![]() Porcelain concerns itself with Moby’s life between 19, from when he moved to New York to just before the release of Play, his fifth album, and the one that changed everything. “The writing felt true and the reality felt like fiction. Sometimes he would be writing about being blind drunk in New York, “covered in filth and squalor”, and look up from his laptop and be shocked to see his swimming pool, bathed in sunshine. Moby has lived on the west coast for six years, but had no problem transporting himself back to his past for the book. He was dance music’s Adele: everyone liked his stuff. He picks up a fallen cushion and plumps it before putting it back on the bench he asks me if I’m too cold and alters the air con he goes through the menu with me. It’s a nice place and I am relaxed, but endearingly, Moby isn’t. We are drinking herbal tea and eating (very tasty) vegetables in Moby’s newly opened vegan restaurant in blue-skied Los Angeles. “Naive boy from the country moves to the big city and things go wrong.” At one point, he writes this, about some club kids – “They were all doing obscene amounts of drugs and having sex with strangers, but they still seemed innocent” – and that’s exactly how he comes across. And also, there’s something touching about who he was back then. For a start, he writes brilliantly, with none of the self-indulgence of most pop memoirs: “I wanted each chapter to be like an anecdote you’d tell in a bar, to have a punchline,” he says. The fact is, his book makes me like Moby more.
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