Culture: The thinking man’s singer

“Obviously, I was hopeful,” she says. “If you know your songs are good, you’ll always be hopeful. But five? And to be nominated, perhaps, is as important as winning, because it creates such an interest in what you are doing.”

Polwart took home best original song (for the funky Only One Way), best album and the Horizon award for achievement in music. One award was presented by Roddy Woomble, the lead singer of the Scottish outfit Idlewild, which covered a song Polwart wrote with Battlefield Band. He later named it as one of his top 10 favourite songs of all time in NME — alongside Lou Reed and the Ramones. “It was great to finally meet him on stage,” she says.

Polwart may be in her mid-thirties, but she’s young looking, with her grin and her bob and her flares. Nonetheless, compared with the Joss Stones of this world, 34 is a little tardy to be making your breakthrough album.

“It’s funny, isn’t it?” she says. “It’s a total advantage, though. Most of the people who are punted by the record companies are 19, 20, 21, and you’re different at that age. I was very shy. Now, I feel quite level about the whole thing. I’m excited, but I’m not losing the plot. Nor will I. My self-esteem doesn’t depend on huge popular success. I’m delighted, but if it doesn’t pan out, there are other things in life. I know that there are different things I could do. I have other skills.”

Polwart’s success is all the more laudable when you learn that she only took the plunge to become a professional musician five years ago. Prior to that, she worked in the field of domestic and child abuse, and before that, taught philosophical inquiry in schools.

She was born in Glasgow, but her family moved to Banknock, Stirlingshire, when she was only four. Her father is an engineer, and her mother works in a local hotel. At Banknock primary, aged nine, she was in her first band.

“We were called the Banknock Kids,” she says. “It was all down to a teacher called Malcolm Cowie. We went around central Scotland performing pop songs. A local taxi driver was the drummer, and there were these kids from the high school on guitar and bass. My songs were Bowie’s Space Oddity and Dolly Parton’s Jolene. We got dressed up and sang backing vocals for each other and everything. It was fantastic.”

Despite such auspicious beginnings, the young Polwart wasn’t allowed to continue studying music at Denny High school. “It was a bit ridiculous” she says. “It’s just the way the timetable was set up — you couldn’t do music and other subjects. I’m sure it must be better now.

“I kept playing in my spare time, but it meant I didn’t have any proper musical training. Folk is all about playing by ear anyway, but I’m learning all that stuff now. It’s like I’ve done it the wrong way round.”

She went on to a philosophy degree in Dundee, and then another one in Glasgow. “I was sort of in the background at pub sessions in Dundee, but I was very shy,” she says. “And Glasgow was such a big place and so intimidating, although I did sing latterly in a pub a capella group. It was when I moved to Edinburgh, nine or 10 years ago, that I made it a mission that I was going to find somewhere to sing.”

She eventually found herself with the Scots Music Group. An adult education programme based in Gorgie, it held classes for 500 to 600 adults every week. “It tapped me into that whole Edinburgh folk scene, and at the time it was buzzing,” she recalls. “There were places like the Tron Ceilidh House and all the best players were there. It was a great time to land in the city. I was out almost every night, really just doing it for fun, and then people started offering me money for gigs.”

It was around this time that Polwart co-founded the folk group Malinky, and also sang with the well-respected Battlefield Band. After a couple of years, she made the big decision to quit her job. “It was long before I could justify it, really,” she says. “I was lucky because I’d had a job, so I was creditworthy. I lived on credit for at least a couple of years.”

Having struggled as a musician, Polwart has a huge amount to say about how hard it can be for performers to make ends meet. She is a member of the musicians’ union, and is keen to point out quite how many performers exist on significantly less-than-the-average income. “You’ve got to have a real love of what you’re doing, or a real faith in it, to actually go for it.”

Polwart reckons she had a little bit of both. Her decision to embark upon a solo career was, she says, spurred on as much by economic necessity as by a desire to write music. With funding from the Scottish Arts Council (“I couldn’t say enough good things about the Scottish Arts Council. They come in for a lot of slagging, but they’ve been amazing”), she recorded Faultlines in 2003. The album is a friends and family affair. Her brother Steven plays guitar on the album, and her boyfriend Mattie Foulds plays percussion.

As Polwart rushes off to meet a tabloid newspaper reporter (“Imagine a tabloid covering a folk event!” she gasps), I nip into the Virgin Megastore on Oxford Street to see if they stock her album.

They do normally, but since the awards on Monday, they’ve sold out. I get the assistant to call the Piccadilly Circus branch, but they’ve sold out there as well. “I suppose we’ll need to stock up on that,” says the assistant.

Faultlines is available in shops now. www.karinepolwart.com