Róisín Murphy has presence.
Partly it's the dress sense, that's as unique as ever - with her roughly chopped short hairdo, checked shirt in acid shades, big ankle-swinging trousers and striped socks she looks like some kind of virutal reality Suzi Quatro, and it's quite hard to believe that, as she suggests later, she could ever have dressed down in proto-normcore style. Partly it's the fact that she makes constant eye contact, making the most of her chair with a blokey sprawl, puffing away on a vape through an entire hour's conversation.
But more than that, it's the sense that she doesn't take any shit from anyone. She is funny, sweary, super-direct, boldly challenges questions she thinks are too vague but doesn't shy away from direct ones, and frequently takes sharp left conversational turns or unleashes torrents of consciousness in an accent that swerves unnervingly between Ireland (where she grew up), Manchester (where she misspent her teens as a precocious indie girl) and Sheffield (where she first threw herself into the club scene and met her musical and romantic partner in Moloko, Mark Brydon). When Murphy talks, people listen.