Don’t Look Down
A LATE lunch with Smith is an entertaining hour of anyone's time. He is the only Chili Pepper that will admit to having a least favourite country to tour -"I'm not a big fan of Germany. They're just so f**king,.. German! " - and tends to be the one keen to sample local nightlife.
Have the groupies changed much over the years?
"I don't really partake of the groupies too much anymore."
Do they stay the same age as you get older?
"That's what I like about this business!"
Pushed on an earlier overheard conversation regarding his whereabouts the previous evening, Smith admits that he and some of the road crew "went to three whorehouses, sort of".
Whorehouses?
"Not really," he explains. "They were like strip clubs but you get to take away, like McDonald's or something. It didn't seem rough, but I was with guys with guns and shit."
At a discrete distance stands such a gentleman by the name of José. José is one of two bodyguards hired by the promoter to shadow the band. José's duties extend somewhat beyond moving on over-zealous autograph hunters and fending off girls, as American rock stars are a prime target for potential kidnappers, a lucrative local cottage industry that currently thrives on ransoming businessmen. Asked whether he's "packing", José hitches back his smartly-pressed black Levi's denim jacket to reveal a holstered Glock 9mm pistol. "Ready to go!" he smiles. "Only Mexico City is worse than Caracas. On a good weekend here maybe only 60 people get killed".
A bad weekend sees that figure double. However you feel about guns, right now it feels good that someone on your side is carrying one, ready to go.
THE RED Hot Chili Peppers congregate to be escorted by way of service elevators and kitchens to the waiting local press. José and a similarly armed associate make sure the path is clear and instruct the band to wait for them to be announced. As they wait in a corridor to go in and take questions, Smith makes the formal introductions.
"This is my friend John," he tells me, as Frusciante smiles broadly. Kiedis offers his hand with a polite "Anthony", before Smith adds, "This is Flea - he plays a mean bass". All have firm handshakes, except Flea who apologetically offers chilly fingers dripping with water from holding his iced bottle of Evian.
Once announced, the band file in and sit on a stage in front of about 40 print radio and TV journalists. Flea grabs a microphone and belches loudly while Smith helps himself from the modest buffet. Every question is asked in Spanish, translated into English, answered and then translated for the audience. In the course of the next half an hour, five questions about setlists, drugs, and tattoos are fielded. Frusciante does most of the talking. Flea and Kiedis speak occasionally - the singer tries unsuccessfully to initiate a game of musical chairs -while Smith doesn't say a word.
There was a strange energy in that room." Kiedis claims afterwards.
"Really? I didn't notice," says a permanently cheerful Frusciante.
THE DRIVE to Valle Des Pop - a 30,000-capacity outdoor venue set on the edge of a forest - should take just over an hour from the centre of Caracas. The first thing you notice driving up the motorway with about five miles to go is the huge queue of vehicles ahead. Almost immediately after that the cars doing three point turns and driving the wrong way down the road really get your attention. The jam hasn't been helped by an excitable gig-goer getting out of his pick-up and firing his semi-automatic pistol into the air. The authorities bundle him off immediately, but leave his truck where it is.
After three hours of slow progress under police the appearance of men knocking on the windows with bootleg CDs and T-shirts for sale indicate that the end is in sight. Twenty minutes later and the sight of a naked Flea walking unashamed from the shower block to the band's dressing room is the first sight that greets you passing the familiar tooled-up heavy checking security passes and enter the small compound - two rows of facing purpose-built huts, washing facilities and a catering area - that comprise the backstage area.
The smell of incense hangs in the air as Kiedis. Flea and Frusciante do their warm-up stretches to Donna Summer's 'I Feel Love'. Smith reclines in a hammock and smokes. It's a relaxed period of preparation for all, the only apparent moment of stress comes when Frusciante, a man who has in the past abused his body with breathtaking enthusiasm, frets that the small biscuit he has just eaten might have had too much sugar in it.
