Tom Waits’ Anti-War Video: ‘Hell Broke Luce’ – What is next?

Published on Aug 6, 2012
Directed By Matt Mahurin

“Hell Broke Luce” from the album ‘Bad As Me’, Anti Records 2011, is one of the best anti-war song/video:

Hell Broke Luce by Tom Waits

 

Tom explained the title of this nightmarish song in a Slate interview: Tom Waits Discusses His New Album Bad as Me:

Slate: The spelling of the new song, “Hell Broke Luce,” where’d that come from?

Waits: There was a prisoner in Alcatraz during a prison riot—this goes back to the ’40s. And during the riot, of course, everyone was nervous, and he scratched on the wall with a knife. And he wrote “hell broke luce,” and that’s how he spelled it.  Alcatraz—they have an amazing bookstore. But I got separated from everyone else on the tour. After a while something happened with my headset, and I was out of step and I didn’t know where the rest of the people were, so I just sat in one of the cells for a while.

Slate: It seems like a more pointed war song than you’ve recorded previously.

Waits: Loaded. Anyway. … I’ve been hearing that line a whole lot: “You had a good home but you left.” And so I somehow … ahhh. Keith [Richards] said that [Army] officers will hate that song, but enlisted men will love it. The army’s interested in it, as an ad for, you know, their commercials. It’s an answer to “Be all you can be.”  It’s a cautionary tale. Obviously.

Obviously, indeed.

Song lyrics:

I had a good home but I left
I had a good home but I left, right, left
That big fuckin bomb made me deaf, deaf
A Humvee mechanic put his Kevlar on wrong
I guarantee you’ll meet up with a suicide bomb
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce

Big fuckin ditches in the middle of the road
You pay a hundred dollars just for fillin in the hole
Listen to the general every goddamn word
How many ways can you polish up a turd
Left, right, left, left, right
Left, right
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce

How is it that the only ones responsible for making this mess
Got their sorry asses stapled to a goddamn desk
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce
Left, right, left

What did you do before the war?
I was a chef, I was a chef
What was your name?
It was Geoff, Geoff
I lost my buddy and I wept, wept
I come down from the meth
So I slept, slept
I had a good home but I left, left
Pantsed at the wind for a joke
I pranced right in with the dope
Glanced at her shin she said nope
Left, right, left

Nimrod Bodfish have you any wool
Get me another body bag the body bag’s full
My face was scorched, scorched
I miss my home I miss my porch, porch
Left, right, left

Can I go home in March? March
My stanch was a chin full of soap
That rancid dinner with the pope
Left, right, left

Kelly Presutto got his thumbs blown off
Sergio’s developing a real bad cough
Sergio’s developing a real bad cough
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce
Hell broke luce

Boom went his head away
And boom went Valerie
What the hell was it that the president said?
Give ‘em all a beautiful parade instead
Left, right, left

When I was over here I never got to vote
I left my arm in my coat
My mom she died and never wrote
We sat by the fire and ate a goat
Just before he died he had a toke
Now I’m home and I’m blind
And I’m broke
What is next?

Jake Bugg to play London’s Alexandra Palace

Jake Bugg

Jake Bugg

 
Jake Bugg is to play five UK dates in October, including a major show at London’s Alexandra Palace – O2 Priority Tickets for that concert will be available from 9am on Wednesday May 14.

The shows are some of the largest Bugg has ever played. Following the UK run, the singer-songwriter will be supporting The Black Keys on their October/November tour of arenas in Canada and the USA.

A former US tourmate of Bugg’s, Albert Hammond Jr, recently predicted that Bugg will be a festival headliner one day. “What people see in him is just that he’s a talented guy with a great voice and as he figures himself out, I think that he’ll be able to headline,” said Hammond Jr. “He’s doing great and I don’t even need to say anything.”

Bugg is set to release a new four-track EP titled ‘Messed Up Kids’ on May 12.

Jake Bugg will play:

Cardiff Arena (October 5)
Wolverhampton Civic Hall (October 7)
Liverpool Echo 2 (October 18)
Bridlington Spa (October 20)
London Alexandra Palace (October 21)

Is Josh Homme a Badass? Yes, he is!

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If we learned anything from Queens of the Stone Age‘s recent “Smooth Sailing” music video, it’s that Josh Homme is about as badass as his songs make him out to be. But that’s not the only piece of evidence. The QOTSA, Kyuss, and Them Crooked Vultures affiliate is known to speak his mind and has given us some rather epic moments over the years — that is, when he’s not hanging out with Alex Turner of the Arctic Monkeys. Following suit with our recent overview of Dave Grohl through images, check out these photos and GIFs that capture Homme at his very best.

‘Farewell Transmission: The Music Of Jason Molina’

Singer/songwriter Jason Molina

Singer/songwriter Jason Molina –   Steve Gullick/Courtesy of the artist

 

Farewell Transmission: The Music of Jason Molina comes out April 22.

Jason Molina never sang to — or for — the many. The singer-songwriter, who died last year at 39, gave voice to despair and solitude, and to a lonely pursuit of the comfort and strength necessary to face each day. Whether he performed as Songs: Ohia, or Jason Molina, his big, yearning voice encountered only a small but intense cult following that heard in him a crucial combination of fatalism and fighting spirit.

Like many whose fan bases run narrow but deep, Molina was widely beloved by musicians; anyone who’s ever tried to channel the blues would know how pure his were. Within the last year, Molina has already inspired two double-length tribute albums, each intended to help his family and spread word of his work. Both, while naturally uneven in execution, nicely convey the sturdiness of Molina’s songcraft — not to mention his considerable gift for quotable melancholy.

Farewell Transmission: The Music of Jason Molina is the newer of the two collections — the other is last year’s — with proceeds split between the singer’s family and a charity called MusiCares, which battles Molina’s twin demons of alcoholism and depression. In 27 songs and just less than two hours, it provides a fine overview of the singer’s best-known work, highlighted by ‘s suitably epic take on the title track.

Given the reverence in which Molina’s work is held, it’s no surprise that Farewell Transmission rarely strays far from the singer’s original intentions, though it’s intriguing to hear Squares recast the almost impossibly desolate “” as a bold rock song. Molina’s former bandmates even come together as Memorial Electric Company to perform a new track, “Arm in Arm,” as well as to tackle the unrecorded Molina song “Trouble in Mind (Fade to Blue).” Between the incredible source material and a fine assortment of contributors — including , Murder by Death, Catherine Irwin, and another past Molina collaborator, Will Johnson of — Farewell Transmission marks a fine way to both celebrate a great career and mourn a man for whom mournfulness was stitched into the fabric of his art.

 

Remembering Kurt Cobain: Why People Kill Themselves

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With the 21st anniversary of Kurt Cobain’s on April 5, we’d like to celebrate the musician’s vast contributions to music and popular culture.

Cobain was featured on the cover of Newsweek’s April 18, 1994, issue as part of a larger story about the root causes of suicide. From “The Mystery of Suicide,” by David Gelman:

The road to self-destruction starts with depression and ends in the grave. But who chooses to die and why? Is it stress? Brain chemistry? A despair rotting the soul? The answers are as varied as the weapons.

kurt-cobain-e1396621300826            The body of Kurt Cobain as found by police.

Gelman spoke to Seattle locals about Cobain’s too-early passing. College student Chris Dorr, 23, found it almost clichéd: “It makes you wonder if our icons are genetically programmed to self-destruct in their late 20s.”

Below is the 1994 eulogy, a feature that ran alongside Gelman’s story.

The Poet of Alienation: Cobain’s corrosive songs defined a generation

He’d come to install an alarm system. The irony is that long before electrician Gary Smith found Kurt Cobain’s body, it was clear that what Nirvana’s singer really needed protection from was himself. Cobain wasn’t identified for hours, but his mother, Wendy O’Connor, didn’t need anyone to tell her that it was her son who was found with a shotgun and a suicide note that reportedly ended, “I love you, I love you.” The singer had been missing, and his mother had feared that the most troubled and talented rock star of his generation would go the way of Jim Morrison and Jimi Hendrix. “Now he’s gone and joined that stupid club,” she told The Associated Press. “I told him not to join that stupid club.”

Cobain didn’t overdose like Morrison and Hendrix, of course. But the singer’s self-destruction streak seems to have been bound up inextricably with drugs. In March, while in Rome, Cobain overdosed on painkillers and champagne. Nirvana’s spokespeople insisted that it was an accident, portraying Cobain and his wife, Courtney Love, as stable, happy parents whose drug days were behind them. But the truth about Cobain’s last months was far messier than we’d been led to believe.

On March 18, Cobain reportedly locked himself in a room of his spacious Seattle home and threatened to kill himself; Love is said to have called the police, who arrived on the scene and seized medication and firearms. On April 2, the police were summoned once more—this time by O’Connor, who told them her son was missing. The rumor mill has it that Cobain and Love’s marriage was on the rocks, that his friends performed an “intervention,” and that while Love was promoting a new album by her band, Hole, Cobain was fleeing a rehab clinic in Los Angeles.

According to the AP, O’Connor’s missing person’s report read, in part, “Cobain ran away from [a] California facility and flew back to Seattle. He also bought a shotgun and may be suicidal.” All these dark machinations will make for an uneasy legacy—precisely the sort of legacy he didn’t want. “I don’t want my daughter to grow up and someday be hassled by kids at school,” he once said of Frances Bean Cobain, then 19 months. “I don’t want people telling her that her parents were junkies.”

Which raises a question: What will they tell Frances Bean? Where her father’s career is concerned, at least, the answer is reassuring. They’ll tell her Cobain and his band hated the slick, MTV-driven rock establishment so much they took it over. They’ll tell her that with the album Nevermind, Nirvana replaced the prefab sentiments of pop with hard, unreconstituted emotions. That they got rich and went to No. 1. That they were responsible for other bands getting rich and going No. 1: Pearl Jam, Soundgarden, Alice in Chains. That Cobain never took his band as seriously as everyone else did—that he once wrote, “I’m the first to admit that we’re the ’90s version of Cheap Trick. But that despite his corrosive guitar playing, he wrote gorgeous, airtight melodies. That he took the Sex Pistols’ battle cry “Never Mind the Bollocks,” mixed it with some twenty-something rage and disillusion, and came out with this lyric: “Oh, well, whatever, never mind.” And, finally, that he reminded his peers they were not alone, though all the evidence suggests that he was.

Cobain was born just outside the desultory logging town of Aberdeen, Wash., in February 1967. (Yes, he was 27, as were Morrison, Hendrix and Joplin.) The singer hated being the crown prince of Generation X, but the fury of Nirvana’s music spoke to his generation because they’d grown up more or less the same way. Which is to say, grunge is what happens when children of divorce get their hands on guitars. Cobain’s mother was a housewife; his father, Don Cobain, was a mechanic at the Chevron station in town. They divorced when the singer was 8.

Drugs and punk: Cobain always had a fragile constitution (he was subject to bronchitis, as well as the recurrent stomach pains he claimed drove him to a heroin addiction). The image one gets is that of a frail kid batted between warring parents. “[The divorce] just destroyed his life,” Wendy O’Connor tells Michael Azerrad in the Nirvana biography Come as You Are. “He changed completely. I think he was ashamed. And he became very inward—he just held everything [in]…. I think he’s still suffering.”

As a teen, Cobain dabbled in drugs and punk rock, and dropped out of school. His father persuaded him to pawn his guitar and take an entrance exam for the Navy. But Cobain soon returned for the guitar. “To them, I was wasting my life,” he told the Los Angeles Times. “To me, I was fighting for it.” Cobain didn’t speak to his father for eight years. When Nirvana went to the top of the charts, Don Cobain began keeping a scrapbook. “Everything I know about Kurt,” he told Azerrad,” I’ve read in newspapers and magazines.”

The more famous Nirvana became, the more Cobain wanted none of it. The group, whose first album, 1989’s Bleach, was recorded for $606.17 and released on independent label Sub Pop, was meant to be a latter-day punk band. It was supposed to be nasty and defiant and unpopular. But something went wrong: Nirvana’s major label debut, Nevermind, sold almost 10 million copies worldwide. On the stunning single “Smells Like Teen Spirit,” Cobain howled over a sludgy guitar riff, “I feel stupid and contagious/Here we are now, entertain us.” This was the sound of psychic damage, and an entire generation recognized it.

Nirvana—with their stringy hair, plaid work shirts and torn jeans—appealed to a mass of young fans who were tired of false idols like Madonna and Michael Jackson, and who’d never had a dangerous rock ‘n’ roll hero to call their own.

Unfortunately, the band also appealed to the sort of people Cobain had always hated: poseurs and bandwagoneers, not to mention record company execs and fashion designers who fell over themselves cashing in on the new sights and sounds. Cobain, who’d grown up as an angry outsider, tried to shake his celebrity. “I have a request for our fans,” he fumed in the liner notes to the album Incesticide. “If any of you in any way hate homosexuals, people of different color, or women, please do this one favor for us—leave us the f—k alone!… Last year, a girl was raped by two wastes of sperm and eggs while singing…our song ‘Polly.’ I have had a hard time carrying on knowing there are plankton like that in our audience.”

By 1992, it became clear that Cobain’s personal life was as tangled and troubling as his music. The singer married Love in Waikiki—the bride wore a moth-eaten dress once owned by actress Frances Farmer—and the couple embarked on a self-destructive pas de deux widely referred to as the ’90s version of Sid and Nancy. As Cobain put it, “I was going off with Courtney and we were scoring drugs and we were f—king up against a wall outside and stuff…and causing scenes just to do it. It was fun to be with someone who would stand up all of a sudden and smash a glass on the table.”

In September ’92, Vanity Fair reported that Love had used heroin while she was pregnant with Frances Bean. She and Cobain denied the story (the baby is healthy). But authorities were reportedly concerned enough to force them to surrender custody of Frances to Love’s sister, Jamie, for a month, during which time the couple was, in Cobain’s words, “totally suicidal.”

Tormented rebel: By last week, the world knew Cobain has a self-destructive kurt-cobain-guitarstreak, that he’d flailed violently against his unwanted celebrity—but the world had been assured that those days were over. Nirvana recently postponed its European concert dates and opted out of this summer’s Lollapalooza tour. Still, spokesmen maintained that Cobain simply needed time to recuperate from the overdose in Rome. They offered a tempting picture: Cobain the tormented rebel reborn as a doting, drug-free father. Even Dr. Osvaldo Galletta, of Rome’s American Hospital, says he believed the overdose was an accident: “The last image I have of him, which in light of the tragedy now seems pathetic, is of a young man playing with the little girl. He did not seem like a young man who wanted to end it. I had hope for him. Some of the people that visited him were a little strange, but he seemed to be a mild sort, not at all violent. His wife also behaved quite normally. She left a thank-you note.”

It’d be nice if we, too, could come away with that image of Cobain and his Kurtand daughterdaughter. And in truth, those who knew the singer say there was a real fragility buried beneath the noise of his music and his life. Still, there are a lot of other images vying for our attention just once. Among them is the image of Courtney Love and Frances Bean Cobain, who are said to have arrived at their home in Seattle, via limo, late Friday. Again: What will people tell Francis? Ed Rosenblatt, Geffen Records president, says, “The world has lost a great artist, and we’ve lost a great friend. It leaves a huge void in our hearts.” That is certainly true. If only someone had heard the alarms ringing at that rambling, gray-shingled home near the lake. Long before there was a void in our hearts, there was a void in Kurt Cobain’s.

What happened to Michael Hutchence in Room 524

Hutch in 1981

Hutch in 1981

Special thanks to Annie, for putting all this together.

Hutchence was 37 when he died in what a coroner later ruled as suicide. From fronting a band on Sydney’s northern beaches to international stardom, Hutchence was the ultimate rock icon and sex symbol to millions of fans who grew up with him.

Watch this YouTube tribute with special book extract below

What happened that night

To refresh your memory we are also presenting an extract from a book by UK journalist and committed INXS fan Matthew Brace that traces the night Hutchence died.

“Hutchence was the first Aussie I met,” Brace said. “When he bounced down to the front of the stage at a concert in Britain in 1990 and briefly gripped my outstretched hand.”

From Hotel Heaven by Matthew Brace:

Ten years ago Room 524 in the Ritz-Carlton hotel in the well-heeled Sydney suburb of Double Bay was booked in the name of Mr Murray River.

That booking and the events that took place in that room in the early hours of Saturday, November 22, 1997, proved that even the world’s most organised and luxurious hotels have moments they cannot control.

That night also proved that there’s nothing like a bit of global scandal to help put your hotel on the map and ensure everlasting fame.

Despite suffering the headaches, the press clamouring at the door, and the vice squad detectives in cheap suits camped out in the lobby for a week or two, almost every hotel that undergoes a big scandal becomes an overnight success.

Their names are on everybody’s lips, and their pictures and logos are everywhere.

The managers and staff at the Ritz-Carlton in Double Bay had more than your average cleaning job on their hands in Room 524 that day in November, 1997. They had a body to remove, and a very famous one at that.

Mr Murray River was none other than the rock god Michael Hutchence. The front man for INXS, Australia’s most successful band, was dead.

Battling his demons

Hutchence had been preparing for INXS’s 20th anniversary tour and that morning the rest of the band members were waiting for him in the rehearsal studios, for a final run-through of songs prior to the first concerts, when they learned the dreadful news.

He had also been battling a clinically diagnosed depression, which was being exasperated by a child custody row in London over his daughter Tiger Lily. He wanted her and her two sisters, Peaches and Fifi Trixabelle (whose father is Sir Bob Geldof) and their mother (Hutchence’s partner, the British TV personality Paula Yates) all with him in Australia for Christmas.

According to the inquest reports Hutchence had returned to his hotel at 10.30pm the previous night, after an evening out with his father, Kell, who later reported that Hutchence had been in a jovial mood despite worries over the court case, and had even danced his way through the entrance of the hotel when he dropped him off.

Inside Room 524

Hutchence continued a low-key party with his friend the actress Kym Wilson and her boyfriend. All three went to his top floor harbour-view room where he asked them to stay as emotional props as he was expecting a phonecall from London regarding the case.

They hit the mini-bar and Hutchence took some cocaine as it was found in his system during the post mortem, but this was not a boozing session – more a casual couple of drinks. The coroner’s report would later state that “all three persons consumed alcohol, including vodka, beer and champagne together with cocktails during this time”.

Oddly, rather than the large suite that you might expect a multi-millionaire rock star to stay in, Room 524 was just a room. It was certainly luxurious, as one would expect at a Ritz-Carlton, and had the best aspect, facing north offering a harbour view rather than the rooms on the south of the hotel which looked at the rooftops of cafes and clothes shops. But it was not excessive or extravagant and neither was the trio’s behaviour.

They talked about Hutchence’s plans for a career as a Hollywood actor (there had been interest from Miramax and others, and detectives later found a film script in the room) and they listened to his fears over the court case.

They stayed with Michael until the summer sun began rising out of the Pacific Ocean and climbing over the The Heads just before 5am. After they left, Hutchence was alone in his room with the depressive thoughts massing around him. A series of phonecalls was made to and from the room, at least one of them heard by Gail Coward, a guest staying in the room next to 524 who was awoken shortly after 5am by the rock god arguing loudly.

Final calls

This was the call from Yates in London and it was clearly not good news. The custody matter had not been finalised and was adjourned until December 17, so Yates would not be bringing the children to Australia. A few more phone calls followed before 6am – to Geldof and Yates – and then silence.

Almost six hours later, at 11.50am an unsuspecting chambermaid pushed her cleaning trolley down the hushed, carpeted corridor of the 5th floor and arrived outside 524 to make up the room. Her knocks on the door went unanswered. When she tried to open the door she found it jammed, and needed to push with all her might to move it. Hutchence was lying naked on the floor, dead. Clothes were scattered around the room and his bed was half-made.

The coroner’s report said he had been kneeling against the door with a leather belt nearby. In the room was a Becloforte ventolin inhaler, along with Nurofen painkillers, Zoviorax 200 tablets, Prozac capsules, and other pills.

Police said a leather belt was found inside the room but there were “no suspicious circumstances”, which is police-speak for suicide. Hutchence, stressed and depressed by the news from London and further affected by alcohol and drugs (both prescription and the other variety) had been pushed over the edge.

The report from the New South Wales Coroner, Derrick Hand, stated: “He had apparently hanged himself with his own belt and the buckle broke away and his body was found kneeling on the floor and facing the door.”

Rumours that an extravagant autoerotic stunt had gone horribly wrong were scotched, much to the annoyance of the tabloid press because it would have made a far juicier story.

The coroner’s report continued: “An analysis report of the deceased’s blood indicates the presence of alcohol, cocaine, Prozac and other prescription drugs.

“On consideration of the entirety of the evidence gathered I am satisfied that the deceased was in a severe depressed state on the morning of the 22nd November, 1997, due to a number of factors, including the relationship with Paula Yates and the pressure of the on-going dispute with Sir Robert Geldof, combined with the effects of the substances that he had ingested at that time.

“As indicated I am satisfied that the deceased intended and did take his own life,” said the coroner.

Drama unfolding

As the elderly blue-rinse matriarchs of Double Bay were packing their little dogs into handbags and making their stately way to the manicurist on this summer morning, a major international news story was unfolding behind the sandstone walls of the Ritz-Carlton on Cross Street.

Up until this point luxury hotel schools were not running seminars on ‘What To Do If You Find a Dead Rock Star Blocking the Door and Hindering Your Cleaning’ but they did after this.

The maid did the right thing securing the room and calling her manager, who called the police.

The news sped around the globe in minutes. Hutchence’s face, full of vigour but hiding trauma, was on the front pages of newspapers and magazines for days along with that of the grieving Yates. Adding to the tragedy was the news that the two were to be married in Bora Bora the following January.

The managers of the Ritz-Carlton went into emergency session, fielding calls from journalists around the world. The hotel had to get this right in the media to maintain their image as edgy – it had a strong reputation as Sydney’s rock ‘n’ roll celebrity hotel, having played host to Kylie Minogue, Kiss, Alice Cooper, Dionne Warwick, Engelbert Humperdinck and scores more. It had also served as a temporary Sydney address for Winston Churchill, Bill Clinton, Princess Diana and Bob Hawke but I doubt they had indulged in any in-room rock ‘n’ roll head banging.

The fear was, after Hutchence’s demise, the place would turn into a gawking shop for tourists (and travel writers) hell-bent on visiting the room where he died, and disturbing the other paying guests. Despite the fears of the owners and managers, Hutchence’s death did nothing but good for sales. The hotel continued to woo rock bands, some of whom might have chosen to stay there purely as a result of Hutchence’s death.

Inspiration

As I visit Shakespeare’s grave in England more than once a year for literary inspiration I can fully understand budding musos wanting to get a Hutchence vibe from Room 524 in this hotel.

The property changed hands in 2000 when the Singapore-based Stamford chain took over and the building was renamed the Stamford Plaza. But the stars kept coming. During the filming of Mission Impossible II at Sydney’s Fox Studios, the hotel was a temporary home for Tom Cruise. Add Madonna and Keanu Reeves to the mix (in separate rooms, thank you) and it is easy to see how the hotel’s celebrity reputation has survived.

The Stamford Plaza showed off its clientele with signed photographs and letters hanging in frames on the walls of the Winston bar. Tucked away in the cigar room, next to the humidor and its racks of Cubans, was a small gold frame containing a photograph of Hutchence on stage wearing a sleeveless denim jacket, and a little plaque as a mark of respect.

When I stayed last year I asked two staff members if this used to be the Ritz-Carlton where Michael Hutchence died. They politely smiled and confirmed it used to be a Ritz-Carlton but on the other matter: “I wouldn’t know about that Sir.”

Matthew Brace is a travel writer and foreign correspondent and the author of Hotel Heaven: Confessions of a Luxury Hotel Addict (Random House)

IN EXCESS – The Sunday Times Magazine

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IN EXCESS
Originally appeared in The Sunday Times Magazine in May 1998
We know the details: he was naked, he was hanging from a hotel door. But we could not imagine what drove a man who seemed to have everything – fame, fortune, a woman and baby daughter he loved – to take his own life. Here, for the first time, is the chain of events that pushed Michael Hutchence over the edge.

NEVER TEAR US APART

Sydney, November 22, 1997. It is 11.45 am. On the fifth floor of the Ritz Carlton hotel, a chambermaid is having trouble. Even with a master key she cannot get into suite 524, where a heavy object is banging against the back of the door. When she uses all her strength to force her way in, the body of a man, naked except for a belt around his neck, crashes to the carpet. Michael Hutchence, 37, looks vacantly towards the ceiling. His face is blue and he appears to have hanged himself.

The hanging is a grotesque puzzle. There is no chair behind the door, and no feature in the ceiling that would bear a person’s weight. It turns out that the belt was attached to the door- closing mechanism, just above the frame and not much higher than the adult’s head, until the maid’s final thrust broke the buckle away.

The dead rock star is now on his knees. He is surrounded by photographs of his partner, Paula Yates. Also on the floor are his bed sheets, next to pills and empty glasses. When the news breaks, the suspicion is that this is a sexual act gone wrong. Was he trying to deprive himself of oxygen? It looks as likely as suicide. There is no note, and at dinner the night before he had shown no signs of despair. Although worried about a court hearing, the singer was bubbly. ‘Vintage Michael’, his father says.

A darker tone is sounded by Yates as she flies from London to her partner’s body. Drinking champagne on the 22-hour trip, and so distressed that she may not know what she is saying, she blames the death on her ex-husband, Sir Bob Geldof. ‘That bastard killed Michael’, she says. Tears roll uncontrollably as she wanders up and down the plane, until cabin crew lead her away. Eventually, a coroner rules that the hanging is suicide.

Four weeks later: London, December 19. One of the dead singer’s friends, a godparent to his daughter, Tiger, meets a writer for this magazine. She wants an investigative journalist to inquire into his death. Her eyes have the puffy pink of fresh bereavement, but I am uncertain whether to trust her.

I know that Yates and Geldof are in dispute over their three daughters. If I take on the story, and find evidence that reflects badly on Geldof, it may affect the court case, and no writer wants to be used. But the friend says two intriguing things. She admits with affection, that Yates is not the most reliable witness, and that in her grief over her partner she is sometimes unable to distinguish fantasy from fact. The friend seems objective, and her motive for the approach is interesting: it is what Hutchence wanted.

For more than a year, she says, he urged her to publish an account of his suffering, a campaign she did her best to ignore. One Sunday in March 1997, he made it impossible to refuse. “I was sitting on the bed,” she says, “Playing with Tiger and chatting to her parents. “Do you have a pen,” Michael asked. “And a notebook?.” He began dictating a list of witnesses and events he considered crucial to the story. She remained unenthusiastic. She had no idea he would kill himself. Now she lives with the guilt. And so we agree to work together: the insider and the outsider, one who loved Hutchence and a stranger whose task is to see if there is really a tale to be told. Later, other friends say that if this material had been published earlier, the singer might still be alive. Nobody can know that; but these are the events he wanted described.

Hutchence longed to make public the truth behind the famous drug bust, in which police found opium in the home he shared with Paula, Tiger and the Geldof girls, leading to a sense of persecution from which he never recovered. He believed the drugs were planted. He thought a former friend of Paula’s had publicized the police raid, to increase the damage; one of his inner circle later speculated that this friend might even have killed her nanny to stop her from revealing what she knew.

The whole story sounds unlikely; the bust was in September 1996; no charges were brought. Why would a rock star who once admitted taking heroin, and for whom recreational drugs were routine, be so affected by a police raid that he killed himself 14 months later? And what’s this about murdered nannies? Before going further, however, let us cleanse the mind of caricatures.

This is what you think you know about Michael Hutchence. He was the lead singer of INXS, an Australian band that at its peak could fill Wembley Stadium but was now in decline. He did drugs. He hit photographers. He was addicted to casual sex. At one time he took so much ecstasy and invited so many girls into the back of the INXS van that the group almost fell apart. He died in a sexual experiment that went wrong.

You would not know that he was shy and gullible in a way Mick Jagger, say, would never be. That he was still exploring his potential, working hard on a solo album while a career in Hollywood beckoned. It is true about the sex, or it was when he was younger, and about the temper. Yet, he had so little confidence he sometimes needed telling he was handsome enough to go out. He cried a lot, especially toward the end. He doted on his baby to a degree some found embarrassing. According to Yates – whom he really loved, even if at times he wanted to escape – he feared that nobody liked him.

That was bound to appeal to her. Here is her portrait of a man she once adored: “I just sat in the flat in Chelsea daydreaming about him; he had lost his mother when he was only six, which made me feel maternal, and he had these long, skinny legs, which I didn’t. I think it was the chaos in [his] childhood that drew us together in the first place; I wanted to have a perfect family and he wanted a real home, as he hadn’t really had one…”

It was Geldof, but the words could describe her reaction to Hutchence; the defining moment in the Australian’s early years was when his mother took him without warning to live in Hollywood, leaving his brother Rhett, who was close in age, with a family friend at the airport. Hutchence would later relate how his pleading brother slid down the airport glass, saying, “Mummy, I’ll be good for ever.” Their father, who knew nothing about the split until Rhett telephoned in tears, confirms that the story is true. Rhett became a heroin addict. Michael’s legacy was a vulnerability that, when combined with his talent as a performer and the way his crotch filled his trousers, exerted a pull Yates found irresistible.

The INXS star was building a family with Yates in a manner that would have surprised his Australian friends, whose understanding is rooted in an earlier part of his life. “When you’re a rock star, you can have all the sex kittens you want,” says Josephine Fairley, a Londoner who witnessed the relationship from the beginning; “What you don’t have is the home life. And when you’ve had a dysfunctional family like he has, a family is the sexiest thing of all. It’s what you crave”.

The union with Yates was sexually charged. She also had a maternal role, buoying him against his insecurities and teasing him into lighter moods. Sometimes it was turbulent: they could argue spectacularly, and at times he found it claustrophobic. By the end, under huge strain from outside, they were both close to madness.

But they were trying to make a family together. That is, Michael was trying to make a family with Paula. Nobody was forcing him to do this; it was his choice; even now, nearly six months after his death, it is something no outsider has recognized. Hutchence is fixed in the imagination as the wild man of rock. That is the perception that sells records. It has truth in it – he was not a complete softie – but it is not the whole story of any 37-year-old man.

What happened in the home of Yates and Hutchence is the key to understanding what happened in suite 524. For a moment, then, suspend your disbelief, and pretend that part of Michael Hutchence, the raiser of hell, wanted a family. Pretend, just for a moment, that he was your friend who is a first-time dad, or your father or your son.

This is going to be intimate, so it is time for first names. Paula and Bob were together 18 years, and for 12 there was a picture of Michael on the marital fridge. Now and then, Paula had to get a new photograph, as Bob would write “c…”on his rival’s forehead. But he was not too concerned. Paula was always having crushes. True, this one had lasted for years, since she interviewed the INXS singer for The Tube, but such passions were part of her.

By 1993 the marriage was in trouble. On Christmas Day, nine months before the meeting with Michael that was to give her the courage to leave her husband, Paula sat in the car of an old friend and talked for an hour and a half about wanting to separate. “We went over all the reasons why she should and why she should not leave,” says Josephine Fairley, who advised her not to go. “The ‘anti were that the world would hate her because she’d abandoned Saint Bob, and that she wouldn’t find anybody [a partner] to take on three kids. And that Bob would make her life miserable.” Fairley, who knew the couple as well as anyone, saw Bob as a Victorian figure who tried to control his wife and disliked her spending money. But she had no doubt he loved her. “He’s always been obsessed with her,” she says. “I don’t think he ever really envisaged a future without her. I honestly believe he would take her back tomorrow.”

The pain of losing Paula was made worse by needless betrayal. She and Michael bruised Bob in ways they could have avoided. They made love in places that were special to him, such as a particular room of the Chilston Park Hotel in Kent. Part of the affair was conducted at home, in front of his children. One evening Anita Debney, the family nanny, went pale as the youngest gave the liaison away. “Daddy,” Bob was told on the telephone, “Mummy’s been kissing Michael in your bed.” In February 1995 Mummy moved out, taking the three girls and leaving a two-line note on the mantelpiece. She told Bob nobody else was involved, only to be photographed with Hutchence at a London hotel days later.

It can’t have been easy for Geldof. Soon the man on the fridge was playing father to his daughters. In this, Hutchence confounded all expectations, as most people imagined he would have wild sex with Paula and then vanish. “He absolutely adored them,” Fairley says. “He gave them time their father never gave them. Bob would come home and turn inward: he’d go to his office or play his guitar. He would not get down on the carpet with Barbie and Ken and act out Brief Encounter, as Michael did from the beginning. And he showered them with gifts. I remember a consignment of dresses from America. Real princess dresses that he sent soon after they started the relationship, for the girls.”

Press interest was intense. In March 1995 the lovers were tracked to a hotel – the Chilston Park – where they came down for dinner unaware that journalists had booked every table around them. When they checked out, photographers blocked their path. The rock star lost his temper and threw himself into them, earning a conviction for assaults, a £400 fine and a following among the paparazzi, who knew that a picture of the singer getting violent would sell. They did their best to provoke one.

Nothing was now private. Newspapers and magazines printed pictures of the couple’s routines: trips to the shops, the delivery of a take-away meal, the run to school. Rubbish bags were torn open in the hunt of insights into their life together. For her 38th birthday, Michael gave Paula the present she wanted more than any other: an 8ft fence to keep the press out. The intrusions never went away. Even when he died, and Paula was in Sydney, friends found footprints at the top of the tall gate that protects the entrance to their home in Chelsea. And somebody had managed to fish the post out of the letter box and open it, no doubt hoping for a suicide note.

Hutchence was not the real target of the press barrage, although he was the one it hurt. The flak that punctured him was aimed at Yates. Her decision to walk out on the hero of Live Aid and take up with a “rabid dingo” (Daily Mirror) secured the loathing of liberal and tabloid columnists alike. She offended tabloid sensibilities by being older, shorter and less attractive than Helena Christensen, the supermodel Hutchence left for her. Commentators on the broadsheets noted Paula’s failure to age quietly, the breast implants and tight dresses, and accused her of betraying feminism. Here is Barbara Ellen on The Observer: “Yates’ biggest public relations problem is that, she is, to use the taxi driver vernacular, ‘a bit of a stupid cow.’ A consummate self-publicist, with no common sense or dignity to speak of, she has been wandering the corridors of showbiz in too-tight/too young clothes too damn long now to merit anything like automatic respect. What after all, can one say in defense of a woman who started out as a groupie and went downhill from there? In many ways, she is a born loser. Even when she did Penthouse, she ended up looking as sad and badly-lit as a Reader’s wife. And those ‘post-Bob’ new breasts. Oh Paula, Paula, Paula…”

Although surprised by the intensity of the feeling against her, Yates was better at dealing with it. She was at home. Hutchence, a foreigner, was baffled. When GQ magazine put a near-naked shot of his ex-girlfriend on the cover with the words, “Seriously, would you trade her in for Paula Yates?” he exploded. “Do you not realize what damage this does to Paula?” he demanded. “She’s already her own worst critic and this reinforces it.”

Much of what was written was untrue. It was assumed that Michael must be bored by Paula, perhaps trapped by a pregnancy he had not wanted. Therefore, the “incurable hellraiser” must be philandering. One photograph showed him apparently misbehaving with Patsy Kensit. The actress had her hand down the front of his leather trousers, spoiling Yates’ Sunday because she considered Patsy a friend. Then someone pointed out to her that the image had been manipulated. Although most of Kensit’s hand was down his trousers, two of her finger-tips were still magically attached to his arm.

Michael did not sue. Lawyers could tell him that he and Paula had reputations so low that nothing could be said to damage them. Besides, he was a rock star. Behaving badly is part of the job description. He could certainly play the star, just as he played the Aussie bloke: if bored, he might jump from one sixth-floor hotel balcony to another, or take you as passenger while he accelerated his motorbike towards a brick wall. But at the centre was a courteous man – or “big girl,” as Yates teased him – who read widely, worried about mortality, and was unsure about himself. “Anything said about me hurt him so badly,” Yates says. “The thing people didn’t realize about Michael was that he was so sweet, fragile and insecure. So while he would see people come up to me in the street and give me a hug, or builders shout funny, supportive things to both of us, he read and believed the press and it hurt him. He felt he was under siege, trying to support us emotionally, doing the school run every morning, and yet trying to cope with the wave of untrue stories, most of them being fed to the press but not knowing how to counter them.”

There were other complications. Yates lost her job in television soon after the affair became public – the program was made by Planet 24, a company founded by Geldof. Expecting a swift and amicable divorce, she borrowed heavily to buy a family house in south London. This was a mistake. The proceedings were slow and sour, further feeding media interest. As her debts grew, writs arrived threatening bankruptcy. Lawyers told Hutchence not to bail her out in case it affected the divorce settlement. After the drug bust in 1996, Yates also lost her column in The Sun, and did not work again. (On her partner’s death she was forced to sell interviews to pay the bills, setting off new tut-tutting. The will is in dispute.)

Hutchence was frustrated with INXS, which was burdened with a 1980s sound and lacked the will to reinvent itself. He was wounded when Noel Gallagher of Oasis called him a has-been at the Brit Awards, and was too sensitive to treat it as a joke. Meanwhile, the paparazzi competed to make him lose his cool. They baited him by insulting Yates, jostled him, shoved lenses in his face. On a good day there might be one or two snappers camped in cars outside their home. On a bad one, when a development in their lives was suspected, photographers marked out their pitches with stepladders, standing in rows of 10 or 20, three or four deep. Reporters offered the neighbours money for information; there would be a photographer across the bonnet as Michael drove off. Although baffled, he coped. He survived everything up to the bust, which, like Patsy Kensit’s wandering fingers, was not all it seemed.

One name comes up repeatedly when friends of the singer talk about his mental decline. Gerry Agar, a mother whose children were at the same London School as the Geldof girls, is vilified. She grew close to Yates for a while, then behaved in ways the couple found alarming. Only a few of his friends met her, since her time in their circle was brief. That she got there at all is revealing. “It says something about Paula and Michael and their judgment of people,” says Catherine Mayer, a friend who has supported Paula since the hanging. “The nastier the press were, the more they fell prey to just about anybody who was nice to them.”

Agar knew people in newspapers. Her star contact was David Montgomery, the man at the top of The Mirror and The Independent, whom she knew well enough to get to a dinner party. In late 1995, she started working on Paula’s behalf. There was no formal arrangement, and Paula says she was never more than a mother on the school run. This is unfair: Agar set up a meeting to discuss getting her friend back into television, and Paula did not object if she introduced herself as helping with public relations. Agar also placed a number of minor newspaper stories to embarrass Bob in the divorce case.

In fact she threw herself in the task. She saw Bob as satanic. “I thought he was the devil incarnate,” says Agar, who had heard Paula’s tales of injustice. “I thought, ‘You’ve got to die, you can’t be in this world. You’re too evil’.” She loved Paula; she worked hard to promote her, too. “She used to drive me crazy,” says Chris Mould, a television producer who was bombarded with faxes. “It was just tedious hearing how wonderful Paula was. Wonderful mother, wonderful wife, wonderful Michael, wonderful everything. Paula was the Virgin Mary incarnate and Tiger, the most perfect baby.” But Agar was having doubts and soon her theme changed.

A clue that something was wrong was a newspaper interview. Agar made the cover of The Sunday Telegraph Magazine, an unlikely achievement considering that her fame was based entirely on knowing Yates and Hutchence. (Her other clients, “from novelists to city designers,” were a mystery she wished to be discreet about.) She was described as having returned from a holiday with the rock couple that had not happened. And although she didn’t say so in this piece, she was beginning to claim that, as well as being Paula’s PR, she was becoming Michael’s manager. Hutchence was angry. He made sure she understood his position: she did not work for them, and never had.

It was August 1996. The singer’s refuge at this time was a stuccoed villa near Grasse in the south of France, standing in extensive gardens behind high walls. On warm evenings, meals would be served on the terrace, or by the small pool set away from the house among cypress trees. There were often visitors. On the only weekend that Agar was to stay, she was given a room at the other end of the building from Michael and Paula, who wanted as much distance from their guests as possible.

Agar had inveigled her invitation by saying that “her best friend,” a journalist called Robert Tewdwr Moss, had just been murdered. She begged to be allowed to visit. The hosts, intending to break off contact since her interview a fortnight earlier, felt compelled to relent. They had already invited Mould, after meeting him though Agar; the other guests were Josephine Fairley and her husband, Craig Sam, and Andy Gill, a guitarist and producer, and his girlfriend, Catherine Mayer.

Yates took to her room on Agar’s arrival, claiming exhaustion, which was believable as Tiger was not yet six weeks old. She confided to Fairley that she could not bear to be in the same room with Agar. Hutchence hid a similar aversion and treated Agar with his usual affability. The new visitor told them about the murder of Tewdwr Moss, producing a sheaf of newspaper clippings from her bag and describing the grief that had propelled her to France. She showed no distress. But at dinner she was out of her depth. “We’d be having a normal conversation,” says Fairley, “And then Gerry would tell some story that had nothing to do with anything any of us had just said. There would be a pause while we registered what she’d said, then we’d go on with what we were talking about.” It must have been a difficult weekend for Agar. She wanted to be accepted. Later, she would say that she longed to go home, to comfort herself with beans on toast.

All in all, Hutchence and Yates were proving a disappointment to her. Earlier that summer, she had tried to sell the rights to photograph the rock couple with their new baby. She says she got OK! to bid £160,000, arranging for herself a commission of £40,000. But the new parents refused to cooperate. It was Paul Craig, then Hutchence’s manager, who dealt with the pictures, and he went to the newspaper for which Yates was a columnist, for £8000. Money was not the only issue here. Yates was under contract to The Sun, and it was thought that if she and Hutchence did the paper a favour, one tabloid at least would allow them some peace. Agar also asked Paula for £5000 for her PR work. This, too, was refused. These rejections may have been unwise. On September 12 the couple left for Australia. While they were away, Agar telephoned Mould. She asked him what opium looked like. Mould takes up the story: “I said: ‘Why?’ and she said, ‘You will find out.’ I think she said, ‘You will find out, read the newspaper,’ and it was the following day or the day after that there was this drug bust. She later rang me and said, ‘Yeah well, what do you think?’ and I said, ‘If you’ve got anything to do with this, I think it’s disgusting…how can you do this to someone who was so hospitable to you a couple of weeks ago?’ She just freaked, got abusive, and said, ‘Well, I’ll leave you to your sad little life…”

The newspapers were now unrestrained. The custody case was widely, but sketchily, covered. Since reporting restrictions deprived the writers of fact, the vacuum was filled by opinion. Most pundits sympathized with Bob and sniped at Paula. For Michael, used to the adulation of fans, the role of public enemy was a shock. He had underestimated the nation’s natural sympathy for the abandoned husband and the esteem in which they held Sir Bob. Now he was being accused of putting drugs in a tube of Smarties in a house where there were four children. He was outraged. And he was convinced that Bob had something to do with it.

These days Gerry Agar lives quietly in a rented farmhouse in Somerset. There is a smell of incense in her sitting room, where she is busy with a new baby. Hearing the story brings a surprise. Although many parts strike the listener as improbable, others seem highly plausible. To judge which is which, you need some background on Paula Yates.

Most of Britain struggles to like Yates, who is trapped inside an image of her own making. She was television’s professional groupie, whose heart pounded for some of the musicians she profiled on the Tube, and who would later flash her knickers, and sometimes forget to wear them, while interviewing celebrities on a bed for Channel 4’s Big Breakfast. But she is much more complicated than that. She is a hopeless flirt, bright, funny, manipulative, vulnerable; in fact so insecure she is wonderfully close to insane. These qualities make her a delightful raconteur and friend. They also make her a frustrating witness. Nothing she says can be trusted. Even though much of it is true. Everything has to be checked. Some of what she tells you is the direct opposite of the truth.

Oliver James, a clinical psychologist who worked with Paula in television 11 years ago, calls her a borderline personality who took refuge in fantasy during unhappy childhood. Now she tends to blame external circumstances for internal problems. In some cases this can lead to full, deluded madness “where normal people have a stable, secure self,” he says. “Paula has an insecure, shifting void. She is liable to feel that she does not exist unless she is at the centre of a crisis which, despite protestations to the contrary, she wants the tabloids to chronicle because they make her feel significant.”

Paula finds these remarks hurtful, and perhaps they are unfair. James, who is also a journalist, is responsible for some of the most unpleasant words about Paula ever published. However, she told me twice that Bob is sleeping with her mother, which I do not imagine to be so. While researching this story, I would hear from unimpeachable sources – sad, frustrated sources, who love Paula and do everything they can to protect her – that she had behaved in a particular way and then get a different version from Paula, casting herself as victim. Her friends would later explain that she has been deeply vulnerable since Michael died. She was not like this before.

Even so, a new possibility arises. It is only a possibility, and the suggestion is tentative. Michael was gullible. He loved Paula. He grew to believe there was a conspiracy against them, masterminded by Bob. It is possible he shared Paula’s interpretation of events when sometimes he should have been more questioning. Was his growing sense of persecution fed by failing to remain detached? Do not make any judgments yet. Despite what you have just read, there is evidence that Paula and Michael were done an injustice; or, if not an injustice, a very rough justice, about which questions need to be asked.

Agar had been uncomfortable that weekend in France. When she got back she talked with Anita Debney, Geldof ’s nanny, who believed Michael and Paula’s drug use was out of control. The nanny was anxious about Tiger, who was breast-fed: she slept a lot and rarely cried.

In time, Debney told Agar the story of Bob, Paula and Michael from the beginning as she saw it. How Paula had manipulated the events, encouraging Michael to leave his supermodel by ensuring their affair became known. Michael might complain about the newspapers, but it was Paula who made sure they knew about everything in the first place! She had asked her nanny to tip off reporters that she was having a relationship with a member of Take That. This ensured she was followed, leading to the discovery that her affair was with the star of INXS. Going public helped her stay firm about leaving Bob, and the supposed pain of the publicity gave her reason to seek a comfort from Michael.

Then there was the story of Paula’s fertility pills. Debney describes to Agar how Paula had begun a treatment in November 1994, hoping for a baby with Michael. The nanny thought Paula had tried to get pregnant to encourage Michael to leave Helena. (To help assess what Debney says, you should know that Paula and Michael were close to dismissing her, and that she became a witness for Bob in the court battles. She is desperate not to lose touch with the children.)

Agar was already worried about Paula. She had come to believe that the tales of injustice she was offering the papers on Paula’s behalf were unfair to Bob or untrue. Now Debney’s words added to her fear that she had taken the wrong side in the couple’s marital dispute. Then, in the early hours of Sunday, September 15, the alarm apparently went off on Michael’s dark green Jeep. He was in Australia with Paula and Tiger; Debney searched for the car manual to silence it; in her employers’ bedroom it is said she found opium in a Smarties tube. Agar called round later that morning. Worried about the children, she persuaded a reluctant Debney to join her in what she calls a “rampage” through the house, looking for more drugs. Agar says she came across heroin, although unfortunately she threw it away, so there was nothing the police could do about it. But she and Debney kept the opium. Then they had to decide what to do.

“I had to weigh things up,” Agar says. “I’d just done a deal with OK! Magazine for the baby pictures, of which I was going to get 25%. And she [Paula] had no money, so I hadn’t been paid for all the work I’d been doing. So I was just about to land quite a lot of money. OK! was going up and up and then there were other things that were coming into fruition. So I literally spilled the beans two days before this money came in.”

By spilling the beans, Agar means that she went to Bob and told him about the drugs. It was a week before the police raid. “So I forgoed [sic] all the money. I think I forgoed 40 grand. And I didn’t have any money, I really did not have a bean. And I thought, okay, all right, I could have the money in the bank, but there could be a death. How could I face Bob with his eyes streaming with red tears because he’s been up all night because his child’s died because there are drugs in the house, and I’m all right because I’ve got 40 grand in the bank? I’ve got to meet someone one day at the end of my life and try and explain that. That I’ve put money as my priority to someone’s life.” Agar says she visited Bob at his temporary home round the corner, a house that had been Michael’s. She found him making jelly for his youngest daughter. Announcing nervously that Paula and Michael were on drugs and the children in danger, she apologized for pushing untrue stories about him on the press.

“I told him that I was the one who had set him up, that I was helping to make his life a bloody misery. And I vowed to him that day that I would always be completely on his side; and do it from a great distance. Because that’s my way of showing him friendship; because he might be going through another custody case and she has this weapon that it’s he and I together in cahoots against her. So I deliberately do not have anything to do with him so that she doesn’t have that on him. Because I made that promise to him.” Agar did more than tell Geldof about the opium. She took a piece of it and carried it round with her in her brown purse, trying to find out what it was. After a few days she put it back. And that, she says, is why the police found her fingerprints on the drug when, after a tip-off from an undisclosed source, they raided one week later. Police also found close-up pictures of Paula and Michael having sex. These had been hidden elsewhere in the house but were discovered by Agar and Debney on their rampage. According to Paula’s lawyers, when the drug squad arrived the pictures were in a box with the Smarties.

So Agar handled the opium and threw away the heroin. The next problem she presented the police was that, having given a statement about the drugs she and Debney found in the house, she withdrew it. (Debney withdrew hers, too.) Agar says she did this because her child was being threatened by someone who knew Paula.

Naturally the police questioned Bob to confirm that he had nothing to do with the drug find. He said he had not been in the house for some time. Paula’s legal team was astonished, therefore, when they went round on October 1, the day Paula get back from Australia, and found a box of prescription tablets on the hall table. The date on the box was September 23, two days before the bust, and the name on the box was Bob’s. Paula had to be restrained from running out into the street and showing the photographers.

Did Bob forget something when he spoke to the police – that he had crossed the threshold when picking up the children from Debney, perhaps? (Paula took only Tiger to Australia, leaving Fifi, Peaches and Pixie in London.) Later Paula found a letter written by Bob, which she says was inside a magazine in the bedroom where the drugs had been. Again it was dated September 23. Bob can explain the letter: he says he dropped it round to be delivered to a government minister who lived opposite. As for tablets, he seems truly mystified.

Nobody is saying Michael didn’t do drugs: he took ecstasy during the weekend in France, and cocaine was in his blood in Sydney. Sometimes he smoked heroin. But the case against him is odd. Much of Agar’s story makes little sense. Why would OK! magazine offer £160,000 for baby pictures that had been in The Sun two months earlier? Why do the telephone records for the house, which The Sunday Times has viewed, fail to show the calls to the Drug Hotline that Agar says she and Debney made from the bedroom to get advice on their find? Why, when I asked Agar if she had stayed the night and slept without Paula and Michael’s knowledge in their bed, did she hesitate for a long time before suddenly remembering that, yes, she had – two days before the opium turned up? It also transpires that other rock musicians were in the house while Michael and Paula were away (Debney’s brother came to dinner on the night Agar stayed over, bringing the lead singer in his band.) It is difficult not to conclude that Michael may have been right: the drug bust was suspect.

When Paula came back from Australia, she went into hiding from the press with her oldest friend. “We spent the whole time trying to be Miss Marples,” says Fairley, who says she had not seen Paula drink or take drugs in 15 years. (Before the bust was teetotal.) “I said to Paula, ‘Look, you can tell me if they were your drugs and I won’t be judgmental.’ And she said, ‘I promise you, I have never seen that Smartie’s tube, I have never seen those drugs, I don’t know where they came from.’ And, as you know, I was sure because if they had been guilty they would have shut the f*** up! They wouldn’t have gone on and on for 14 months before Michael died.”

It is instructive to ask why the Crown Prosecution Service failed to run a trial. “Do you know Gerry Agar?” comes the reply. “She was why we ended up without a prosecution; the Metropolitan Police were being manipulated, to a degree. In fact, the judicial system was. What occurred came about for the benefit of other proceedings.” Geldof was not the manipulator, says the source, an official with an intimate knowledge of the case. “He probably went with the flow. Foolishly, I would say. But I don’t think he was up to any skullduggery.”

In fairness to everyone, here are a few final acts about this period. Paula did begin her fertility treatment while Michael was still claiming to be with Helena, on November 2, 1994.

She is adamant that this was with his knowledge, even though the affair was only a fortnight old, and although she says herself that in January she was “desperate” for to make things work with Bob. She can prove, however, that Michael later went to the doctor with her to give semen samples, and friends recall him saying that he and Paula had bantered about having a baby when she interviewed him years earlier. Let nobody be in doubt: Tiger, conceived in November 1995, was a child he wanted.

The infant was soporific. Andrew Young, Paula’s Sydney-based barrister, says that this was because Paula was breast-feeding while on Prozac (and Rohypnol, the sleeping pill known as the date-rape drug.) Could Debney have innocently mistaken the effects of Rohypnol for those of heroin? When Bob became very worried about the couple’s drug use, could he have been acting on duff information?

After the bust, Agar continued to give interviews. She told journalists she had “quit ” as Yates PR adviser, prompting a new round of stories. (Yates, of course, says she was never such a thing to start with). “At the end of the day it’s the children that come first,” she told the Daily Telegraph. “I have had to make a moral decision which wasn’t very pleasant because it seems as though I’m turning against a friend. Once this is straightened out, of course, I will be there for Paula as a friend but right now, my main concern is for the kids.”

The very next day, there was a new tale for the front pages: she had seen Paula buying opium. “Troubled, Paula Yates carried out her sleazy drug deal in front of her greatest ally – her public relations guru Gerry Agar,” News of the World readers were told. “Ultra royal” Gerry had stood “just a few feet away as money for the opium changed hands.” “I have a reputation for being Paula’s staunchest protector,” Agar was quoted as saying, which was true, although the same energy was now going into rubbishing her. Later the paper printed an apology. Not to Yates: after all, she has no reputation. It was to Steve Strange, the “nightclub king” Agar had named as supplier.

Late last year, 15 months after the drugs bust and a month after Michael’s death, Agar was still at it. Britain was informed that, according to a friend who “had spent the summer” with Michael in the south of France, “Hutchence was wild until the end.” The account had a single source: Agar, whose time with Michael in France totaled one weekend in 1996. You would never guess, from reading her description of Michael behaving like a madman, that after this weekend, she wrote a letter thanking her hosts for “a wonderful and much needed rest,” adding that “a magic healing” had taken place.

Hutchence was never the same after the bust. Before he had been preoccupied by the battles with Geldof and the battering from the tabloids, but he had kept some perspective. Now he became obsessed with setting the record straight. He came to identify all his difficulties in Britain as having to do with Bob. The custody case, Paula’s drawn-out divorce, the drugs, the hostile press – all of it, he believed – was affected by Bob’s influence as “Live Aid hero” and founder of Planet 24. Paula and their friends introduced a rule that he was to spend only one hour each evening, known as “Bob Hour,” talking about Geldof. It failed. Michael was beginning to feel persecuted. The subject polluted every occasion, even Christmas Day, 1996, when he opened the door to friends promising not to talk about Bob, and then immediately did so.

A few weeks after the bust, Michael flew to New York to see his manager, Martha Troup. “And for an hour,” she says, “We were sitting at the bar and he was just crying. He said: ‘What did I do, Martha? Why are people attacking me? I just want to be with Paula. I just want to be with my baby.” The decision not to prosecute took another 6 months, and by then Michael was on tour.

From the outside, being a rock star looks enviable. There’s the money. There’s the adulation – the knobbing, as Geldof once called it. There’s all the travel. But it’s not true: a new album is an ordeal. First there are months locked in the recording studio, in Hutchence’s case up to 5000 miles from home. Next comes a grating round of press interviews and promotional work, and only then, the tour. On top of that, Hutchence was working on his solo album and trying to develop a film career. Although being away from home gave him freedom, he missed his family and fretted. He returned whenever he could, but by summer 1997 his mind was growing vulnerable.

In September Yates was planning to get back to court to try to overturn the property settlement she had reached with Geldof. “I really wanted her to,” says Fairley, who believed a sympathetic judge would order a new settlement, “But it was taking such a toll on Michael. He felt fantastically guilty that she was going through all this while he was away on tour. He felt completely powerless in the whole thing and it really got him. He hated the fact that she was suffering this, and he hated the fact that she would have to go to court again.”

There is no point asking what went on in the courts for Bob and Paula because the law says it cannot be reported. But the scale the conflict was taking on Michael’s mind can be seen in what each side was saying about the other. Paula’s people claimed Bob didn’t really want more time with his children, and that the aim of his maneuvers was to cause maximum disruption to the Yates-Hutchence household. They speak of deliberate prevarications and changes of mind. Those close to Bob say that Michael and Paula were drug users who could not be left in charge of youngsters, and that something had to be done. And that by the end, they lived in a world of paranoid fantasy. It is impossible to know what is true.

When the album Elegantly Wasted pushed Hutchence into a series of promotional interviews, he tried to communicate the pain and confusion he was experiencing. It made for good copy, but in Britain reviews for the album and for INXS’ performances were mixed. By this stage one could no longer distinguish between bad notices and personal attacks.

From time to time he would deliver a monologue. “Basically it was, why wouldn’t Geldof leave them alone?” Andy Gill says, who co-wrote Michael’s solo album and spent extended periods with him in France and London, witnessing the change in Michael’s attitude to his domestic problems. “He was being, oh, victimized by Geldof, and he also felt that the British media were against them: against Paula, against him. And he would quote things: ‘Did you see what they said in such and such and such last week? They called Paula this and that and the other’ – and it genuinely hurt him. After years in the public eye, he’d never come across the kind of vicious personal attacks that the British press is good at… and he’d just get in a very black mood and sit and get very depressed. Then, once he got out of his system, he’s be casual, happy, like he normally was.”

Michael was usually charming company; unlike many performers, he had no need to be centre stage. He was a listener, trawling conversations for ideas and pieces of knowledge in an endearingly uncritical way. He was easily impressed by, easily gulled. But now he was becoming a person who delivered monologues. When he went into a dark phase, friends would tried to lift him. “This will come to an end,” Gill would say. “The courts will reach a resolution. There will be a turnaround in the way people attack you and Paula in the papers.” “No, there won’t,” Hutchence would answer. “Why would there be an end to it? How is it ever going to end?” As Gill says now, “He was right.”

Being on tour does allow an escape, and at times he fled into older habits. In South Africa, he met a would-be model. He knew her for a matter of hours, but she followed him to London, got a job as a waitress, and described their encounter to the Sunday Mirror, claiming they had had sex, which Michael always denied. The effect of the story on Paula caused him anguish.

You can say that he had only himself to blame, but that’s an easy judgment. “He rang here,” says Mayer, speaking in the flat and music studio she shares with Gill at Tower Bridge. “He was crying so hard you couldn’t make out what he was saying. He started to talk and then he couldn’t get the words out. I had literally 10 minutes of him howling. When he did get the words out, what he kept saying was, ‘It was all so wonderful and they just want to spoil it. They just want to destroy it.’ He kept saying ‘they,’ it wasn’t Bob, ‘they are never going to let us be happy.’ And also, he kept asking me, over and over, how Paula was going to survive everything. He was so worried about her by that stage. I think that’s very much where the final slide was starting, the summer before he died. He was very, very worried about how much the strain was going to tell on Paula.”

Josephine Fairley recalls similar conversations, “He was going, ‘Don’t let my family break up. Don’t let them break up my family,” she says, explaining that by now “my family” meant all four children.

Hutchence knew Mayer had a demanding job as the London correspondent for a German magazine. But after coming off the telephone from Paula, he would regularly ask her to stop what she was doing and drive to Chelsea, as he was in another country and worried. He made similar demands of Fairley and another friend of Paula’s, Belinda Brewin. His instincts were rights. One day in September, Paula, who was not used to alcohol, swallowed enough Bailey’s and Valium to kill herself. Bob was in Ireland when his mobile rang: it was one of the girls saying “Mummy is unconscious on the carpet.” The attempted suicide was intended as a message to Bob. The person it really frightened was Michael.

And so the walls closed in. He hated being in England, mainly because of the press. He loved Paula, and didn’t want to live without her. He thought she was going to kill herself and felt powerless to save her. Like the Princess of Wales, with whom he identified, he thought their only chance of peace was to move abroad. Paula had talked of living in Australia for more than a year, since before the drug bust. But Michael knew that he could never ask her to choose between him and the children. They would have to come, which he wanted in any case. That depended on Bob. And Bob was a father too.

If you doubt Michael’s commitment to his family, listen to his manager, Martha Troup, to whom he was like a son. It was on her machine that Michael left the final, despairing message cried by the coroner, “Martha, Michael here. I f***** had enough.” On his fateful trip to Los Angeles and then Australia, they spoke twice a day until he died.

He was embarrassing, she says, like being a first time mother. Last year she went with him to more than 50 film meetings. None passed without a mention of Paula and Tiger. He was supposed to be seeking Hollywood roles. Troup got used to kicking him under the table. “Oh man,” she says, “We were at a table last February, a big boardroom, the heads of Polygram and all were there, and he takes out this clock with a picture of Tiger on it and says ‘You want to see?’ and every person had to pass the clock round with the picture of Tiger. I was sitting there, talking about big budgets and thinking, “He is showing a clock!” In one of the last film meetings we had, this guy had these great toys on his desk. So he goes, “Listen , I have this daughter, Peaches….”

And then, last autumn, Michael suddenly got dangerously optimistic. The INXS tour was coming to an end. He would be able to work outside the band again. He would finish his solo album and spend time in America, where his mother says he had two girlfriends (a point she made to Paula during an emotional exchange after Michael died.) His film meetings were paying off. Quentin Tarantino wanted him for a project, as did other big names. But first, he and Paula planned a trip to Sydney, lasting at least three months.

Paula had worked lined up for the first time in two years; they would arrange school for Pixie and a private tutor for Peaches, and send the girls back to Bob for Christmas. Fifi would stay at her boarding school. And they got the idea into their heads that Bob had consented. They believed it was going to happen. Perhaps they even hoped to get the three girls settled and to make the move permanent. But Bob changed his mind – partly because he’s a father too, and he was frightened he was going to lose them. He said no. Paula took him back to court.

You probably know someone who has suffered an injustice. The obsession takes over their lives. Michael Hutchence suffered rough justice, at the least, and was ill equipped to cope with it. Paula’s friends are adamant that Bob did behave badly, trying to disturb the household of his wife and the man she loved; but perhaps there are no true villains in this story. Even Agar, who says much that seems improbable and who sees herself as working on Bob’s behalf, believes she is doing what is right. She did not murder her nanny, as the inner circle wondered, by the way. Although 23, Agar’s nanny died of natural causes. But it was unfortunate for Michael that she and Paula ever met at the school gates.

In the end, we should hold on to this. Michael Hutchence really loved Paula Yates, and was extremely proud of Tiger. He would have married her and soon; two friends confirm he said so. Although at times he needed to escape, he was trying to create a family with his partner and the Geldof girls. What stopped him? In Greek tragedy, the end is brought about in part by the flaws of the hero. Everyone in this story is flawed, as everyone is human. Michael’s flaw was that he could not rise above the hostilities. It is a tragedy for all of them.

The last time Troup spoke to her star was at 1am Sydney time. He was in his hotel room with Kym Wilson, an actress with whom he once had a fling, and her boyfriend, Andrew Rayment. “He came back from dinner with his dad,” says Troup, who, like several others in this story, is making an exception to her normal policy of refusing to talk about Michael. “I called him up and said, ‘Hey’ and he goes ‘Martha,’ and he was in a brilliant mood, a very good mood, happy. You could tell he was drinking. And he said, ‘I’m here with some film people,’ and I said, ‘Film people?!’ “You know, always the mother. And he was just laughing and he goes, ‘No, no, no.’” “When you spend day in and day out with someone, you know what ‘no, no, no’ meant. Like ‘No, Martha, this is not a thing with a woman, I am with a couple’ and then we started talking about Quentin’s movie…” But Michael was also very nervous. He was waiting for the outcome of the court hearing. The couple were with him for nearly six hours, drinking vodka, beer, champagne and daiquiris. He wanted them to stay longer, in case the news from London was bad. But by 4.30 am Rayment was falling asleep at the foot of the bed. “Michael just looked at him,” Wilson says. “He looked at me trying to keep up the conversation, and said, “Oh, look, you two go home.” They did. They would wake up to the news that he was dead.

In London, the court was unable to hear the case, which was adjourned until the week before Christmas. The result was that the family that meant so much to Michael would not be coming. When Paula told him soon after 5 am, he howled. (She used the same word as Mayer.) He said he would ring Bob, and beg him to let the children go, doing so at 5.30. When that conversation made no difference – it was the courts that were refusing to let the children leave, said Bob, a fact Michael may not have realized. He was probably hit afresh by the belief he had expressed to Andy Gill: that there was no escape, it would never end, nothing was ever going to change.

Only one person knows what was said in that telephone call, although a second, the resident of the room next door to suite 524, was woken by Michael’s shouting. Bob will never talk publicly about Michael and Paula. But in private conversation he is willing to relate what was said, doing so in the singer’s accent and mimicking his soft voice; if what he says is true, the call turned bizarre. Michael would go off on tangential flights as Bob, feeling like Peter Mandelson, tried to keep him “on message,” returning him to the facts of the case: that it was they who had made the court application, that it was now out of his hands, there was nothing he could do.

One line, which Michael may or may not have spoken, sticks in the mind. “Your f****ing children hate you man, I’m their father, little man, when are you going to realize that.” The conversation lasted 20 minutes. Then Fifi, the eldest of the Geldof girls, got off her school bus on the Embankment, and ran up to hug her father hello. “Michael?” said Bob into his mobile, “Fifi is here, I’ve got to go.” There was no goodbye: the line was already dead.

Hutchence rang Troup and left his message. Later, he left a short series of calls on answering machines. This time, his voice was different: it was slow and deep. Hutchence made his last call, to an ex-girlfriend, Michelle Bennett, at 9.54.

He cried down the phone. Bennett said she would come to the hotel straight away. When she knocked on the door, there was no answer.

Nobody can know exactly what happened in suite 524. Paula needs to believe it was a sexual experiment because Michael would never have left his Tiger. There is no evidence either way. (The ‘certain information’ she refers to in interviews does not exist, as she acknowledged in quiet moments.) Among the few who knew the singer well, there is a majority for accepting that it was suicide.

“All they wanted was to be listened to by one person,” Fairley says. “They felt so victimized. They wanted somebody to listen to the other side of the story and not leap to conclusions. And they wanted some of their friends to stand up and speak out and be counted. That’s all they wanted. Just somebody to listen and believe them.”

In Britain, the newspapers reported that Michael Hutchence had died in a sex game, after an orgy of drink and drugs. The likely truth is sadder. Like many people with a difficult early life, he wanted the best for his children, his natural daughter Tiger and the Geldof girls. He wanted to protect Paula and make everything all right for her. But at the end, he was obsessively locked in another conflict. He was always uncertain about his talents. Early one morning last November, after waiting nervously for news from London, he came to an inescapable conclusion.

That he had failed.