Sun 2 May 2021 03.00 EDT In the kitchen of a recording studio, down a long lane, off a village high street, stands the wiry, wired figure of Paul Weller, looking at his shoes. Oxblood fringe-and-buckle loafers. He is explaining the subtle differences between this pair, and another pair he owned a few years ago. âThis part here used to be a few millimetres deeper,â he says. âAnd the buckle was a tiny bit bigger.â In an inconsistent world of ever-changing rules, Weller is a constant. He is, and has always been, about music, and clothes, and details. By his taste shall ye know him (heâs also wearing old Prada trousers, and a jumper he designed himself for Ivy League outfitters John Simons)⦠alongside a just-under-the-surface anger, a time-is-ticking impatience, a suspicion of the elite. Though heâs not cross all the time, by any means.