100% Noo Yawk

THE WEST Midlands Serious Crime Squad are pussycats compared to me. I’ve only been interrogating Huey Morgan for 60 seconds and he’s already confessed to being a Coke fiend.

“No two ways about it, I’m addicted to the stuff,” he admits before I’ve even had a chance to get the rubber hose out. “Do you want some?”

Two o’clock is a bit early in the day for me but, hey, I’m not called “Nilfisk Nose” for nothing.

“Diet or regular?”

Drat, there goes my News Of The World cover story.

Showbiz sherbet may be off the menu but judging by the glint – well, glaze – in the Fun Lovin’ Criminal’s eyes, there’s no shortage of other ingestibles.

“Now you’re talking serious nutrients,” Morgan chuckles. “The thing I like most about being in Europe is Amsterdam. Forget Disneyland or Waterworld, that place is the best theme park ever. We were there recently for some awards ceremony and, I’m telling you, it’s Stoner’s Paradise. If any Hot Press readers are going to the ‘Dam, I recommend they find a place called the Bluebird and ask the guy in charge, Al, for some Californian Mist. I’ve been smoking herb for a long time and nothing comes close to it. A couple of tokes and, wooooooooo, bye bye brain!”

It was while under the influence of said naturally-growing and benevolent substance that Huey had one of this year’s more memorable rock ‘n’ roll encounters.

“Shit, yeah, the Hanson brat. Like I was saying, we were at these rock awards in Holland and generally having a really chilled out time. Fast wanted a bit of privacy with Saff – y’know, Saffron from Republica who’s his girlfriend – so I left them to whatever in their dressing-room and went out into the corridor for a joint. Next thing I know, this little Aryan munchkin comes up to me and says in a helium voice, ‘There’s no smoking here. Smoking’s bad for you!’ I thought, ‘Fuck, they’ve reformed the Hitler Youth’, and told him to go find his daddy. Which he did. True to form, Mr. Hanson is this long-haired hippie dude with a turquoise band round his wrist who backs off when I tell him that dope smoking is actually beneficial to health. His health.

“I’m just looking forward to 10 years time,” Morgan adds good-naturedly, “when the cutesy drummer’s a crack addict, the singer’s selling real estate and the geeky guy’s found beating his meat in an L.A. porn theatre. Believe me, it’ll happen.”

All we can say is, “Watch this space for the sordid details!”

In between frightening young children, the New Yorkers have been hanging out with fellow fun loving criminal Howard Marks. Indeed, Huey is so enamoured of the retired drug baron that he refuses to be photographed without the copy of Mr. Nice that he’s been given by his tour manager.

“I tell you, if they make that book into a movie, I want a part! He only smuggled grass and hash which, to my mind, makes him a real 20th century hero. The part when he was in jail – I did a little bit of time and I didn’t like it at all, man. I’d do anything, including killing myself, not to go back in. Sure, you can spend the day pretending to be hard and fighting people but when the door closes and the lights go out, I guarantee you’ll be crying like a baby. What I admire about Howard is that whatever situation comes along, he’s able to deal with it.”

With his rock ‘n’ roll friends queuing up to stab him in the back, Huey reckons that Tony Blair ought to change course slightly and start promoting Cruel Britannia.

“I know there’s a bit of history between you guys but, you’ve got to admit, the English have the best criminals. I saw that Mad Frankie Frasier guy in a film and he was wearing Armani. Okay, John Giotti looked good in a suit but he’s nowhere near as stylish as, say, The Krays who are the ultimate anti-heroes. Another thing about American gangsters is that they’ve got no sense of humour. I don’t know if you’ve ever read Mad Frank’s stuff in Loaded but it’s as funny as any comedian.”

If you’re not fully up to speed with the Crims you mightn’t realise that after his spell in jail, Morgan spent three years travelling the world as an American marine. While politely putting the subject off limits today – “rapping about dope’s much more fun, man” – he’s spoken in the past of it being like, “The worst nightmare you’ve ever had. It’s not something that tough guys in the marines like to admit but we’re shit-scared the whole fucking time. And you do what you do to get out of it. Weird things happen when you’re put in positions where it’s you or them. I don’t like talking about being in the marines because I’m still working it out in fucking therapy. I sleep horribly.”

Returning home from the Gulf with Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome, Huey decided to swap the marines for the even more hazardous profession of bartending at The Limelight.

“You seen Boogie Nights? Well, multiply by ten and you’ve some idea how crazy the place was. The madness became like a drug – you couldn’t not go there in case you missed something. I don’t know how they did it but they had every cross-section of the population in there – pretty girls, freaky girls, TVs with moustaches and Wall Street-types who were off their head on PCP. My favourite, though, was this lawyer guy who came in butt naked ‘cept for a black veil and high-heeled leather boots. He used to hit on people by offering them a toke on his joint and, well, let’s just say he spent a lot of time accompanying young men to the toilets.

“Then there was Michael Alled who I popped my first day on the job for leaning over the bar and trying to grab liquor. I had no idea until the manager started screaming at me that he promoted their Wednesday night club, Disco 2000, which was the freakiest of the freaky. Seven o’clock in the morning and they’d still be dancing on the tables which was annoying when you were trying to clear up. You could make a killing, though, from the debris that got left on the floor. Gold Am-Ex cards, hundred dollar bills, big lumps of dope – you made more money scavenging like that than you did from your wages and tips combined.”

As a keen connoisseur of sleaze, Morgan is horrified by Mayor Rudi Giuliani’s attempts to clean up The Rotten Apple. Curbing gang warfare is one thing but when an honest, law-abiding citizen can’t get the living daylights thrashed out of them by a dominatrix, you have to wonder what the world’s coming to you.

“If you want to raise kids,” he proffers, “go to New Jersey. That’s what it’s there for. He perceives all New Yorkers as being white, upper middle class investment brokers who don’t want to live next door to those pesky blacks, Hispanics, Italians, Chinese, Polack or Koreans. The neighbourhoods are being bulldozed to make way for shopping malls, the fucking Disney Corporation has brought Times Square and we’re supposed to shout ‘hooray’. Fuck that, man. He’s goofed with the sex-shops, he’s goofed with the taxi drivers and now he’s trying to goof with the street vendors. Sooner or later this fascist’s going to make one goof too many and get himself shot.

“As for what you were saying about S&M, I think it’s every American’s inalienable right to have nails hammered through their scrotum if they want. Who am I or Mayor Giuliani’s to say that’s unacceptable behaviour? Hell, I bet half his staff are down there having the skin flayed from their bottoms – ‘5 o’clock, yipppeeee, whipping time!’”

If Huey wouldn’t mind doing his Bord Failte bit again, where should people go to discover the real New York?

“I’ve got this ‘scary tour’ which starts in East New York, goes uptown to the Bronx and then downtown to the Lower Eastside. You’ve got to be indestructible and on valium to survive that! Another trip, man, is the subway, which gets so hot during the summer that even the rats go crazy. Despite the Mayor, there are still plenty of places where you can misbehave.”

Someone who’s been on Huey’s scary tour and lived to tell the tale is trip hop’s very own David Beckham, Tricky.

“I know he was supposed to have kicked that journalist at Glastonbury but my take on Tricky – and we’re pretty good buddies – is that he’s a nice guy who values his own opinion of himself over other people’s. I think New York’s been good for him because unlike in England where he’s regarded as some sort of a prophet, he can do stuff without it being in the news the next day.”

While it has to be said that even Sadaam Hussein’s been getting better press than him recently, the only problem I had chinwagging with Tricky a couple of years ago was deciphering his Bob Marley meets Pam Ayres accent.

“Face to face is fine but on the ‘phone, forget it,” Morgan laughs. “Actually, the other time we need a translator is when I’ve had a couple of beers and start getting really Noo Yawk. Maybe the reason we get on so well is that we make up what the other one’s saying!”

Another Limey friend of his is Ian McCulloch who was on hand to offer some trans-Atlantic counselling when Frank Sinatra died.

“You’ve got to understand that Sinatra is somebody I’ve admired and listened to every day since I was a kid. I used to think it was maybe a New York thing but Ian is just as big a fan as me which is why I called him up when I heard the news. Actually, we recorded a version of ‘Summer Wind’ some months ago which, not being Elton John, we’re going to hold onto for a while. We did it in a day – him playing Deano to my Frank – and were so pleased with ourselves that we went out afterwards and got disgustingly drunk. It’s got a sort of a filmy vibe which is probably why there’s talk now of it appearing on a soundtrack.”

And Huey is still buzzing after meeting his other childhood hero, Tony Bennet, at Glastonbury – a festival he got into by pretending to be Robbie Williams’ conga player!

“There was a certain amount of subterfuge involved,” he acknowledges. “I got into a cab that he was getting out of and had just enough time to say, ‘Hi, Tony!’, before he got lost in the crowd. I don’t know whether you saw him on TV but he was the only performer who managed to avoid getting covered in mud. It’s the Battle of the Somme backstage and his suit is spotless. ”

The Fun Lovin’ Criminals were to have headlined their own outdoor extravaganza at Killyleagh Castle in County Down but, with the Drumcree stand-off decimating ticket sales, had no option but to pull.

“It was such a cool idea playing next to a castle but, y’know, the timing was all wrong. The thing I don’t get about the guys who’ve been marching and demonstrating is the bowler-hats. What are they about, man? Other than that I’m going to keep my big fat American mouth shut. If some Yank tourist came over here telling me how to live my life, I’d pop ‘em.”

While a definite pisser, the Killyleagh cancellation should prove to be the merest speed-bump on the fast-track to international megastardom. The reason why Huey Morgan is looking like the cat who inherited the dairy is that the Crims are about to unleash their devastatingly wonderful new album, 100% Colombian. From the rap metal assault of ‘Up On 10th’ to the mock lounge lizard cool of ‘Love Unlimited’, this is a record that’s not so much a product as a distillation of its environment.

“It’s like having children,” the singer says switching into philosopher-mode. “You know the ingredients are good, ‘cos there’s love involved, but once you’ve brought a record into the world, it’s up to other people to decide its worth. I’m almost certain it’ll do really well in Britain and Europe but there’s still a lot of resistance in the States to music that can’t easily be categorised. Are we rap or are we rock? It might not matter to you but it sure as hell matters to the people running radio stations.”

While possibly the only white American band to play up the law-breaking lifestyle, the Fun Lovin’ Criminals would rather hand their stash over to the NYPD then be lumped in with the gangsta fraternity.

“They can ‘yo’ and ‘ho’ and diss their bitches all they want but it doesn’t alter the fact that their music’s every bit as pussyassed as the Backstreet Boys. There used to be a battle between art and commerce – the artist wanting it one way, the record company the other – but now both of their bottom lines is making a million dollars. Ice-T, yeah, the guy’s great but from what I’ve heard of Snoop Dogg and Puff Daddy recently, they’re dealing in nursery rhymes.”

Huey wouldn’t necessarily want to say that to their faces, though.

“They represent a lifestyle that is a hundred times scarier than anything you’ll find in New York. Run into a drunk in an LA bar and there’s a 99.9% probability they’re packing a piece which they wouldn’t think twice about using. As for whether these professional wrestling rappers, as we call ‘em, walk it like they talk it – maybe they do, maybe they don’t, but it ain’t going to be me who finds out.”

Let’s face it, why should he want to endanger a life that, by any standards, is pretty sweet? As well as sitting on one of the album’s of the year, Huey has recently started consorting with Jerry Hall’s 21-year-old supermodel daughter, Briget.

“Yeah, myself and Briget have – as you so tastefully put it – been consorting for the past few months and making all the right gossip columns. It’s pretty funny that after 27 years of nobody giving a fuck about what I think or who I date, they’re prepared to waste so much paper on my ass. Actually, it’s more on Briget’s ass because she’s the one with a famous mom and Chanel contract.”

The tabloids are bang on when they say the couple look “inseparable” – Ms. Hall turning down a lucrative catwalk run to keep her beau company in Dublin. They certainly managed to get out and about with dinner at Johnny Fox’s and a visit to Dave Rooney’s We Could Be Gold exhibition at Eamonn Doran’s which left the Hot Press graphics man several hundred quid – and a couple of celebrity patrons – better off.

“He works for Hot Press? Man, I knew you guys were cool! Dermot Doran’s a buddy of ours from the old Limelight days which is why no trip to Dublin’s complete without a secret gig at his club.”

Doran’s is certainly bursting at the seams when Huey, Fast and Steve arrive in for their post-Point wind-down.

The Californian Mist is flowing freely afterwards as, for no particular reason, Morgan launches into a spirited defence of Bill Clinton.

“The only thing our President is guilty of is bad taste,” he insists. “J.F.K. banging Marilyn Monroe while he had to make do with Monica Lewinsky represents a drop in standards that no American should be prepared to tolerate. Unless, of course, the last person they were fucking was Paula Jones.”