Natalie Portman has disputed the musicians account of their relationship. But fear not: his new book has plenty more steamy stories
You can tell a lot about Mobys second memoir, the follow-up to his 2016 effort, Porcelain, from its title: Then It Fell Apart. You can tell even more from its preface, about how it came into being: After finishing the book, rather than go to therapy, I kept writing.
Then It Fell Apart, charting Mobys lost decade, is a globe-spanning morality tale (so the publishers say) with so many dropped names that the index, if it had one, would make the book half as long again. Although it was published earlier in the month, this week it made headlines after Natalie Portman disputed his account of their relationship, and even that they had a relationship at all.
Imagined or not, this is among the happier moments of Mobys memoir, which is soaked in self-loathing and giddying highs, suicidal lows and pages of self-described degeneracy. And did we mention the celebrities?
Moby is upfront: All the stories in this book actually happened, although he has changed some names and details out of respect for other people. (Perhaps one of those names was Portmans?)
It is worth noting that Moby is now 10 years sober and the profits from this memoir are going to an animal-rights charity.
A low ebb in Kings Cross
It is 1999, near the end of the four-week Play tour, and our hero is feeling sorry for himself at his aftershow party. He has just a played 75-minute set to a half-empty Scala in Kings Cross, and no one is interested in having sex with him. How badly was I failing as a musician that I couldnt even find someone to flirt with at my own party?
Leaving the party, he sees a sex worker standing at a bus stop, whom he describes for several sentences before clarifying that, though he has dated a variety of sex workers, he has never paid money for sex. Standing in the rain at 1am, he wonders if that changes now.
He imagines falling in love with the sex worker after discussing their mutual brokenness, before he is snapped out of his reverie by some passing record-label employees, who ask him what he is doing.
I said, too quickly: I was just walking back to my hotel. They were nonplussed, as I hadnt been walking. Id been standing. In the shadows at 1am in Kings Cross, staring at a prostitute.
A near miss for Moby and his New Zealand fans
After playing a small concert near the Moulin Rouge in Paris, Moby has gone back to his friend Lorraines house, conscious that he cant stay out too late: he has a 9am flight to New Zealand, where Play has gone gold. (Moby concedes that New Zealands small population is a factor.)
Lorraines gamine friend Mandy, whom Moby likens to a beautiful elf, expresses interest in him. Casting aside all thoughts of the 26-hour flight and the 6,000 New Zealanders who had bought Play, he and Mandy catch a cab to her apartment building near the Arc de Triomphe. As we drove, I told Mandy the strange history of the Egyptian obelisk near the Tuileries Garden. She listened and nodded, but seemed bored.
At her apartment, he tries to engage her in conversation about new-wave radio stations in New York, trying to get to know the person I was probably going to have sex with, but the mood is disrupted by her nervous chihuahua, George. I wanted to tell her about my deceased grandmothers dachshund, also named George, but Mandy started kissing me we took off our clothes and had sex on the damp, wine-stained sheets, while her dog paced and whined around us. After sex, we passed out.
Hours later, Moby goes to leave only to find himself locked in Mandys apartment, but disturbed by Mandys boyfriend. Je suis dsol, doesnt cut it. Moby makes his flight to New Zealand.
Moby enjoys tofu pups at the Holiday Inn
At a Holiday Inn in Minneapolis, Moby makes himself a sandwich with some frozen hotdog sausages, or tofu pups, as he calls them, as warm as a lawn on a summer day after being defrosted in the sink. I didnt have a knife, so I used the subscription card from a copy of In Minneapolis magazine to spread mustard on two pieces of bread. I put my tofu pups and bread on a hand towel, and ate them while watching an old episode of The Simpsons, and drinking day-old carrot juice.
There was nothing glamorous about it, says Moby, but I had a No 1 album in the UK, which made a lukewarm Holiday Inn tofu pup the most wonderful meal Id ever eaten.
Moby drops E and some celebrity names post-Glastonbury
As Play sells more and more copies, Moby finds it easier and easier to become promiscuous. To keep myself from feeling creepy and ethically compromised, I told myself I was looking for love, but his panic attacks keep him from pursuing relationships. Nevertheless, tonight, after Glastonbury 2000, a woman named Becks is charitable enough to spend the night with Moby. Although usually Irish women were reserved, says Moby, Becks is OK with him ripping the mirror off the wall of his generic, but large hotel suite and positioning it so that they can watch themselves having sex. The ecstasy may have helped.
We spent the next few hours having sex and looking into each others eyes, and by the time we were done, it was late and most of the people at the party had left. Someone in the living room put on London Calling, but Joe Strummer, who apparently was still there, yelled: Oh, fuck no!
After a brief interlude for cocaine, Moby goes in for the pillow talk. I lay there, smiling and spooning beautiful Becks. As I was falling asleep, I heard Golden Years playing in the other room.
Can I tell you something? I asked.
Please, she said sleepily.
David Bowies my neighbour.
Some chapters later, Bowie comes round to Mobys house, then Moby goes round to his house. Iman, Lou Reed and Laurie Anderson are there.
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