From the Chicago Tribune

by: Terry Armour

Pulling an all-nighter with Russell Crowe

Published August 27, 2003


It is 4 a.m., hours after one of his band's five shows at Chicago's House of Blues last week, and Russell Crowe, fueled by Jack Daniels and beer, is telling a story about the time he exchanged more than words with Denzel Washington.

Crowe was at an audition for the 1995 movie "Virtuosity," trying for the role of a virtual-reality serial killer, and the scene had him nose to nose with Washington, yelling in his face. Suddenly and accidentally, Crowe sent a string of spit right into Washington's mouth.

"Now I'm horrified," Crowe says in his gravelly Australian brogue. "I'm thinking, 'Great, I just [messed] this up.' But Denzel, he's such a professional -- such a stand-up guy, he just keeps going, like nothing happened."

When the scene was over, Washington "turns back to me and says, 'I love the taste of saliva in the morning,'" Crowe says, laughing as he takes a swig of Amstel Light.

The beer, the stories and the Jack Daniels continue to flow and by 7 a.m. the party has moved from the private backstage room to Crowe's suite at the hotel. Hunger also kicks in, so Crowe orders 35 hamburgers for this ragtag entourage of close friends, family and blokes he just happened to take a liking to while in Chicago.

"There are people here he's known for a few years," says longtime buddy, 33-year-old Ray Di Pietro. "Then he always meets new friends -- everywhere. It's not necessarily what you do, it's you. If he thinks you're a good, stand-up person, he wants you around. He's a good man."

This is not the standoffish, moody, sometimes confrontational Russell Crowe of tabloid infamy. Crowe, 39, insists that he simply has his good days and his bad days, just like anybody else. "Most of it is a perceptual thing," he tells me, pushing his shoulder-length hair out of his eyes. "And perception is simply how people want to see it."

So how did Chicago become the only U.S. stop on the world tour for Crowe and his band, 30 Odd Foot of Grunts?

Two years ago, when the band, via its official Web site, was gauging fan response to formulate its 2001 tour of North America, an overwhelming amount of requests came from Chicago fans, which led to two sold-out shows here that August.

"But that second show in Chicago was actually the reason we decided to nip over to America this year for a show or two," says Crowe.

"It came down to, `Where did we really have some fun?' Certainly, there were a bunch of people that were obsessive fans in the audience. But for us, obviously it was a town that digs music and they're going to give us a little bit of a hearing as opposed to the normal, `Why does he need to do this?' rubbish."

Before the band's first show on Aug. 17, Crowe and the guys taped an upcoming "Soundstage" performance with Kris Kristofferson, took in a Cubs game at Wrigley Field (where Crowe threw out the first pitch and the band sang "Take Me Out to the Ball Game," the intelligible version, compared to that week's other singer, Ozzy Osbourne) and a Sox game at U.S. Cellular Field, sprinkling in nightly bar- and club-hopping around town.

One night, there were drinks upstairs at O'Callaghan's.

Another night, there was dinner at Gene & Georgetti's. That's where Crowe and the band happened upon Floyd Roberts.

"It was just by accident," says 43-year-old Roberts. "I was having a cigar and a glass of scotch. The guys came over, I had some extra cigars and a conversation started." A few days later, Roberts was tossing back shots with Crowe in the House of Blues' Foundation Room.

"I've seen big time rock stars before and, to be honest, they aren't that approachable," Roberts says. "Russell Crowe is the same way we are. He's a normal guy who likes to talk about normal things."

Roberts brought a friend, Ellen Franko, to 30 Odd Foot of Grunts' final show on Saturday. Naturally, the two went backstage to party. Franko was impressed with how Crowe made time to chat with everybody. "I don't read [the tabloids]," Franko says. "I believe what I see and he just seems very genuine; down to earth."

Crowe hears Franko and Roberts from across the room. "Are you telling lies about me?" he says, before letting out a big laugh.

Back to the House of Blues and last Tuesday's all-nighter. Crowe, dressed in black jeans and a black button-down shirt, is in a high-back chair backstage, surrounded by that entourage of his. His bandmates have taken to calling the perch Crowe's throne. The so-called "throne" affords him the perfect position to again be the center of attention. As the rest of the members of his band -- Garth Adams, Billy-Dean Cochran, Dave Kelly, Stewart Kirwan and Dave Wilkins -- entertain family and friends on the opposite end of the room, Crowe discusses how his presence in the band can be detrimental.

"We're all serious musicians," Crowe says, motioning around the room. "Yet, sometimes we're not treated that way."

Earlier that evening, during the concert, Crowe made it clear he wasn't happy about reviews in that morning's papers. As usual, Crowe felt the reviews focused too much on him and less on the band and the vibe from his fans. "They [the critics] possibly walk in there already saying, `This is a tedious thing to do,'" Crowe says. "But we don't play in America that much. There's been a lot of anticipation so it was possibly a little over the top for someone who wasn't expecting it to be anything of any importance to anybody. But the people who love our songs, they really love our songs. They know them and they sing along with them."

Crowe takes a swig of Amstel Light. You've got 3,900 people who have been to a show and think it's fantastic," he continues. "But a couple of million people read your newspaper and think it's [crap] and they've never even had the opportunity to hear the music. Their experience is already tainted."

The following day, the band's only off day, I suggest Crowe and his mates check out a White Sox game on the South Side, since he already got to experience baseball on the North Side. Crowe is up for it so he rounds up a few friends to head over to U.S. Cellular Field.

As the van pulls off the Dan Ryan Expressway and down 35th Street, people walking toward the ballpark start to recognize Crowe, who is sitting in the passenger side front seat. A cop directing traffic into a parking lot waves. As Sox fans cross 35th Street, they give Crowe the thumbs up.

When Crowe and his friends pile out of the van, a parking lot attendant asks to be photographed with him. Crowe obliges, guiding the man toward the back of the van. "Let's do it over here," he says. "I don't want to attract too much attention."

He then heads to a private box to watch the Sox play the Anaheim Angels. "What you're going to see in a magazine somewhere soon is a photograph of us walking in here," Crowe says with a wicked smile. "It will say, `Russell Crowe and Bodyguards.' Whenever I go out with a group of my friends, it's always written up as being FBI, bodyguards or some [crap] like that."

Crowe is joking, but he isn't a fan of the paparazzi. He considers it a necessary evil of his job. "The . . . paparazzi -- they're sort of like parasites," Crowe explains. "It's amazing sometimes. We get followed everywhere. They stalk you, they set you up and all that sort of stuff. But if you get too upset about it, it's going to drive you crazy your whole life. I guess you can get pissed off about it as a bloke, but then again, you can get pissed off about anything. You're driving along the street and someone cuts you off. You get pissed off for a second and then life continues."

This has made Crowe somewhat savvy when it comes to the media. Once he notices the cameras have spotted him in a box at the Sox game, he waves (some Sox fans boo because he sang at Wrigley Field). But when it comes time for the seventh-inning stretch, Crowe gravitates to the back of the box for an Italian sausage, that way the cameras won't be able to put him on the spot.

The White Sox have hit a couple of home runs, setting off the scoreboard. That sticks with him. "I got to see fireworks in the daytime and fireworks at night," he says into his cell phone. "And the White Sox won. Cool."

At 4 a.m. Sunday, the morning after the band's final show, a few stragglers remain in the House of Blues' Foundation Room, where Crowe is still going strong, soaking in his mini-vacation in Chicago. After he leaves, he'll spend a couple of days in Los Angeles, then head back to his ranch in Sydney.

But he says he plans to return soon, hopefully during the October press tour for his next film, the epic adventure tale "Master and Commander: The Far Side of the World," which hits theaters in November.

"I like this place," he says. "I just like the attitude of the place. I acknowledged that today, just walking down the street. There's not really sort of a freak-out thing here."

Crowe drains a Bud Light, grabs another and leans back on the couch. He takes a long swig. "I went to see the Cubs, and they won," he says. "I went to see the White Sox, and they won. I brought them luck."

Then Crowe smiles. "I'm coming back for the Bears," he says. "But there is a fee involved."


Copyright © 2003, Chicago Tribune

(Thanks to Darcy for providing this article)