Wonderland
Flea has flicked through Scar Tissue twice. “First time I opened it, there was a passage saying something nice about me. Fine. Second time I picked it up…he’d fucked my sister. I found that offensive. That’s been a little scuttlebutt around my family. I mean I don’t care he fucked my sister. I hope he had a good time. But…when you have a shared history it’s hard to read one man’s version of it. The book came out while we were writing the album and I couldn’t read the rest of it because I didn’t want the bad feelings to compromise that.”
Flea has been in therapy for years. Now he says he’s happier than he’s ever been in his life. Caught between the drive and charisma of Anthony Kiedis and the wayward talent of John Frusciante, he seems to have overlooked that fact that he is renowned as one of the greatest bass players alive.
His instrument is out in the library. He’s been practising, playing along to a Charlie Parker music manuscript on a stand. A jazz album is still one of his ambitions. He comes out into the drive to bid farewell. We chat momentarily by the vacant dog kennel bearing the name plaque Martian. Flea’s dead dog is commemorated on the new album, on a track titled Death Of A Martian. I start to drive away, but then stop and look back to ask a question about opening the electronic gates. Flea is gazing up into the sunshine with his cock out, pissing into his own shrubbery.
When the RHCP gather at a Hollywood photo studio to have their picture taken, they are all dressed casually in t-shirts and trainers except for Frusciante who looks like a particularly bright but culturally isolated student appearing on University Challenge: cosy jumper under a sober, fashion-less jacket.
Soon, though the ghosts of their frat-rock pasts are conjured up. They strip down to the waist and immediately they are a tattooed gang: gurning, goofing playmates. A nasty gash on Kiedis’ chest inflicted by the fin of his surfboard had dried blood on it. But undeterred he puts on a James Brown CD and shimmies and slides around the floor discreetly between photographs. He says he’s excited. They have completed mixes on 2 more album tracks today.
At 25 tracks, some might view SA as the album everyone was too nice to edit, where the new détente means that sensitivities within the band have been a little too politely observed. Rick Rubin is adamant there has been no lapse in quality control: “The album chose itself. Nothing seemed weak,” he says. “This is definitely a time when these guys have worked a lot of their personal issues out. Anthony’s writing – his love songs in particular – really struck me. He’s writing about his relationships in a way he could never do before.”
SA shows how they’ve moved on from the dark stuff. Hollywood though, is trying to convince Kiedis there is a great movie future for the 800lb gorilla. He’s had offers to do a biopic. “They’re interested for all the wrong reasons,” he says. The accompanying world tour will see them on the road for a year and a half. Frusciante is so convinced they are at their creative peak, he says he wants them to record new songs on tour. Smith and Flea agree but their minds are on family now, too.
“It’s like a car wreck,” says Anthony Kiedis. “You climb out and you stagger. And then you run. Finally you realise just how lucky you are and you want to celebrate, embrace the life you have. I think we feel something close to that.”
