You might, if you’ve only seen James Bay with those impossibly lean limbs in skinny jeans, the cheekbones you could hang coats off, the moody fedora that has taken up permanent citizenship on his head, be surprised by what he’s actually like. In person, he races to embrace you in a big, gangling bear hug; within 20 seconds, you’re deep in chat. There’s no Lone Ranger vibe here — Bay is this enthusiastic with everyone he knows, as I discover in the dressing room after his final night playing Brixton’s O2 Academy. There’s his mum, dad, uncle, girlfriend, bandmates, tour crew and old mates from Hertfordshire, everybody getting the same treatment as he dashes around ensuring all have been welcomed. Bay is not the rock star who sits in the corner, doing a thousand-mile stare and waiting for the drugs to kick in.