Wonderland
May 2006, Q Magazine (UK)
thanks to mysterygirl, for typing it out
click the thumbnail to see the scans
On the verge of releasing their defining album, the Red Hot Chili Peppers are stranger than ever. Witness dangling babies off balconies and wanting to become monks…
The rock star answers his front door in tight black pants, his sinewy, nut-brown body bent into a shivering foetal curl. “Aren’t you a bit early?”, asks Anthony Kiedis. Interrupted mid-shower, he scuttles off for a towel, leaving me to explore his home: a Shangri-La of lemon and orange trees, fountains and a carp pond in the hillside of Benedict Canyon in Beverly Hills.
Inside the Spanish hacienda-style home it’s all rugs, candles and art books. His two waist-height dogs, Katie and Sammi amble over for exploratory snorts to the groin. There’s evidence of unexpected home entertainment mellowness. Among the most recently deployed records are Glen Campbell and the Bee Gee’s Saturday Night Fever soundtrack. Rough mixes of the new RHCP album, Stadium Arcadium, lie by the stereo. A blue book entitled Alcoholics Anonymous 4th Edition has been extracted from the shelves and lies on it’s side.
On the living room wall is a painting of a female nude reclining in considerable rapture, as a skull emerges from beneath her breasts. “I wouldn’t buy that piece now”, Kiedis notes when he returns in a stained grey t-shirt, silver-blue jeans and trainers. “I bought it in the late 80’s. It’s a little macabre, not reflective of my current tates”, he adds, sounding almost English, a bit “sophisticated”.
Kiedis looks amazing for his 43 years. His narrow Mowgli face sits on top of an intensely muscular throat. His wet hair and big brown eyes make him look pretty, girlish even. His left eye socked – rebuilt with titanium and Teflon after he drunk-drove his mother’s station wagon into an elm tree at 90mph (he has switched to beer in an effort to get off heroin) – is slightly wonky. As a result, a raised eyebrow can make him look super-quizzical or utterly scandalised.
Kiedis has an interview reputation. He can be evasive and prickly. When a German TV interviewer asked for a proper Teutonic explanation for wearing a sock on your cock as the Chilis once did, he became sullenly monosyllabic. On at least one occasion, he has walked. Or as guitarist John Frusciante says later “I love him. But way back when we were assholes, he could really turn into one”.
Today he is the perfect host, rummaging in his cupboard for premium tea leaves. Meanwhile his little Spanish maid, Vivian wants him to put his new clothes away. She brooks no shit. He gives none back. While she tidies a clutter of vitamin supplements and minerals he makes our drinks. A couple of years ago he was grinding his own cashew nuts for milk. He’s back on regular dairy now on account of it being too acidic, part of a well-researched ultra-healthy masterplan. He grabs the pot and mugs and leads me to a little round coffee table in a sunny nook off the lounge the size of Yorkshire.
After almost a quarter of a century together, RHCP are in their pomp. After 2002’s BTW and 2004’s triumphant shows in London’s Hyde Park, they reconvened at long-time producer Rick Rubin’s mansion in Laurel Canyon last spring and recorded 3 album’s worth of material. Giddy with enthusiasm they planned to release all 3 at 6 month intervals. Now they’ve settled on a double. (When I first met them around the time of Freaky Styley I thought, Nothing good can come out of this band”, Rubin tells me. “There was a darkness to them. It was unhealthy. Now their creativity just astonishes me”.
Stadium Arcadium is no a concept album, but it bristles with the imagery of post-addiction spirituality. Kiedis, a follower of Kabbalah, the Madonna-endorsed branch of Jewish mysticism, says the album’s title refers to the quasi-religions euphoria of their stadium shows. Everywhere there are love songs, “I’m sorry” songs. On pivotal track ‘Hey’, you can almost picture Kiedis tossing his drug dealer’s mobile number onto the fire as he solemnly croons “I don’t want to, but I will”.
Unquestionably, on this album his mode of transport to the higher spiritual plane is John Frusciante’s guitar soloing, which is set to “I fucking RULE!” throughout.
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