start filming. Shocker? Not really. And I think Paul McCartney would be more surprised than anyone if a fan showed up to his concert strictly for “the new stuff.” Kurt Cobain also complained about having to play ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’ every single night because that’s what the fans wanted, despite his insistence that it was far from their best song. One has to sympathise with someone desperate to create something new, but through the lens of fandom, we can’t help it.
“I worked with Rivers Cuomo on one of the Weezer records in the band’s hiatus, and he did an experiment with loads of his die-hard, lifelong fans. He asked what they wanted the new record to sound like, and they always said what record brought them here in the first place. Where’s the creative freedom in that? If you’re consulting a focus group on what your new record should sound like, you’re trapped. Without any bitterness, you can’t have that relationship with your audience if you want to be creatively fulfilled.”
When he’s not recording and touring with The Darkness, Hawkins has found a new audience on YouTube, where he discusses everything from intricate guitar tuning to the introspective realities of being a rockstar.
“People always thought I was an idiot. Now, because of the YouTube Channel, they think I’m an idiot savant,” he laughs. “But it has absolutely changed the perception of the band and helped put us back on the map.”
Yet despite finding a second home on the same platform that created Jake Paul and Mr Beast—two products that would make everyone from Sid Vicious to Freddie Mercury implode—Hawkins, like many other live performers in the digital age, urges his fans to put their phones away to properly enjoy and experience the concert. And much like Paul McCartney, he realises that the phones often come out to film when the band performs their most iconic hits. Like I said, we can’t help it.
After our nearly two hour chat, I ask how it feels being on stage and still making music to such an appreciative, excitable audience. “It’s such a gift. You could never ever dare to imagine that you could be making music and doing this as your job.”
As we leave the cafe and step outside, Justin pulls out a cigarette and lights it with his tattooed hands. There is no mango flavoured vape in sight, and I let out a sigh of relief: perhaps rock ‘n’ roll has a little lifeblood left after all.
