L.A. Confidential
With the unpleasant tabloid scrutiny she’s been under recently, it’s easy to forget that Sinéad O’Connor is one of Ireland’s most powerful creative musical forces. Her soon-to-be-released new album, How About I Be Me (And You Be You?), already has critics purring with delight. When Sinéad travelled to the City of Angels to perform at a pre-Golden Globe event, Olaf Tyaransen went with her to report on the latest chapter in her remarkable life.
Olaf Tyaransen, 08 Feb 2012
Having berated Horan, she rings a senior editor at the paper to further voice her discontent. She stays snarling on the phone until ordered to switch it off by the air hostess.
“What’s wrong with you?” she asks, looking at me.
I shrug: “Well... it’s done now, isn’t it?”
“Do you think I’m a cunt for doing that?” she demands.
“No, but I do think you’ve just given them an even bigger story. They’re not going to apologise.”
She’s obviously pissed off that I’m not being more supportive. There’s an uncomfortable silence as the jet taxis down the runway.
I hold her hand as the plane takes off.
“Hey missus, wake up! We’ve landed...”
Sinéad has slept throughout the eight-hour flight. Groggy, disorientated and bewildered, she seems half-asleep as we disembark at Washington Dulles. By the time we’ve cleared immigration, she’s so zonked I have to keep propping her up. Eventually it dawns on me: she’s doped up to her eyeballs. What. The. Fuck?
“I took a load of pills,” she admits, blearily.
“What kind of pills?” I ask. “Sleeping pills?
Valium? Xanax?”
At least if I know, I can start to figure out what to do. She shrugs indifferently, averts her eyes, and scratches her neck like a guilty teenager. I’m busy calculating. Maybe Sinéad took enough pills to sleep through the planned London to LA flight; the trip to Washington is four hours shorter, so with a bit of luck the drugs should have worn off fully in that time. Then again, maybe she was so upset by the Sunday Independent contretemps that she took whatever she had to hand…
There’s an anxious-looking VIP escort named Abdul waiting for us. Apparently there’s not much time between flights and so we’ll have to shift ass to catch our LA connection. No chance. Sinéad resolutely refuses to do anything without a cup of coffee first. She immediately spills half of it over her dress. “Oh shit!” she says, wiping it down.
At the check-in desk, her passport has gone missing. Tired and confused, she empties the contents of her bright pink Ted Baker bag onto the floor and starts to sift through the mess. There’s a few packs of cigarettes, various items of make-up, a small white laptop, a spaghetti of chargers and headphones, a scattering of scrawled notes, two mobile phones (blue and pink), an iPod, a plastic bag full of candles, and lots of other stuff besides.
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