FOR a decade after the 1999 release of his mega-hit album Play, Moby lived a rock-star lifestyle.
As sales of the record hit 10million, the DJ — real name Richard Melville Hall — toured non-stop, slept around and got by on a diet of booze, cocaine, ecstasy, Vicodin and Xanax.
By 2008, he was burned out, suffered panic attacks and tried to take his own life.
But he pulled through, got help for his addictions and has been clean ever since.
Now 53, here Moby tells all in his new memoir Then It Fell Apart.
“Natalie Portman is where?” “She’s at the backstage door.”
I was nervous, so I made small talk. “We’re going to New York in a few days,” I said. “For the VMAs.”
“I’ll be in New York too. Can we meet up?”
I was a bald binge drinker and Natalie Portman was a beautiful movie star. But here she was in my dressing room, flirting with me.
A week later I was in New York at the Lincoln Centre playing records at the MTV Video Music awards. After the show, Natalie appeared.
“I’m playing a late-night show for Donatella Versace. Want to go?”
“OK,” she said, confidently leading me out. I was 33 and she was 20 but this was her world. I was comfortable in dive bars, strip clubs and vegan restaurants but knew nothing about award shows and red carpets.
“Natalie and Moby, over here!” The paparazzi knew my name. I wanted to soak up the flashes but Natalie led me into the hotel. I saw Joe Perry and Steven Tyler from Aerosmith. Perry made eye contact with me. “Are you with Natalie Portman?”
“I guess so,” I said. “She’s so hot,” he said and walked away.
My normal existence was flat and filled with doubt, while this new life was magical.
It all sprang from Play, a weird little album I thought was going to be a failure.
I walked on stage in front of Donatella Versace and 1,500 of her friends. I looked at the side of the stage. Natalie was there, dancing with Madonna and Gwyneth Paltrow. In unison they raised their hands, smiled and cheered. For me.
Whenever I tried to date someone seriously the panic showed up — sleeplessness, muscle tightness, sweating and galloping thoughts. Nothing triggered my panic attacks more than getting close to a woman I cared about.
For a few weeks I tried to be Natalie’s boyfriend but it hadn’t worked out. One night she informed me she’d met somebody else. I was relieved I’d never have to tell her how damaged I was.
On tour in Australia, she’d come to my show in Melbourne and brought the cast of the Star Wars prequels.
After the show I drank with Ewan McGregor. I went wearing a towel. No shoes. No clothes. Just a towel.
We ended up in a subterranean bar filled with Australian celebrities. I found myself standing at a urinal next to Russell Crowe. He pushed me against the wall of the bathroom and started screaming at me.
After a minute he lost interest. I went back to the bar and told Ewan, “Russell Crowe just yelled at me.”
“F***, mate,” he said. “I wouldn’t worry about it. He yells at everyone.”
“Moby, do you know Mick?” I was washing down my second hit of ecstasy with a glass of champagne when Richard Branson introduced me to Mick Jagger. I held out my hand.
Mick took it, eyeing me warily. The most iconic rock star the world had ever produced was standing inches away from me, in the flesh, giving me a dead-fish handshake.
I’d been a heavy drinker for a few years but lately I’d been downing ten or 15 drinks every night and taking ecstasy whenever I could. I’d invented my “rock-star cocktail” — two or three hits of ecstasy, a bottle of champagne and a bottle of vodka.
The tour for Play, which was originally supposed to be four weeks, was now entering its 18th month. We flew to New York to play three sold-out shows. After the last concert, John Lydon, David Bowie and Kyle MacLachlan came backstage.
After New York I flew to LA for the final show at the Greek Theater.
I looked in the front row and made eye contact with Christina Ricci, who was singing along.
At 5am Christina and I went up to my room. We opened another bottle of champagne on the balcony. I put my glass down and kissed Christina.
I was with a smart, beautiful movie star and closing the book on the greatest 18 months of my life. “Do you think things will calm down now your tour is over?” Christina asked. I smiled and took a slug of champagne from the bottle. “Oh, I hope not.”
David Bowie had been at my apartment to rehearse for a charity event. “I have an idea,” I said. “What if for the event we played Heroes on acoustic guitar?”
He smiled kindly and said: “Sure, let’s give it a try.” I was somehow able to focus on playing, though I was having an out-of-body experience. David mentioned having dinner at his apartment the following week.
“Iman and I can make you something vegan,” he added. I’d been to their apartment 15 or 20 times but every time I stood here, about to knock, I froze.
I knocked and heard footsteps. The door opened and there was David. We walked into the kitchen, where Iman was cooking.
Lou Reed was wearing a shimmering metallic jacket, holding a drink. My food was average but I didn’t care. I was dining with gods and goddesses on Olympus.
I was in Barcelona to perform at the European MTV awards. My penthouse neighbours were Madonna and P Diddy. I was a rock star in a three-bedroom suite by the Mediterranean. I’d been given 1,000 times more of everything than I’d ever dreamt of.
I made ten million dollars the year before and my loft in New York had a hallway lined with gold and platinum records.
Finding the happiness I’d enjoyed for the past few years was getting harder. I had to drink more to get drunk.
I had to sleep with more people to feel validated. I had to be in more magazines to feel like I had meaning and worth. I sat on the stairs, took a long drink from the bottle and started crying.
I laid down on the carpet, sobbing and apologising to God and my dead mum for being a disappointment.
I was at the annual gala for the Museum of the City of New York. A tall, beautiful woman stumbled up to the bar.
“They’re all bitches,” she slurred. “I got divorced and they’re all afraid I’m going to f*** their husbands.”
“Do you want to leave?” I asked. We got into the car and I asked the driver to take us to The Box. My friend Simon had opened the club a few weeks before, hoping it would be a degenerate place where billionaires could mingle with performance artists.
I was an investor. A burlesque dancer I’d met on the opening night came into our booth and put her hands on our legs. When the coke disappeared, she said: “You should take me home with you.”
These beautiful women wanted a threesome but it felt rote, as if we were playing scripted parts. Suddenly, I was very tired. I just wanted to rest. I was startled awake by the sound of snoring. My snoring.
The divorcee and the dancer looked at me, affronted.
Out of age, sadness and defeat, I’d fallen asleep.
My fame was waning. The invitations were fewer and the parties less prestigious. I was angry because I couldn’t write a hit.
Anxious my career was spiralling. And ashamed I’d become a sad joke, a faded star still out every night, getting drunk and going home with anybody who’d say yes.
I’d sold the five-level penthouse, my 60-acre compound and a house in Beverly Hills I’d visited once.
The week before I’d tried to kill myself.
It was October 18, 2008, and I was sitting at an AA meeting, staring at the floor. Fame hadn’t solved my problems. Alcohol and degeneracy didn’t work any more.
I started crying. I raised my hand, unable to meet anyone’s eye. I didn’t want to say it but I knew it was true. “I’m Moby and I’m an alcoholic.”
