Why Can't Adam Duritz Get Any Respect?

He's sitting in his gigantic, whimsically decorated Greenwich Village apartment, which is dominated by a living room not much smaller than the floor of Madison Square Garden. There's a game area, complete with pingpong table and pinball machine, and tucked away in a side room is a home theater with stadium seating.

In the kitchen is a pretty, blond recent Berkeley grad named Emily, who lives in a spare bedroom, rent-free. She sums up the apartment's vibe: "All it needs is a trampoline and it would be Big." Duritz, a Berkeley drop-out, remains a fanatical follower of the school's sports teams, and he met Emily at one of her soccer games. Their relationship is platonic — he's been helping Emily out since her mom died of cancer in 2006. "You have no idea how fucking cool he is," she tells me.

Duritz, 43, is dressed in his current daily uniform: black rock tee (today's is a spanking-new Velvet Underground model), scuffed jeans, suede boots. His detractors might find him harder to despise in person. He's a warm dude, with big, watery brown eyes that broadcast the same unchecked emotional vulnerability as his songs. He's also a gifted — if fantastically verbose — storyteller: Our first conversation lasts more than five hours, ending only when my digital recorder's battery dies. After a few drinks out one night, he convinces me to sing karaoke — and then unexpectedly joins me onstage to duet on the choruses of Steely Dan's "Black Cow." ("Ballsy song choice," he says.)

His dreadlocks — which he has always freely admitted are hair extensions — are fascinating up close. They're so incongruous with the rest of his appearance ("I'm a Russian Jew American, impersonating African," he sings on the Crows' new album) that you half expect them to begin moving, like a giant tarantula. Not long ago, Duritz's publicist urged him to shave his head, but he wouldn't do it. "Whatever they hide or cover about myself, you know, they feel good," he says. "And I did not want to be skinhead guy."

We're sitting on lawn furniture in a section of the apartment with a faux outdoor theme: There's AstroTurf on the floor instead of carpet, and a porch swing hangs from the ceiling. On top of a nearby piano sits a lamp shaped like a giant light bulb, which is supposed to spark ideas. ("It doesn't work," Duritz laments.) In a speaking voice that's an octave lower than his singing, he discusses the other night's fall. "I'm pretty sure I got a concussion, because I couldn't see for four songs after that," Duritz says. "I was dizzy as hell. But it never occurred to me to lay there on the ground. The song needs to be sung. You can't not get up."