In this article:
Moby is the name
Getting past being a disenfranchised militant
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Why Moby matters
His last CD sold nearly 10 million copies. It may well be the most licensed album of all time. Here's the story behind the influential musician.

By Steven Chean

"It's hard to undo the emotional habits of a lifetime. Even now, I have a sense of inadequacy that I will keep with me till the day I die."

Moby, aka Richard Melville Hall (Photo by Tim Dillon, USA TODAY)

A few words from Moby, a thoughtful, soft-spoken man who, on the eve of this week's release of his new CD -- the evocative, '70s-soul-infused 18 -- is ruminating about his last album, 1999's "Play," and all that has happened since then. He knows "Play" has sold close to 10 million copies. He's acutely aware it has become perhaps the most-licensed album of all time; its songs are omnipresent in movies (including "The Beach" and "Play It to the Bone"), TV shows and commercials for companies such as American Express and Nordstrom. He just doesn't get it, that's all.

A self-described "36-year-old bald guy making records in his bedroom in New York City" isn't supposed to be a pop phenom. That's the domain of boy bands and leather-clad rockers, not an artist whose multiplatinum breakthrough was rejected by virtually every major label. When he saw his likeness on a 90-foot Calvin Klein ad plastered on a Manhattan building, he just scratched his smooth pate. "It's like that movie 'Trading Places,' " he says. "I've spent my whole life being an outsider, and I can't help but feel someone has made a huge clerical error."

"It's like that movie "Trading Places." I've spent my whole life being an outsider, and I can't help but feel someone has made a huge clerical error."

Moby is self-deprecating; on occasion, he's cripplingly insecure. But he is also alarmingly honest. "Moby is who he is, flaws, contradictions and all," notes "Chicago Sun-Times" pop music critic Jim DeRogatis. "He's a complicated person, and he's not afraid to show that. He's not watering down his persona to create a one-dimensional cardboard cutout, and that makes him a true original."

Moby's the name
One contradiction stands out: Moby first became a star within the artist-anonymous rave scene via his 1991 single "Go" -- then promptly turned his back on the underground culture by signing with a major label and releasing 1995's pan-genre experiment "Everything Is Wrong." But he began confronting his contradictions long before his unlikely fame. They began in Harlem, where he was born Richard Melville Hall -- a big, adult-sounding name that didn't suit his especially tiny being. "So my parents nicknamed me Moby," he says. "Kinda like naming a Chihuahua 'Killer.' " Comedic irony aside, it was also a reference to his great-great-great-great uncle, Moby Dick author Herman Melville.

Moby doesn't remember his father, who died in a car accident when he was 2. But he has vivid memories of his late mother, with whom he lived a culture clash of an existence in conservative Darien, Conn. She was a secretary, but when she couldn't find work, she supported her son with food stamps. She was bohemian and proud of it. "My friends had stable, affluent homes. My mom's friends were people with big sideburns and fringe jackets who smoked pot and listened to Bob Marley records. I desperately aspired to join the status quo. I wanted to have rich parents and be tall and handsome and good at sports," he says.

As the political essays that accompany his albums attest, this was an early-incarnation Moby. He dates his transformation back to his teenage punk-rock awakening, when he formed his first band, Vatican Commandos, and absorbed a sizable portion of 20th-century art and literature. "The music and books either lamented or celebrated various aspects of disenfranchisement," he says. "Rather than be ashamed of my inadequacies, I could, to some extent, revel in them."

Getting past being a disenfranchised militant
He lamented his disenfranchisement. Celebrated it. Found superiority in it. He became a militant firebrand, preaching the merits of celibacy, veganism, Marxism, environmentalism, Christianity -- "whatever happened to cross my path," he says, laughing. "At one point, I was tempted to give up my home and go out and start proselytizing. I was scary self-righteous. Something had to give."

In the mid-'90s, he had an epiphany. He had followed the critically lauded "Everything Is Wrong" with the universally reviled "Animal Rights." His mother was diagnosed with lung cancer, which eventually claimed her life. He was suffering from panic attacks. And he was released from his recording contract. "I realized I'd spent years trying to make a vast, ancient world fit into my little, preordained boxes. Even my world didn't fit those little boxes anymore, and that was strangely liberating. Besides, I was tired of being an uptight jerk."

Moby has mellowed, claiming as his new theology "militant intolerance toward intolerance." He dates frequently and even enjoys the occasional drink. He's still devoted to Christ's teachings, although Moby's is a personal faith distinct from what he regards as fundamentalist Christianity. He remains a vegan, dining with friends at any of the 30 vegetarian-friendly restaurants near his minimally appointed apartment in the neighborhood called NoLIta (North of Little Italy), where he has lived for a decade. His second bedroom serves as a recording studio, and when he's not touring, that's where he can be found, seven days a week.

"I feel like if I stop working hard, everything I have will be taken away from me," he says. Yet his tone betrays a quiet self-confidence, suggesting he doesn't quite believe it. Maybe, just maybe, he suspects "18" will prove "Play" wasn't a clerical error after all. Maybe the inside has come to the outsider. "Maybe," he says. "But I'm crossing my fingers anyway."

Freelancer Steven Chean recently wrote for USA WEEKEND about Elvis Costello, and Wilco.

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