Her public image is one of detachment and iciness. I make a jovial attempt at a pleasantry when we meet in the draughty lobby of an expensive central London hotel, gesturing at the coffee table between us where several picture books about art, The Beatles and The Rolling Stones are placed. Bands! And art! (Gordon is a visual artist as well as a musician.) But my phatic burblings meet with a fate worse than contempt. She says nothing.