Dorian Lynskey

The last days of Sodom

Then It Fell Apart, Moby’s sardonic sequel to Play, is a thoroughly arresting account of a success more toxic than failure

In 2002 I flew to New York to interview the dance music producer whose 1999 release Play remains the bestselling electronica album of all time. A few years earlier, Moby had been known as a teetotal Christian vegan, an ascetic anomaly in a scene built on hedonism, so there was something comic about his new-found reputation as a promiscuous party monster.

The photo-shoot paid homage to Jimi Hendrix’s Electric Ladyland, with Moby posing in a cardigan, reading a magazine, oblivious to the 18 naked women surrounding him. (No, this concept wouldn’t fly in 2019.) The headline was ‘Death of a Ladies’ Man’. As we spoke, Moby struck me as charmingly candid and self-aware, but he was clearly lying (perhaps to himself as much as to me) when he claimed that his life was returning to normal. As Then It Fell Apart reveals, he continued to pursue sex, drugs, alcohol and approval with deranged gusto for several more years. The book opens in 2008, with a desperate, self-loathing Moby attempting to suffocate himself to death.

Discovering that fame, wealth and debauchery don’t plug the emotional abyss after all is an old story, but Richard Melville Hall (as Moby was born) tells it exceptionally well. His authorial debut Porcelain, covering the decade prior to Play, was a rare treat. While the majority of music memoirs plod dutifully from A to Z, entertaining only the most loyal fans, this one displayed genuine literary ambition and a flair for indelible anecdotes, earning Moby a sequel.

The out-of-the-blue nature of Play’s phenomenal success makes his story unusually relatable. Some musicians dream and scheme their way towards fame, but for Moby it was a bizarre plot twist. In 1999 he was a floundering 33-year-old who thought he was releasing ‘a flawed and poorly mixed swan song’ — until it sold 12 million copies and transformed his life to a psychedelic degree.

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