I'm geeking out so here's the first half of the interview.
Text: Paul Flynn / Pop Magazine.
I offer
Courtney Love a note of sympathy about her missing luggage. What a disaster I say. “You think this is a fucking disaster?” bellows
Courtney, incredulously, while flinging the door open to her hotel room in the sunny seaside enclave of Santa Eulalia, Ibiza. It is 12.15am. “Well hello! Welcome to my life.”
Courtney Love has spent the last 48 hours en route to Ibiza from Los Angeles and things have already gone awry. This comes as little surprise. Drama, after all, is
Courtney’s shadow. Where she goes, theatrical degrees of incident follow. It is part of what makes her the most noteworthy woman of the modern rock age. It is part of what makes her The Punk Diana. Drama is her thing, and not always in the way she would like it to be.
Her baggage – well, her physical baggage – has been impounded at Heathrow and she has been left with only the clothes on her back (a splendid T-shirt with the logo of the Palm Springs rehab unit, The Betty Ford Center, tight denims and a righteous pair of far-me heels) and her hand luggage. Somehow, even with such slight travelling accoutrements she has still managed to semi-trash her hotel room. This takes a degree of dedication to messiness that a four-year-old child would clearly wow at. You know how they say “clean house, clean mind”?
Courtney is kinda the opposite of that.
She has just been arguing with ‘a boyfriend’ for the past hour on the phone. She doesn’t get anymore specific, but the debris of a stressful conversation can be seen everywhere. Cigarettes are burning down to their stubs, vertically, on the counter. BBC World News is blaring from the TV set. The covers are askance on the bed and the remnants of room service are littered about the place, bits of cutlery and crockery on the floor, a few more ciggie stubs decorating the porcelain coffee mugs. Whenever it rings, her cellphone is chucked around the room. “We have a relationship.”
For the proceeding five and a half hours I will sit and listen to the current high and lowlights of
Courtney Love’s life, with a scattershot debriefing on her actual lovelife thrown in for good measure. Now, I’m sure there are more fun and possibly more fascinating ways to be up all night than spending a few hours with
Courtney Love in a hotel room, but right now I can’t think of any. The woman simply cannot open her mouth without a quote dropping out of it. She is a cascade of anecdotes – some belly-laugh funny, some nothing short of heartbreaking. This much I had anticipated. But if somebody had told me that one day I would be up all night with
Courtney Love – in Ibiza! – and nothing stronger would pass her lips than bottled water and approximately a billion cigarettes (you give up counting after the first packet has been scrunched into the garbage; often there are two on the go at once), would I seriously have believed them?
Suspend disbelief. After trying on every single garment in the rock-chick closet over the last two and a half decades, and a couple more besides,
Courtney is putting on a new frock and checking herself in the mirror to see how it sits. After four years of being “America’s very own Pete Doherty” (her words),
Courtney Love is doing sobriety. She’s a year in and counting. You can only pray that she finds the new outfit to her taste. Because she is an absolute blast on it.
Courtney Love is probably the only woman in the world who can make being straight appear more rock’n’roll than being strung out. It’s definitely a skill.
In the cab on the way back to Ibiza airport an hour after leaving
Courtney, two things stick distinctly in my mind. The first is little short of astonishing. At one point in the conversation she dropped in the casual aside that she lives two weeks ahead of the news. As alleged proof of this she told me that her new friend and supporter Mel Gibson would be getting into trouble with drink a fortnight before his latest scandal hit. “He’d already had a little slip. It was going to happen.” This, of course, is untestable as it had already happened. But another nugget hadn’t – not at that point. She also told me that Whitney Houston would be serving divorce papers on her husband of 15 years, Bobby Brown, sometime in the following couple of weeks.
On returning to England I scan the newspapers for 14 days to see if there is any evidence of
Courtney’s speculation on the Brown/Houston separation. Nothing materialises. Perhaps
Courtney is not quite as prophetic as she thinks she is. Another week passes and – kazzam! There it is on Reuters. Perhaps she is even more prophetic than she thinks she is.
The second thing that sticks in my mind is a little more troublesome. After leaving Ibiza,
Courtney will fly to London for a week. She has made a fun little bet with her friend – she doesn’t specify who or how much for – that she can go for seven days in the UK without making it into a tabloid newspaper. She seriously seems to believe that it is a possibility. Yet
Courtney is currently at a British tabloid premium. She is still recovering from the hangover of a maelstrom of events that would eventually “give me a nervous breakdown” (her words). Last year, at the zenith and eventual end of her drug madness, an affair with the Mancunian comedian Steve Coogan dragged her actual sex life, as opposed to her Love life, for the first time in her career through the red tops. Post-Coogan, the British press is still gunning for her.
While the Coogan story was breaking to open-mouthed amazement from the British public,
Courtney Love would find her phone at the Sunset Marquis hotel in LA tapped. Nine LA stingers for British tabloids checked into the hotel. She was doorstepped at her gynacaecologist’s house. Her former female crack dealer, who
Courtney claims to be ‘obsessed’ by Coogan, sold a story to The News of The World for £40,000, featuring five minutes of taped conversation with Love before
Courtney’s best friend and former bass player Lisa Leveridge ripped the phone from the wall.
In Ibiza,
Courtney says that keeping out of the tabloids will be a breeze. “The thing is with The Sun and the 3am Girls and The Biz and Rav and…Look! I know all their fucking names now! But you can keep away from them. So I actually made a wager with my friend that I could go to London next week and not make the tabloids. Okm possibly one straight paparazzi picture. But I’m not even going to The Ivy for dinner. They’re like, “You can’t get through a fucking week without being in the tabloids.” I’m like, “You bet I fucking can.” So, we’ll see. I think you attract the tabloids when you want to. When you’re doing things that tabloids like – like taking drugs, hanging out with tabloid-ish people, like going to dinner with Kate Moss – then you’re gonna put yourself in a position where you might have to start all over the next day.”