I wanted to hit Craig Nicholls. I had determined that the Vines' 27-year-old leader was a hopeless, infuriating interview subject, and I had traveled 8,000 miles to conduct a major question-and-answer session in which he'd directly revealed...almost nothing. There are al-Qaeda detainees at Camp Delta who are more likely to give up information to their interrogators.
But one's desire to hurt Craig Nicholls eventually subsides. After spending some time in his company, observing his various tics and waiting out his pauses, I soon discovered, as do many of the people who deal with Nicholls (his bandmates, his record-label reps, his managers, possibly his new girlfriend, definitely his producer), that there are ways of understanding and coexisting with him without resorting to violence. Even when he resorts to violence.
First, you must realize and -- despite your cynicism -- actually believe that even when it's quiet, as it is on this muggy, lazy summer afternoon in the Southern Hemisphere, there is loud, wholly distracting, ostensibly beautiful music in Nicholls' head. He prefers listening to it than doing just about anything else. Second, you must indulge this. If you happen to be a journalist, you have to wait, often several minutes, maybe longer, for him to speak. And don't make any sudden movements. Greeting him with an innocuous "Good to see you again" might prompt a short nod of recognition or a vacant stare. "You have to be onstage in ten minutes, and after the show there's a meet-and-greet, then we take the tour bus to Houston -- that's in Texas" might conjure a whirlwind of flying furniture, beer bottles, deli platters, ashtrays, and bong water. Both verbal engagements pose the same threat to Nicholls. They interrupt his beautiful inner noise.
"Craig is addicted to the combination of smoking pot and listening to music," observes the Vines' even-tempered bassist Patrick Matthews, a longtime friend of Nicholls' who as a teen had flipped burgers with him at McDonald's. "That's become, like, his life,"he says, adding, "Pot unlocked music for me to start with, but then the noise in my head got to be too much." Those closest to Nicholls have gotten so good at abiding his fixation that frequently they don't even flinch when the debris starts flying. "Sometimes we'd be at a venue, and Craig would start throwing chairs around, and someone from the record company would say, 'Oh, my God! Is he all right?'" the band's blond surfer-dude drummer Hamish Rosser says. "And the other three of us would be sitting around, going [pretends to yawn], 'Eh, is he throwing chairs again?'"
In these moments of lucidity, Nicholls can also be manipulative, even dishonest. For example, I was told that I should try to bond with him over the videogames that he supposedly enjoys playing for hours in his bedroom. I don't play videogames, but it seems like a harmless way to get a pleasant chat rolling. When I mention them, he stiffens and looks around nervously to see if anyone's listening. Then, in a hushed stammer, he replies, "I'm sure I have played videogames. I can't remember. I guess they're all right. I don't want to say anything bad about videogames," before surveying the area for eavesdroppers. It should be noted that we are sitting on a hilly section of a sprawling great lawn. With the exception of an ibis and the folks riding paddle boats and water taxis in Sydney Harbour, there's nobody within 25 yards.
Videogames are legal in Australia, as they are everywhere else. Marijuana is not. As his bassist attests, Craig Nicholls smokes a lot of pot. "I don't smoke pot," Nicholls says, when I bring up the subject, noting his symptoms of classic stoner paranoia. "I don't see how anyone could smoke pot every day and still have any sanity left in their brain. I almost find that insulting." He stares at me hard. Suspiciously. Then, again at the invisible spies. I assure him that I am not a cop. "I'm a rock journalist." It doesn't ease him a bit.
Nicholls knows that sitting on hills with rock journalists is necessary when there's an album to promote (the Vines' sophomore effort, Winning Days, on Capitol), but he doesn't seem concerned with how he or the band will be portrayed. "I don't care," he says, pulling up grass and staring at his black sneakers. "Obviously, it's good for us if people like our album." I already know he's fibbing. That morning, I received a call from the band's management asking me not to tell Nicholls that I'd interviewed Rosser the previous evening and am set to fly to Melbourne for a sit-down with Matthews (second guitarist Ryan Griffiths never gives interviews). It's implicit that informing him of this might jeopardize his participation. It seems that Nicholls would be more comfortable if he were the only Vine being uncomfortable with the press.
"Are the Vines democratic?" I ask him leadingly (hey, it's better than clocking him). "Or is it just unequivocally your band?" He ponders this for a moment. A smirk crinkles his boyish face. "Well, there's part of it that's my band. Like the vocals." Sensing my frustration with his vague responses, he'll later admit, "I'm a compulsive liar. I don't even know myself when I'm lying, so it's very confusing." It's during such moments that Craig Nicholls becomes a much more interesting interview.
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