JULIAN CASABLANCAS: I’m drinking myself back into the game.
I’ve noticed that people tend to think you’re drinking and out of it. But the truth is that you’re ultra-aware of everything going on and everyone’s motivation—
CASABLANCAS: That’s your opinion.
And what’s yours?
CASABLANCAS: I don’t see myself that way. If you see it that way, cool, thanks.
So how do you see it?
CASABLANCAS: I see myself out of my own eyes, which means I have no idea what’s going on the other way around. I just think I try to be a good person—and I fail.
Casablancas reaches over the table and presses stop on the tape deck. Then he immediately starts it again.
CASABLANCAS: I’m sorry.
I don’t care. Do what you want.
He turns the tape recorder off; I turn it back on.
Let’s talk about the music instead.
CASABLANCAS: Fuck music.
All right, good. So let’s talk about your shirt. You have a whole closet full of—
He turns the tape deck off again. I look at him. He looks at me. Then I turn it back on.
CASABLANCAS: Talk to me.
Okay, so what’s your stock answer to the Nigel Godrich question?
CASABLANCAS: Fuck you. I’m not answering that question.
What the hell?
CASABLANCAS: Next question.
It’s interesting. People’s true personality comes out when they’re drunk . . .
CASABLANCAS: You’re too nice, man.
RANDOM WOMAN AT NEARBY TABLE: What’s he like when he’s sober?
CASABLANCAS: Sober he’s a fucking asshole.
RANDOM WOMAN: So what is he right now?
Half sober, half drunk.
CASABLANCAS: And when he’s tired, he’s a rapist. (Looks warily at the tape recorder, then speaks into the microphone:) Rape is bad. Very, very bad.
Honestly, this has to be the worst—
CASABLANCAS:—the worst interview ever?
Oh man, good times.
CASABLANCAS: Good times. “Whoa-oh-oh-oh, for the longest time.” (Starts singing the Billy Joel song to the tune of the Clash’s “Spanish Bombs,” which is playing on the jukebox.) It’s the exact same melody.
He leans over and turns off the tape deck again, then sits in his seat, swaying and staring.
[Continued . . .]
Despite rumors that Suge Knight wanted him dead for leaving Death Row Records several weeks earlier, there were no security gates, armed guards, or electric fences at Snoop Dogg’s house in Claremont, just outside Los Angeles. There was just a sweatsuit-clad Snoop, who pulled me into the living room and pushed me into his home studio. Above the door, a sign read, “Home Honey, I’m High.”
SNOOP DOGG: I want you to hear a few songs first. (Presses play on a DAT machine, and leaves the room while thirteen songs he’s just finished recording blare from the studio speakers. As soon as the last song ends, he bursts back through the door.) Well, did you tape some of it?
Of course not.
SNOOP DOGG: You should have.
What?!
SNOOP DOGG: Didn’t we talk yesterday about taping pieces of the album and leaking them on the Internet?
Yeah, but most rappers try to avoid leaking their music, because then no one will buy it when it comes out.
SNOOP DOGG: Fuck it, just bootleg that motherfucker. Come on, man. I’ll give you the ones you want.
Should I just leak it on the Internet, or do you want radio too?
SNOOP DOGG: All of it, man. That’s what I want you here for. I ain’t never done that shit before. (He plays three songs, and watches diligently to make sure I record them.) Cool. Can we use your wheels? I gotta go get Pampers.
For real?
SNOOP DOGG: It’s cool. We can ride and do the interview. I always do interviews riding and shit. I remember I used to be riding with guns and shit all in the car with me, getting into this gangbang bullshit.
Let’s try to avoid the gangbanging.
SNOOP DOGG: It was cool, though (lights a joint and puffs). Life is a motherfucker.
Is it true that you got high with Madonna?
SNOOP DOGG: I met her with Tupac. It was before he went to jail, before he got shot or anything. It was my first time doing Saturday Night Live. He came to see me because he was my nigga back then. He brought me a gang of weed and we all kicked it and smoked. Pac was a cool motherfucker, though, man. Death Row turned him out. Man, I feel bad.
[Continued . . .]
We know her as Madonna. But her staff refers to her simply as M. And M was sitting in a private plane, which had just taken off from a Royal Air Force base south of London. She was en route to Frankfurt, Germany, where a helicopter was waiting to fly her to a television performance in Mannheim. For sustenance, M, her manager Angela, and her stylist Shavawn were all carrying bags of popcorn.
When’s the last time you were in a helicopter?
MADONNA: I went in a cheap helicopter the day after I fell off my horse. I was on morphine, so I couldn’t tell what kind of danger I was in. But because it was my birthday, I was like, “I’m going to Paris. I don’t care if I’m injured.” It wasn’t until the morphine wore off the next day—I only did it for twenty-four hours, don’t get excited—that I realized how scary the helicopter was.
How was the morphine?
MADONNA: It was pretty good. I’m a lot of fun on morphine. At least, I think I am. But I’m not fun on Vicodin.
ANGELA: