Porcelain - Moby

PORCELAIN – MOBY

There is a series of videos on YouTube called Jonesy's Jukebox in which ex-Sex Pistol Steve Jones chats to various celebrities in-between playing records in his role as DJ on a radio show in California. It's extremely good, not only due to the interesting guests Jones brings into the studio to chat to but also for his very laid back way of talking to them, making for some very interesting conversations. Jones has obviously met a fair few famous and somewhat eccentric people in his time and is by now well-versed in talking to them. There's one episode, however, where Moby is his guest and the way that Jones looks at him it's as if the aliens have landed.

It's two factors that cause Jones to have this look on his face as if to say 'What the fuck is this?', the first being the calibre of Moby's name-dropping anecdotes along the lines of “I was in my apartment in Upper Manhattan having tea and biscuits with Iggy Pop, David Bowie, Salman Rushdie and Laurie Anderson when I got out my guitar and we all had a sing-along”. The second being Moby's jumpy, excitable enthusiasm for all things as he pulls out his guitar and tries to out-play Steve Jones in precise technical renderings of classic rock songs seemingly plucked from the ether.

Perhaps it's all by accident but Moby comes across as a conversational and musical genius, all wrapped up in the personage of what can only be described as a 'nerd'. There's one particular anecdote that Moby relays regarding an encounter with erstwhile rock god Gene Simmons where Simmons walks up to Moby and says to him “You are a powerful and attractive man”, before walking off again. What with Gene Simmons' testosterone-fuelled machismo and Moby's weedy physique, it's almost certain that Simmons was being sarcastic but Moby seems genuinely proud of the encounter as if Simmons had been acknowledging a kindred soul. This anecdote, of course, serves only to add to Jones' perplexity.

So, what the fuck is Moby? Have the aliens really landed? Well, after having read Moby's memoir, Porcelain – all 500 pages of it – I must admit I'm none the wiser. Yes, that's 500 pages of Moby talking about his life. Can you imagine?

Apparently, Moby is a descendent of Herman Melville so because of this probably feels that anything he writes should be on the same epic scale, so as to keep the tradition going. The problem being, however, that while Moby knows how to write he isn't actually a good writer. He's a classic case of someone badly in need of an editor but due to whatever reason, one hasn't been deployed. Hence 500 pages that could have easily been slashed by half and in doing so make for a much better book.

I'm not sure if Moby owes me a personal debt of gratitude for ploughing through his memoir or if I should be thanking him because by the time I got to the 300^th page I started to wonder what I was doing with my life? Might there not be better ways to spend my time rather than reading a book such as this? Might there not be better books to read? Like Moby Dick, perhaps? Or Tolstoy's War And Peace? Is it just me, I wondered? Is there something wrong with me? Why are writers from such esteemed organs as The Guardian, New Statesman, Mojo, and Rolling Stone able to laud Moby's book with grand plaudits but I'm barely able to muster the will to live?

To be fair, Porcelain isn't the worst book I've ever read and in fact there are some decent bits in it such as when Moby is describing New York during the late Eighties/early Nineties when it was still a dangerous place to live and when everyone except him and his immediate circle of friends seemed to be on crack. Or when he's talking about aspects of the early New York rave scene and the changes to it brought about by the changing of drugs being devoured from Ecstasy to Ketamin.

There's a lot missing from it, however, such as any decent mention of the New York Hardcore punk scene in which Moby was once involved, frequenting hundred of shows at CBGBs apparently. Or any real examination of his Christianity or how he became vegan and an advocate of animal rights. There's no explanation of how he managed to attend and DJ at practically every club in New York and managed to remain drug-free. How could this have been humanly possible?

A strange thing about the book is that it only starts to get better and more amusing about two thirds in when Moby suddenly starts drinking a lot. The people he meets become more interesting as does his anecdotes. The book at this point starts to flow more easily as he suddenly reveals he's got a very good sense of humour. His sex life even begins to improve though the thought of Moby having sex isn't really an alluring one it must be said.

I've got nothing against Moby, I should add. He's a likeable fellow and a lot of his records are actually really good particularly the albums 18 and Hotel. His Animal Rights album, however, is a crock of shit which was universally slated and rightfully so. He did, however, blot his copy book by the absolute selling out of his Play album. So much so that there was a time, in fact, when you couldn't put the television on without hearing something from Play being used as the theme music to some advertisement or other and it was just too much in the end. Overkill, essentially.

And maybe that's what it is with Porcelain, the book? It's just overkill, basically? It's just too much? Too much froth and not enough bite? I'm not really sure. In fact, I'm not really sure about anything any more after finishing it. Then again, 500 pages of Moby is enough to daze and confuse anyone. Perhaps Moby can say a prayer for me? Especially as I've got Then It Fell Apart - the sequel to Porcelain, clocking up to another 400 pages - waiting on my shelf to be read. Whispering my name: 'John, John, come and read me'. Like a Siren calling me to the rocks.

Yes. Pray for me.

John Serpico