The irrepressible beast of Eric Burdon And today, a year on from Springsteen's endorsement, it will be Burdon giving a speech at SXSW. "It was a very graceful thing that he did for me," says Burdon. "But the pop machine moves on, and you begin to realise how the story's going to go; that Bruce was trucking along in his huge band bus and they see this character lying by the side of the road clutching a bottle of booze, and they stop the bus and go, "F---, it's Eric Burdon!" That's the story of my rebirth, which is cool by me. Actually, Burdon never went away. In February, I drove 70 miles out of Los Angeles to the tranquil, small town of Oija, at the foot of a mountain range, where he lives in an elegant, Spanish-style villa, with his beautiful, vivacious third wife, Marianna, a lawyer. Together 15 years, she acts as his manager. There are Buddha statues in the garden, posters of bullfighters on the walls. White-haired, bulky, in baggy shorts and well-worn hoodie, Burdon sits by a big, wooden table, sipping Earl Grey tea with honey. "A is for asthma, in my life," says Burdon. And A is always a monster that's inside and waiting to jump out and grab you by the throat and shake you like a dead chicken. I've got a lot better since I came out to California. I knew that the weather would do me good. It is not just his health that brought him here, though. Burdon became a naturalised American citizen in the mid-Eighties. Even as a young boy, growing up in post-war Newcastle, he fantasised about the America of movies and music. In 1968, I was living two streets away from where they shot Rebel Without a Cause. You are actually walking through cinema dreams in wraparound three dimensions. He chuckles. Of course, back then I was stoned most of the time. The Animals are a group that mean a great deal to me. Their Best Of was one of the first albums I owned, and it's tough, bluesy rock thrilled and mesmerised me as a young listener the same way it grabbed hold of Springsteen. "It's the story of every kid in England," says Burdon, reminiscing about getting a Dansette in 1952 and a 78rpm version of Johnny Ray singing Cry, and how he became obsessed with American music, leading on to rock'n"roll and the blues, connecting with like-minded fans to form The Animals. He suggests their aggressive spirit came from "the ferocity and speed we worked at. The way we rushed into the studio when we were on tour with Chuck Berry, took a train down to London, hauled our equipment through the city, downstairs to a studio where House Of The Rising Sun was recorded for the price of the tape and the engineer. Everything was done on the fly. We were in and out and went back on the tour the next day. It was like boom, boom, boom! The record's gone to number one, we're off to America, and that was the beginning and the end of the brothers in arms. For a moment in the mid-Sixties, The Animals were on a par with The Beatles and The Rolling Stones. Asked why their success was so short-lived, Burdon responds: "You want the experience to be thicker, harder, better, you know, the more pain the better, bring it on, more tours, more drugs, high friends, low friends, lots of friends, just dishing it out, try this, try that, get it down. Jesus, it was just a crazy world for a while. I was as much a part of the deterioration as anybody, I'll admit to that. It just fell apart, it got really violent. Eric Burdon and the New Animals in 1967 Burdon still speaks with a Geordie lilt, rubbed with a little American. He is smart, eloquent and engaged, albeit digressive. "I wasted my life," he states baldly, out of the blue, while his much younger wife hovers discreetly in the adjoining kitchen. I missed middle age. I went straight to being a white-haired old dude. Music attracts girls, and girls can take your mind away, and add a sprinkling of cocaine on top of that. It's all wasted energy. I could be called a sinner. I did some bad shit, but I didn't shoot anybody. I might've loosed off a couple of rounds now and again, but I'm in America - that's what you're supposed to do. He seems acutely aware of passing time, still wanting to work, aware that all things come to an end. He jokes about "facing the Big Sleep," and reveals that his wild ways came to an end a decade ago with a big health scare. One serious call makes you realise how vulnerable you are, you've got to watch every step you make. But far from having disappeared, Burdon points out that he has been working the whole time, "on the club circuit, playing every shithole in North America." He has written two well-received memoirs, is working on another, and has been involved in film production. But it is music to which he remains committed. All I know is my ship is the stage, the place where I am allowed to do whatever I feel best. I look at an audience as being a tiger that you're confronting. It can mesmerise you with its awesome beauty and it can tear your face off in a second. It's not a fear, it's an energy force that you get from people. I like to be amongst it, the thing that functions every night. Burdon in full flow is quite something, a poetically eloquent raconteur, with a quality of brutal honesty. It is a surprise to discover he doesn't really rate his own singing voice. When I listen to my backing singers, it makes me realise how pale I am as an expressive singer. People like what I do, and that's fine with me, but myself, I can't really understand it. I've got such a long way to go. Always did. For admirers, "Til Your River Runs Dry re-establishes Burdon in a rich, bluesy musical setting, a fantastic platform for songs that engage intelligently and soulfully with the world. Discussing Memorial Day, a kind of stately skank commemorating fallen soldiers, Burdon reminiscences about days as a vocal opponent of the Vietnam war. This leads on to a wistful recollection of an encounter with a Hollywood star in the mid-Eighties. One night, I did the Larry King radio show and as we left at one o'clock in morning, there was the very recognisable face of Angie Dickinson. She said "Have you ever seen the statues and monuments in Washington DC since you've become a citizen? I've got a limo downstairs and this is the best time of the day to do it. So we cruise through the monuments in this Cadillac with the wind coming in, and she's telling me stories about her days with Jack (Nicholson), and then we came to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial, a big black stone wall. It was pretty moving. We're walking along, and I remember Angie's fingers going down and feeling the indentations in the marble, and then I see these guys sitting there, smoking, and there's big clouds of pot coming from them, and they've got a disc player, and I heard my voice. They are playing one of my songs, and they're like, 'Hey, what's happening, man? And I've got Angie on one arm, stoned Vietnam vets, my music in the air, this is the ultimate American dreamscape. It really hit me heavy. Burdon shakes his head. "Living here is like a constant dream," he says, "and you are constantly dreaming about what you can do next." "Til Your River Runs Dry" is out on UMC