On a drizzled summer day—a day perfect for existential dread—Adam Buxton is regaling me with tales of his debut album, Buckle Up. “Take ‘Standing Still,’ for instance,” he explains, “which I wrote in a state that can only be described as ‘existential crisis meets pasta spill.’ I thought, ‘Why not toss in a pun about fusilli? It might lighten the mood alongside the lyrics describing how my daily cup of tea combats the barrage of intense thoughts attempting to smother me!’” Sounds like a gourmet blend of despair and wordplay—exactly what my anxiety ordered.
What sort of thoughts, you ask? “Oh, just the usual melange of being overwhelmed by the world,” he muses. “The news keeps worsening, and suddenly I’m convinced I should be fighting injustice with Médecins Sans Frontières. Then my wife politely reminds me that maybe my talents are better suited for the realm of podcasting. Bless her for knowing I’m far more useful here, channeling my angst into comedic rants rather than humanitarian missions.”
At 56, Buxton embodies the pensive artist trope—grey-streaked beard included. He’s journeyed to the Guardian’s London offices from his charming abode in Norfolk. There, alongside his wife Sarah, three kids, and Rosie the dog (who may or may not be a recurring podcast star), he has cultivated an atmosphere overflowing with kind-hearted chaos. The Adam Buxton Show, which began in 2015, has evolved into a lifeline during the pandemic, drawing a crowd that’s equal parts loyal and bemused.
Buxton’s penchant for conversation is fortified by his upbringing. Raised in west London by a journalist father and a Chilean mother, he describes his dad as “gruff, pompous, and far too critical of my youthful passions,” with his mother as the soothing force nudging him toward music and comedy. “They didn’t talk enough,” Buxton recalls, “which is probably why I now spill my guts on air. Sometimes I overdo it, though—I can hear my dad’s voice in my head saying, ‘Please, for the love of all that’s good, keep some things to yourself!’”
His candidness encourages equally candid confessions from guests. Louis Theroux, for instance, shared his booze-related parenting woes during the pandemic, while singer Pauline Black recounted dodging skinheads in the 1970s. At this point, you might think Buxton has a knack for finding the most entertainingly tragic experiences. How does he connect with such a mosaic of participants? “I’m always on the lookout for a flicker of genuine connection,” he admits, perhaps hinting that his life’s calling lies somewhere between therapy and stand-up.
Not all guests are household names either. Buxton has hosted Syrian refugee Hassan Akkad, whose harrowing tale involves torture, treacherous migrations, and a staggering swim to safety. “It’s crucial for people to engage in serious dialogue,” Buxton asserts, clearly set on salvaging humanity in a chaotic world. “My own politics with my parents didn’t define our love for each other. Today, however, it seems like people are perpetually ready to assume the worst about one another. Interaction is suffering!”
In the past few years, he’s even experienced political breakups with friends. “It was ghastly when it dawned on me that meaningful discussions were off the table,” he reflects. “I mean, come on! I thought we shared enough common ground to at least tackle it together. Apparently, I was mistaken.” Perhaps if they’d bonded over a pasta spill instead, everything would have been different.
On the topic of family loss, Buxton’s memoirs reveal profound yet relatable grief. His mother’s passing blindsided him, and he articulates the frustration of unasked questions. “It’s often the people who love you the hardest that you take for granted,” he says. Those moments resonate with anyone who’s ever had to face a similar truth. How’s he faring now? “I’ve been mired in a grief hole for what feels like an eternity, looking through old photos and wallowing. I thought I’d emerge refined, but nope—I just miss them, and that void doesn’t vanish.”
He still grapples with memories, particularly a song that triggers waves of nostalgia for his mother. Randy Crawford’s ‘One Day I’ll Fly Away’ has him walking a tightrope between reflection and fear. “I listened to it the night she died, and suddenly it felt less like comfort and more like a dark abyss,” he recalls. “It’s tragic when your soundtrack turns into a lingering reminder of loss and uncertainty.” Buxton isn’t just singing for the sake of it—he’s dissecting life’s messiest moments with humor and a hint of melancholy, making him both relatable and brutally honest.
