Alex James: 'Brixton feels like the centre of the universe'

I've been living in Brixton, in a cottage, with an Aga.

I've been living in Brixton, in a cottage, with an Aga. It belongs to the recording studio where I'm working with my new supergroup, "1". I really like Brixton; not only does it have an edge, it has a Woolworths - and I'm partial to the liquorice and caramel pick'n'mix in there. The Romans used to say that everything great would eventually find its way to Rome; nowadays, all the good stuff, from giant Coca-Cola piggybanks to £30 DVD players, ends up in Woolies.

Brixton may be a suburb, technically, but it feels like the centre of the universe. By chance the three people I talk to the most all happen to live here. The best way I can think of to describe it is "mash-up".

It's a great place to make a record - there are lots of cool people wandering around, which definitely helps the vibe. I can't concentrate in Notting Hill - too many "types". Recording studios used to attract business by offering their clients glamour; they were like the poshest hotels in the world, they had brasseries, and tended to be in St John's Wood or the Bahamas. Most of the big records made 10 years ago were made in these impossible, dream-like places.

The studios could offer unparalleled luxury, because recording an album is only a marginal expense in the process of selling records. Videos, marketing and playing live are horrendously expensive - all cost more than making the music itself. The best studios used to offer an instant rock-star lifestyle as you walked through the door. The record company would send a taxi to pick me up from a condemned squat in Deptford to take me to a recording bistro in Fulham. But the old empire of the luxury-liner studio has crumbled. Computer technology means that now you can make a record on the QE2 or in the African desert if you want to.

The Dairy Studios in Brixton is like a contemporary Tin Pan Alley. You couldn't cram any more equipment or 4x4 BMWs in if you tried. But there's table tennis too, so it means you get a life as well.

When taxi drivers pick you up from recording studios, they assume that you haven't "made it", that all musicians are struggling - even if they're taking you to Claridge's. It's the same in music shops. Yesterday we went to the drum shop. Ben, who is about the hottest producer in the world and who has some kind of degree in percussion, asked to have a look at some cymbals. After expertly twiddling on a few different hand-hammered Turkish ride cymbals, he selected the most expensive one in the shop and asked a technical question, one that was right over my head. The guy asked him if it was for his home studio! Why assume that everyone is an amateur?

In Brixton, the nearest thing to country air is to be found in Brockwell Park. It has a nice atmosphere of old-fashioned splendour, with a bit of mystery thrown in. There is a minor palace in the middle that has been converted into a proper greasy spoon. The park's perimeter is lined with houses; houses that overlook parks nearly always look good, but there are some nasty yuppie-style flats, on the Tulse Hill side. Ben and I singled them out for some bile and derision when out for a run there one morning.

I bought a wreck of a farm in the Cotswolds a year ago and have been in the throes of building works ever since. In fact, in recent months the architect, Jeremy, has become virtually my only friend.

The first rule when employing an architect is to meet them at their house, if you can. If you like the house they live in, you're going to get along fine.

It's not a rule that I stuck to when hiring Jeremy. But he lives in Brixton, and so I arranged to meet him there the other day, in the Trinity Arms, one of London's great pubs. As we settled down for a drink, I asked him where, exactly, in Brixton he lives.

"Brockwell Park," he said. "Really nice new flat, right on the edge in Tulse Hill."