THE BLACK CROWES had allegedly been suffering from difficult, er, third album, syndrome. Their first attempt to follow up 1992’s Southern Harmony And Musical Companion was apparently ready early this year, having been written and recorded in a matter of months.

Subsequently, however, chief songwriters Chris and Rich Robinson came to the conclusion that their efforts, cobbled together during a period of not altogether harmonious brotherly relations, weren’t much cop. This revelation led first to the hiring of co-producer Jack Joseph Puig, and then back to the studio, where the lads, now on better terms, came up with the eleven tunes soon to be released as Amorica.

That wasn’t too much hassle? Well, maybe not, but it was around the album’s arrival in your local record emporium. Rick Rubin, head of the Crowes’ label American (the “Def” was buried last year, in a bizarre funeral ceremony presided over by Rubin himself), became embroiled in a legal battle with distributors Phonogram, a dispute which threatened to hold up releases by Johnny Cash, Slayer and Danzig, as well as the Crowes. It was looking as if the record was jinxed when Rubin signed a deal with BMG, finally ending the whole saga.

So then, I arrive at the Robinsons’ swanky London hotel expecting to hear of the band’s trials and tribulations, of stress-filled months in the studio, and various other tales of woe. After a forty-minute journey, during which I was treated to a monologue by the driver about the state of British society, 47 Park Street is a welcome sight. As Mr. Sociologist departs, no doubt to regale some other poor git with his observations about everything (delivered without interruption due to his ability to speak English perfectly without understanding a word of it), I hope that my inability to get a word in edgeways doesn’t last all afternoon.

I’m informed by the burly ‘Cockernee’ porter that mein hosts are running twenty minutes late, after being held up at MTV. “Yes sir, they’ve just left that message for you, sir,” he says, with an evil stare that imbues “sir” with the menace of “fuckhead.” Twenty minutes isn’t a long time to wait, though, even in a hotel with this individual lurking around, and no bar.

The trouble is that I’m two hours early already. So it’s off to the nearest pub, to kill the time with a few beverages, and the thought that at least the mention of MTV has given me the chance to slip in my joke about “making the beast with one Backer.” Couldn’t miss a chance like that.

When I return to Park Street the brothers have just got back from the studios, so I’m immediately shown to Chris’ suite. Formalities over, a few bottles of Becks are cracked open, and I’m left to talk to the loon-panted one. About all these creative problems, Chris. What was the story?

“Nah, there were no problems.”

But the album did take a while, didn’t it?

“Well, I guess it did take longer, you know? Me and Rich just have this thing where we know when it’s right and we know when it’s wrong. What it’s all about is – What did we get at the end?”

Yeah right, but you did scrap almost a full album, didn’t you?

“We didn’t scrap it as much as we just didn’t think it was what we wanted. That’s just how it is, and if we don’t like it we don’t like it, and it’s not going to break my heart to admit that to myself. I look on it as just a demo session.”

This line of enquiry is proving less than amazingly fruitful, but surely Rick Rubin’s wrangles affected the band?

“Not really,” he signs, almost inevitably. “We do what we want, you know? It’s like the police. Police departments around the world, they’re never gonna change. They’re always gonna be right, but we know they’re wrong. That’s the way I look at a record company.”

So unless they’re coming after him he takes no notice, presumably?

“Yeah,” he says with a conspiratorial chuckle. “If they’re not comin’ after me, I’ll just walk on the other side of the street and wave, and if they wave at me, then fair enough.”

Chris has become all jolly at the thought of keeping clear of both the law and the record company, so I decide to get on to the question of what sort of an album they did get in the end . . .

Now, Chris Robinson has a reputation for being a number of things: skinny, a bit of a dopehead, and last but not least, a muso. People say “Just stick to the music questions and he’ll talk for ages, he’s (looking down their noses) a real muso.” Well, quelle surprise! And there was me going to ask a load of questions about market gardening in Caracas!

In the ’90s, a time when musicians are consulted on matters political, social and anything else ending in “al”, it is considered almost trainspotterish for them to talk about such things as song structures, musical arrangements or choice of instruments. Bearing in mind, however, that Rich has been known to use about fifteen guitars in one show, and that both he and Chris were brought up in a house where they were exposed to many different types of music, it would be curious if they weren’t of the muso species. With this in mind I ask him about “Amorica” . . .

“Yeah, it’s such an obvious thing,” he says when I ask if there are any major differences between this album and its two predecessors. Apart from all of the band members being “two years older” (surely not?), Eddie Harsch (keyboards) and Marc Ford (lead guitar) are now fully-fledged Crowes, and the band are used to headlining rather than supporting. All these factors added to the character of the album in his opinion.

“Also,” he adds “from a rhythmic base the songs are much different . . . as is the instrumentation.” In the past the band have used pianos, Hammond Organs and clarinets, but this time ’round they included a lot of other “stuff.” Then it’s really into muso mode: “Then there are things that I notice. Like in ‘Descending’, the last song, there’s like a six-bar piano intro and an eighteen-bar piano outro. And I love it, every time I hear it, I love it.”

Now he’s flying. I comment on the fact that Rich spoke somewhere about the need to ‘let the music breathe’, without launching into widdly-diddly solos at every opportunity. “Well, that’s what we’ve always done,” he maintains. “All these things are just us. Our live shows are very much a different thing but it’s still supposed to be, from the first note to the last, a little trip in there, and it has a lot of different emotions and, em . . .”

Well? “No, but that’s being multi-dimensional. It’s soul music, you know? Well, I think it’s soul music.”

Joining the Crowes in the making of this soul music were Jellyfish’s Andy Sturmer, and Eric Bobo, who has worked with Cypress Hill. Jellyfish opened for the Crowes on the American leg of the Shake Your Money Maker tour, and Sturmer hit it off with the band. Bobo’s involvement came about in a less straightforward way, as Chris explains . . .

“Well, last New Year’s Eve I was sitting around and I saw this guy playing for Cypress Hill” – he points at the muted MTV playing away in the corner – “And it was like “Fuck man, this guy’s whalin’ really aggressive.”

Now, I’ve heard of some strange percussive techniques but harpooning aquatic mammals is something else. Anyway, he continues . . .

“We have the same accountant so I called him up. It was funny ’cos then I guess Sindog (that’s Sindog the accountant, presumably – G.N.) called Eric up and said ‘Hey man, the Black Crowes are lookin’ for you,’ and Eric was like ‘Hey man, don’t fuck with me’.”

When Bobo was assured that he wasn’t being fucked with, he got around to supplying some of the different rhythmic influences noticeable on the album. On the question of his own influences Mr. Robinson is non-committal, maintaining that his musical background is no more important to his own work than the books he’s read, the films he’s read or the girls he’s been involved with, et cetera, et (unconvincingly ) cetera.

What about his upbringing in the American south, then? Surely that’s had a major impact on the Crowes’ music?

“Well yeah, I guess. But it’s been a major impact on all sorts of music, because of it being such a musical place. I mean, that’s where the blues came from, and jazz, and then you have your folk and country aspect. Hey, y’know rock ’n’ roll came from there too.”

So everything did, apart from rave, I suggest. “Yeah, you can keep that . . . the English can keep that. It’s not as big in Ireland, though, is it?”

This seemed like as good a time as any to move away from muso-ish topics, and head towards drugs and shagging, which I’m sure you’d all rather read about. There were a few questions to address first . . .

Throughout their career The Black Crowes have generally been lumped in with the whole metal scene, a place where, musically, they have as much right to be as the Stones, or any other decidedly ‘rock’ outfit. This doesn’t seem to bother Chris in the least.

“Well, where else are we gong to go? In the little kiddie pop magazines with U2, or something? They’re not going to have just a Black Crowes magazine, are they? They’ve got to put us somewhere.”

He doesn’t seem to care whether he’s in with Sepultura or Take That, as long as people are listening to his music. An amount of explanation is necessary before he cops on to what the latter group are about.

“Oh right, yeah, yeah, yeah. Like the new Kids, right? Well, the same thing. And if kids are into that, good. I mean, we did the Monsters of Rock tour, opening for fuckin’ Metallica. What was that? People didn’t really get it.”

Surely, though, loads of people would consider that to be a great bill. He isn’t convinced.

“I don’t know, man. Some people would, but they’re two bands that are definitely motivated from two different spaces. One seems sort of hateful, and the other is so far removed from that.”

At this point the doorbell rings – It’s my ‘Cockernee’ pal with the dinner. “You know we’re so spoiled and glamorous, with our big rock ’n’ roll lunches,” says Chris, as he collects his . . . fish and chips.

He rings Rich. “Come and get it!” he chimes, as if it’s their first morsel of grub in a week. Rich doesn’t bother. Then it’s shock, horror time. There’s no vinegar.

“How can I eat this without my malt vinegar! What are they trying to do? Kill me?” I think they might be able to come up with a better plot than hiding the vinegar if that were the case, Chris. He’s not listening. Instead, he’s taken to wandering around the room with a worried look on his face, contemplating whether to attempt eating his meal without, perish the thought, the malt vinegar. I’m getting pissed off with these shenanigans so I attack the beer supply, any excuse being better than none, after all.

Finally, he sits down and starts to pick at the goddamn cod.

“Rich has been hoarding the vinegar. Anybody see the vinegar? I bet it’s in his room,” he says.

I attempt, meanwhile, to broach the question of the Crowes’ retro image. Some New York radio guy was quoted in Rolling Stone saying that they “allow people at the younger end of the demo to relive some of the bands from the ’70s that they weren’t around for.” Not surprisingly this view is not one you’ll get any of the band agreeing with.

“That guy gets records for free, you know what I’m saying? and anybody who talks about our demographic is a fuckin’ prick anyway,” he says. “If there’s anyone out there who still thinks that we rip off other people then they’re always going to think that and I don’t have time to change their minds And I don’t care anyway.”

So there.

“They’re not going to convince me ’cos I know what I do . . . I can’t live my life by my distracters.” No, you couldn’t do that.

At this juncture the phone rings. It’s Rich. I wonder what this conversation could be about . . .

“You’ve got the vinegar, right?” he accuses. “But you took it to your room the other night . . . The other night you took it to your room . . . You took it . . . You threw it away . . .”

Hurrah! The bleeding vinegar is gone, no more, kaput. Now we can get back to business . . . You played a few gigs recently. How did they go?

“It was good, little clubs and shit like that.” And what about the surprise appearance at Lollapalooza, during the summer, when the Crowes played the B-stage? It was “cool”, but he doesn’t have any time for the air of trendiness that surrounds the tour.

“People think it’s some big thing,” he laughs. “But nope, it’s just kids at a rock concert – the same kids that were at Motley Crue two summers ago. People just like to get together in big groups and cop a buzz and hear good music, because it makes them feel better.”

Chris, my man, you’re obviously totally dedicated to your art, and all that, but do you ever get time for any good ’ol rock ’n’ roll excess?

“I mean,” he begins thoughtfully “regular living to me might be excess to somebody else, and vice versa. You do what you do, try to stay outta jail. Try not to OD.” Of course, but what’s this I heard about MTV. They wanted you to do a promo and allegedly it turned into a shagfest . .

“I don’t know if it was a shagfest,” I’m told, as if he’s not sure if the event was truly entitled to shagfest status. He goes on . . . “It was pretty weird, I’ll go that far. It was basically that . . . our record company was dumb enough to pay for all our fuckin’ booze and all the party favours that our friends would like. There was some nudity, but no shagging. It was an all-in good psychedelic fun time.”

Now admittedly the Crowes aren’t in the arch-funster league on a par with vintage Zeppelin, Aerosmith, et al, but Robinson’ desire to live just a little bit is no secret. In a recent promotional biog he identified with people who “want to be allowed to taste and feel and go, as low as they can and as high as they can.” How far does he think he’s gone either way?

“I mean, I don’t want to go so far that I’m going to be dead. I don’t go far enough, to the point of addic . . . serious addiction. I can go as many days without it . . . You know what I mean? I just still don’t think that you should be afraid to feel things, y’know? Because it’s just somebody’s opinion, man.”

You may have noticed that I haven’t even mentioned the word “drug” yet, and still Chris has answered two of my questions in purely those terms. Obviously no need to wring out the details where the ol’ gange is concerned, so I continue on the topic of testing the limits. Has Chris ever felt pressure of the kind that Kurt Cobain obviously did, because of his fame?

“Why? Why would I be so . . . so self-infatuated with the little bit of murmur that I cause? Fuckin’ hell! Mick Jagger’s more famous than him, and he never did it,” he says pointing at the Revenge of the 50ft Glimmer Twins video for ‘Love Is Strong’, playing on the still mute MTV. “I mean, it’s horrible, and I think it’s sad, but saying that the music business is a lot of pressure is bullshit. Sometimes you get to live in a total fuckin’ Shangri-La. You get to do what you want to do, when you want to do it, ’cos you’re a musician. If you’re a popular musician then just fuckin’ deal with it. And yeah, who said life’s not meant to drive you a little crazy?”

Mr. Cobain, of course, had smack to help him get even crazier. In the past the Crowes have been very vocal in their support for the legalisation of cannabis, even playing the Atlanta Pot Festival. But is cannabis a gateway drug to harder stuff?

“There’s no way it’s going to turn someone into an addict, immediately, you know?” he says. “Like reefer madness movies. It is a drug, and it will kill you, but life will do that too. Jean Cocteau said that life is a horizontal fall.”

On a more practical note, he adds . . . “Don’t do it if you don’t want to take responsibility, and don’t drive around and be drunk and run into people and kill them and shit like that. I don’t have kids, I don’t ever drive and I don’t fly around the world with fuckin’ pounds of drugs on me. I don’t have to have drugs around me all the time. I’m just doin’ it so I don’t put a gun in my mouth.”

So how much does it effect the writing/recording process?

“It has to be totally therapeutic, I would imagine. I mean, when the record’s done and you hear lines like ‘Clouds conspire above my head, I thought I heard them say I wish he was dead’ – that comes from a really weird place.”

And what about the rest of the lyrics, can he explain what they’re about?

“Well, em, I can try,” he suggests, as I dig out the cassette box track-listing. “’Cos once I think a song is about something, and then, six months later, I think it’s about something else.”

Most of the tracks – and bloody good they are too – turn out to have autobiographical lyrics.

“They’re ‘I’ and ‘Me’ songs, which I’ve never written before, so they’re a bit different.” He explains with an anecdote: “A couple of weeks ago I did an interview, and this woman goes ‘What does “I hate myself” (from the excellent ‘Cursed Diamond’) mean?’ So I said, well, I hate myself. But what’s the next line? ‘Everybody hates themselves’ – I’ve told you what it means right there!”

He continues . . . “The reasons why you hate yourself are going to be different from the reasons why I might hate myself, but there’s going to be something similar, in a weird way, because it’s all . . .”

He pauses before concluding.

“. . . . it’s all human, y’know? so that’s the whole theme of the record.”