Maroon 5: At the Corner of Hollywood & Heartbreak
Rock bands have been known to argue about almost anything. Maroon 5 are different. They argue about everything. Sometimes the debates are substantive. They had a heated battle over where their second album, It Won’t Be Soon Before Long, should fall in the sonic spectrum between polished R&B and the chaos of energetic rock. (They compromised, and the record includes both — part of why it debuted at Number One.) More often, their arguments are meaningless turf wars between five highly opinionated, stubborn men. “It’s a high-ego band,” says lead singer Adam Levine.
Among the disputes that continued on Maroon 5’s tour bus for far too long (sometimes months): the pop-punk influence on Pink’s first album; the prospects of Howard Dean before he screamed; whether the movie Wild Things had a sense of humor; whether psychedelic mushrooms provide an escape from reality or a different perspective on it.
The most epic quarrel, however, centered on Lenny Kravitz’s “Where Are We Runnin’?” video. The band saw it on TV in a Brazil hotel; Levine and guitarist James Valentine proceeded to argue for hours about whether Kravitz sheds a tear in the final shot. “I have never seen two people get more into it about something so completely unimportant,” says bassist Mickey Madden. The clash extended from the hotel lobby to the venue, paused long enough for an acoustic performance, and then continued through a meet-and-greet session, climaxing with the statement “Star Wars was not filmed in space.”
Finally, Levine and Valentine bet $500; the wager wasn’t settled until the group visited German MTV and got them to roll the video. No tears: Valentine won the bet, although Levine never actually paid up. “In my twisted mind, I am always right,” Levine says.
To argue with that intensity, you need to be with your worst enemies or your closest pals. Maroon 5 are a group of best friends: Three of the five started playing together at age 12. “Adam and I would talk on the phone all night about Pearl Jam and Nirvana,” says keyboardist Jesse Carmichael. Fifteen years later, the band draws less on grunge and more on R&B, especially Prince, and on pop rock, especially the Police.
From a distance, Maroon 5’s music can seem like it’s all surface: catchy melodies and R&B production that lets the band fit on pop radio seamlessly between Rihanna and the Black Eyed Peas. Up close, Levine’s pained, yearning vocals give the music more emotional weight, as does the fact that the band is a gang of friends living childhood dreams. That makes the battles more intense, the victories sweeter, the celebrity encounters more surreal. And it made losing a founding member taste just like a mouthful of ashes.
After midnight on Thursday, the five members of Maroon 5 have gathered at Levine’s airy, modern house, built into one of the Hollywood Hills. While the band drinks red wine, Levine pulls out his iPhone to show off Hawaiian-vacation pictures. “The most luxurious, amazing trip I’ve ever taken,” he says. He had his first pina colada and, more worrisome, his first golf lesson.
Madden shares an elaborate dream he had where Carmichael was wrestling a 20-foot manta ray: “Its crazy tentacles came up and wrapped around you and you pulled it onto the balcony. We were sitting there in total awe.”
“I have boring dreams,” says Levine. “I had one in Hawaii that [Lakers owner] Jerry Buss came to my grandparents’ house, and I showed him around room by room. I woke up and said, ‘Really?'”
Levine suffers from an advanced case of Lead Singer Disease, always taking over the conversation, perpetually harassing his bandmates, rarely getting called on his own shit. Fortunately, he’s funny and genial, so nobody seems to mind. Madden confides, “Adam’s been the exact same dude ever since I’ve known him. Fame kind of justified his personality.”
Perhaps inevitably, the band starts playing video games. On the tour bus, after a particularly vicious round of Halo, Levine and Valentine will sometimes not talk to each other for days. “There’s rage that you wouldn’t be able to understand,” Levine says. “I’m a really prideful son of a bitch. I have to work on that.” The game tonight is Guitar Hero, so he just watches. “I hate Guitar Hero. I get pissed that you don’t play it like a real guitar.”
Valentine and Carmichael plug in and are soon rocking out to “Them Bones,” by Alice in Chains. When they fluff a section, Levine hoots, “You guys suck! Jerry Cantrell is really upset with you right now.” He once met Cantrell. “I spilled my soul about how I thought he was amazing, and he didn’t give a shit. Nor should he. I never put myself out there like that, so when I do, I get bummed easily.”
The song ends; Valentine edges out Carmichael. The game announces his win with a fake newspaper front page.
“TRIUMPHS IN GREAT SHOW,” drummer Matt Flynn reads. “When have we ever had a headline like that?”
Levine grew up in West Los Angeles. His father owned a chain of women’s clothing stores, but he says he got his artistic side from his mom, who was busy raising him and his younger brother but who had majored in graphic design at Berkeley. His folks split up when he was seven. “I barely remember them together,” he says.
“I wouldn’t let him listen to kids’ music in the car,” says Levine’s mother, Patsy Noah. “I was playing the Beatles, Paul Simon, Fleetwood Mac. His favorite when he was four was Hall and Oates — although he called them Hone and Oats. Adam was always a jock: He wanted to be Magic Johnson. He made it to the JV basketball team in high school. In 10th grade, he realized he didn’t have enough time to play basketball and play in a band, and sat me down to break the news: ‘I have to choose one passion, Mom.'”
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