terence trent d’arby

This article originally appeared in the October 1989 issue of SPIN. At 8:30 in the morning, the interview finally over, Terence Trent D’Arby still wants to talk. The English sun, such as it is, has begun to trickle in through the windows of his Knightsbridge townhouse, and turned the streets outside, a quiet neighborhood of  “doctors and arms dealers,” according to D’Arby, from a slate gray to the chalky color of a forgotten cup of coffee. Another London summer day is just beginning.  D’Arby’s girlfriend, Mary, and their seven-and-a-half-month-old daughter, Sarafina, have already come downstairs for the morning. “Would you stay for breakfast?” he asks, addressing both me and the CBS vice president in charge of publicity, Marilyn Laverty, who has waited on a cotton sofa ...