He's a Changingman – but 20 years on, Paul's still a gent

The New Wave of Heavy British Metal was his idea of nirvana, or, more accurately, Judas Priest.

It was the era of Kerrang! and bedroom walls were decorated with posters of Saxon, Dio, Rainbow and Thin Lizzy. Patches emblazoned with NWOHBM logos were as fashionable as an Alexander McQueen suit and the sickly sweet smell of sandalwood incense sticks hung over Tipton like fog. Who needs the Lynx affect when you've got patchouli oil?

A new dawn was breaking, however. It was called punk. Sneering and provocative with safety pins through their noses and LOVE and HATE tattooed across their knuckles, punks swept aside metal like a bin man taking out the trash.

The movement wasn't built to last. It had the staying power of an Aldi home brand battery and within a couple of years a new fashion had emerged. Borrowing from Black American soul, nicking the clothes of 60s fashionistas The Small Faces and aping the dance moves of Northern Soulsters, it was called Mod.

If Mod had an Ace Face, it was The Jam's Paul Weller. Angry and political, he became the spokesman for a generation. Incendiary lyrics and nuclear-fuelled playing set him apart from his peers. He was real, man, believing every word he spat.

Back on the mean streets of Tipton, the Wake Green Road brethren had a new reason to believe. Pod shoes, Trilby hats and green parkas began to appear. Jackie Wilson replaced Iron Maiden on the turntable. And, in my case, it never left.

Fast-forward 20 years and Cool Britannia ruled the waves. Britpop had created the most exciting music scene for two decades. On the 25th floor of King's Reach Tower, NME writers fought the Britpop Wars. Editorial meetings descended into argument between the relative merits of Birmingham's Ocean Colour Scene against Mogwai. Battle lines were drawn. Rickenbackers were slain.

I met Paul Weller at that time. He was recording a TV programme for Channel 4, called The White Room, with DJ Mark Radcliffe, and I had to interview him. It was around the time of Stanley Road, or maybe just before. Weller had emerged phoenix-like from the ashes of his stuttering career. He'd been derided by the critics for his faux-jazz experimentalism with The Style Council. For too many years, he'd subsisted on a diet of humble pie until his much-loved dad, John, got him back on the road.

A stunning self-titled debut album followed by the game-changing Wild Wood had given him new found credibility. Once again, he was the Ace Face. Weller became the capo di tutti capi, the alpha male, the so-called Modfather. On The White Room, he was charm itself. He spoke with the wisdom of a man who'd taken a tumble and learned from it. He had a love of music, fashion and culture that was entirely authentic. On a hazy afternoon, he sat topless and tanned, politely answering questions before poleaxing the crowd with an incendiary performance.

Twenty years on, backstage at Stoke on Trent's Victoria Rooms, he was similarly generous and candid.

They say you should never meet your heroes and the world of entertainment is littered with heroes who turned out to be schmucks. But Weller remains a class apart. He understands his role in popular culture. He takes the work seriously – but not himself.

The Changingman he may be. But some things don't change. And after a lifetime as the Ace Face, Weller's still keeping it real.