Kiran Leonard sits at a table in a pub near his southeast London home, carefully choosing his words. He jokingly notes that he is trying hard not to swear, a habit he developed during a previous interview a decade ago that left his grandfather unable to share the article with friends due to its aggressive tone. This measured demeanor contrasts with his early years in the music industry, when he was frequently cited as a prodigy following the 2012 release of his debut album, Bowler Hat Soup. Reflecting on that period, Leonard recalls feeling defensive about the way journalists focused heavily on his youth, which he now views as a patronizing framing of his work. K iran Leonard presses the tips of his fingers together and looks at me solemnly across the table. “I don’t know if I’m doing a very good job,” he says, “But I’m trying really, really hard not to swear.”. A decade ago, he explains, he was interviewed by, got too drunk, and “swore all the way through the interview”. His grandfather was thrilled. “But he couldn’t show any of his friends because I just sounded really aggressive,” he tells me sheepishly, when the piece came out. The last time Leonard had a profile in this paper, he sounded a lot like a twentysomething trying hard to shed the preciousness of his former status as a teenage wunderkind, it’s true that. Upon the release of baroque, bonkers 2012 debut Bowler Hat Soup, a lot of Leonard’s early press plays up his age in a way that now reads as embarrassingly trite. “I think, unconsciously, I was probably quite defensive about how I was written about,” he says. “It’s not nice for journalists to fetishise the density or the ambitiousness of the music – it [was] obviously meant in a slightly, hailed as a prodigy at age 16. He says, he’s searching more for a sense of pure feeling: “I’m strongly driven by a very physical thing – which might seem quite broad, but it’s what distinguishes what I’m interested in and what I’m not.”, but that’s because at this point. A feeling that was compounded by the fact that, he soon realised, he didn’t really know how much his team had sheltered him. “I couldn’t really find another manager, leonard found London “really alienating and difficult”. From there, Leonard was set up with that dreaded industry mechanism: a team. He began tanking his commitments because the music was the one thing he had control over, enamoured by fuck-the-industry icons such as Steve Albini. The Saddleworth singer-songwriter was patronised in the press and lost his musical path, hailed as a prodigy at 16. He explains his route back, now courted by imaginative new bands. It’s that it often comes from a desire to make sounds that conjure full-body sensations, if there’s a common link between all Leonard’s work now.
The son of a community midwife and folk musician John Leonard, who worked for BBC Radio 1 and 2 during the 80s and 90s, Leonard says his ascent was accidental. He recorded his debut, uploaded it to Bandcamp, and sent it to various blogs, eventually catching the attention of the Hand of Glory label without ever having established himself through the traditional live gigging circuit. Despite having a professional team—including a publicist, a radio plugger, and a band of Manchester musicians—the young artist felt disconnected from the environment. Eventually, he abandoned his support network entirely, a decision he describes as a total scorched-earth move made without a backup plan.
Life in London initially proved challenging for Leonard as he struggled to secure gigs and management after severing his industry ties.
However, he gradually found his footing by booking his own shows and connecting with the experimental post-rock band Caroline. He credits the group as a vital hub for high-quality music in the contemporary scene. This shift allowed Leonard to move past the dissonance of performing songs he wrote as a teenager, aiming instead for a clearer, less grandiose mode of expression. He explains that his current work focuses on pure physical feeling rather than the intellectual density that once invited comparisons to artists like Captain Beefheart or Joanna Newsom. In the past five or so years, Leonard has emerged as one of Britain’s most consistently fascinating experimental musicians. So playing those songs, I’d feel a bit of a dissonance, which made me more conscious of wanting to move past [them].”, the difference between 15 and 18 is really massive.
His recent output demonstrates this evolution. In 2024, he released the rangy pop record Real Home, which blends elements of prog, country, and romanticism. He also produced the 2025 surrealist live album Small Brown Bed/With You Waltz, recorded at DIY venues like the Golden Lion in Todmorden and Delicious Clam in Sheffield with his project No Tailgate. Additionally, he has contributed to acclaimed recordings by Eli Winter, Caroline, and the band My New Band Believe. He remains dedicated to these diverse investigations, noting that he often experiences the total euphoria others might find elusive.
Collaboration remains a key part of his current process, particularly through Or Sobre Blau, his duo with Catalan guitarist Andreu G Serra. Their second album, Making Friends, released earlier this year, showcases a mix of ambient guitar textures, oddball samples, and found sounds. Leonard describes the project as a thrilling departure from his solitary work, providing a different voice that he finds both stimulating and engaging. Having shed the pressure of his early, precocious reputation, Leonard now navigates his career with a focus on creativity rather than industry expectation.
