He’s had this guitar for fifteen years, and it shows around the fretboard, with its beaten-in white lines around the smoky wooden pads.

Lenny has the same songwriting routine he had when he was six years old; get up early, look at the sun, sit on the couch, strum until the words match the music. It’s the only way he knows how to work, with a little paper cup of coffee near enough to be sipped but not spilled.

Everyone and their mother seems to know why he picked up music as a hobby – to get girls, of course. But he’d never expected to love the measure and sound of the music, the weight and sensation of a guitar in his hand.

He became a musician in the hope of finding romance, then having great sex; yet sometimes he knows he could live without sex if he had to.

But he could never live without music.