Demis Roussos doesn't want to talk about the kaftan. Kaftans are the past, he says, and the past is a faraway country. He is in Greece, I'm in England, and he asks if this is going to be a serious interview. How could an interview with Demis Roussos not be serious, I say.
A couple of days later we meet in London, where he has just played his first concert in 17 years, at the Royal Albert Hall. He muscles his way through the front door, silver ponytail flopping behind him. It's an eccentric haircut - nothing at the front, acres at the back. When he shakes my hand, I try not to squeal. He is a tough man. With his brass-buttoned jacket and assertive belly, he would make a great tinpot dictator. The dictator of love, perhaps. He introduces me to his wife, Marie, a slight, pretty woman, and takes me to the hotel suite.
He summarises his contribution to the history of English popular music. "This country was one of my most important territories. If I may call it like this. Back in '75 I had five albums in the top 10. Simultaneously. And among them the number one album and the number one single. And my name was mentioned twice or three times in the Guinness Book of Records. In 1975 I had the award for the top male artist, the award for top single, the award for top album. The ABBA and me we took everything. Hahahaha!"
It was an astonishing year. In autumn 1975, the big man in the maternity frock was a no one in Britain. By the end of 1976 he was a legend and a has-been. Forever and Ever is the record everyone remembers. It was a sweeping belch of romantic kitsch. "Forever and ever and ever and ever you'll be my one, my only one, lalalala. . ." And, of course, the critics took the mickey. The Sun called him The Big Squeak, a cross between Mickey Mouse and Moby Dick. In 1976, Robin Denselow reviewed him in the Guardian as one of the worst two concerts of the year. His publicity people described his songs as a mix of "Byzantine psalms and muezzin prayer calls". Demis said, "I am unique, no one in the world is like me." We didn't argue.
What was rarely mentioned was that Roussos was a musical renaissance man. He started out as a choir boy, become a jazz musician playing piano and trumpet, segued to progressive rock, before becoming a middle-of-the-road balladeer. It was not, he says, "easy to come and have success in this country when you were not from Britain." He lets out a peculiar, high pitched snort: "Eeehuhuheeeh."
What's more, he was on top of the world at the best possible time. "We cannot deny that the 60s and 70s were the two magical decades of music," he says. "I mean all the really talented people came out of the 60s and 70s." He points out that he and the ABBA ruled the roost in 75. "And there was the Eagles . . . and Neil Diamond."
He has a theory about why music has never been as good since then - technology. "The talent works in the service of the technology now, but in the 60s and 70s they used the technology in the service of the talent."
He says this is a reflection of the way the world has become dehumanised. "I see my children and my friends' children, the humanity in general - they don't get together too much. They don't try to communicate because they can talk through the email. Heheheh. You know what I'm saying? We're not machines. I like to see you when I talk to you. Technology is like the 666 because it controls us."
He tells me Aphrodite's Child made an album called 666. Has he always been so interested in the dread number? "I'm obsessed with 666 because the best way to fight your enemy is to know him, and of course my enemy is the devil, as it should be every sensible man's enemy." Is he religious? "Yes, I am - Greek Orthodox. But I am very open-minded. I have a great respect for the Jewish Talmud because I have read it, and I have read the Koran. Eeehuhuheeeh."
Was he surprised that he became a love god in the 1970s? "Yes. Because I never consider myself a sex god. I love women, I always liked women - no secret about that. It did surprise me, but when someone is at the top of the limelight of success, it is normal."
Were there groupies? "Oh yeah." Did he restrain himself? "Yeah. You know, I never really liked groupies. I prefer a good, real woman. Hahahahah!" He was married to Dominique in the golden days. But Dominique did not turn out to be his one for ever and ever. Marie, a yoga teacher who is stretching her legs in the bedroom, is wife number four.
Roussos says he did not find it hard to adapt when the global success waned. OK, he was no longer huge in England, but there was still the rest of the world - notably Russia and the Middle East. For the past 17 years he has been touring non-stop. Anyway, the music career of Demis Roussos makes up such a tiny fragment of his existence. He mentions a couple of his most important past lives. "I was a preacher in Ancient Egypt and a Jewish rabbi at the end of the last century." How does he know? "I measure my aura and all that. Eeehuhuheeeh."
What is that noise all about? Has he got hiccups? "No, it is the changing climate. Here it is very humid and cold. I'll be OK. It is something that comes and goes."
In 1985 he made an unwitting comeback when he was held captive for a few days by Shi'ite Muslim hijackers. The newspapers reported that he had sung to his captors and mocked him cruelly. He is still riled by the story: "All this b******s about me having sung for them . . . it is bullshit." He says he never bothered with the critics - he was too busy enjoying his success.
Has he ever tired of singing Forever and Ever? "No. I consider all my songs as my children and I don't think any father gets tired of his children, otherwise he's not a good father." Roussos's music has evolved since 1975. He calls his last three albums new age. Despite his hostility to technology, the music is electronic, mixed with ethnic elements from Greece, the Balkans and the Arab world.
It is amazing how well remembered Demis Roussos is. When I mention I am going to meet him, people quote the scene from Mike Leigh's Abigail's Party. The moment when Beverly puts on her favourite song, Forever and Ever was recently voted one of the top 100 television moments in the Observer newspaper. As she begins to sway, Beverley tells her long-suffering husband: "Angela likes Demis Roussos, Tony likes Demis Roussos. I like Demis Roussos. And Sue would like to hear Demis Roussos. So, please - do you think we could have Demis Roussos?"
I ask Roussos if he has seen Abigail's Party. His face lights up. "I know about this. It was fun, this woman mentioning my name. But you see, that means I left my mark into the century. Nobody can deny that my name left a mark into the century's music. Even if I die tomorrow, Demis Roussos left a card, a trademark, something that cannot be forgotten."