Sweet Demons

It's not an easy time for rock stars to speak their minds. When the Dixie Chicks tried it, they got fried like a bucket of Extra Crispy. "There's no better time to do it," Boyd says. "There's no better time to speak out than when people are scared to speak out, when people are getting publicly crucified for it."

"There's no better time to get publicly crucified?" asks Einziger, interrupting a little serious making-out on the couch with his girlfriend, Lily.

"Not that you want to get publicly crucified," Boyd says. "But you need to speak out when people are getting punished for it. When the people are scared to disagree with the policy of their government, the whole idea of America and democracy gets shit on. And that's what's happening right now with Bush and the war. America is getting shit on."

The members of Incubus don't necessarily agree on all the issues. "We're all individuals in the band: We've got Democrats and socialists, we've got Greens and independents. We have different points of view, politically and philosophically. We even have one atheist in the band. I'm not an atheist, but I don't hate George Bush personally. I don't know him personally.

"Besides," he adds mischievously, "I like Bush." Really? "Yeah. I mean, some people are into that whole shaved thing. . . . "

Incubus formed in high school, back when Boyd, Einziger and drummer Jose Pasillas II were growing up together in Calabasas, California. They all graduated from Calabasas High in 1994. They later met DJ Chris Kilmore, from Philadelphia, and new bassist Ben Kenney joined last year, a veteran of the Roots. But the core trio has been playing together for more than a decade, starting out with corny funk metal inspired by Primus and the Red Hot Chili Peppers. That might be why they don't carry themselves with any rock-star attitude — they've known each other too long to get away with it, and they're still immersed in high school geek humor. At dinnertime, when Einziger orders a chicken taco, Pasillas says, "What did you call me, dude?"

What's the secret of their longevity? "To be in a band, you have to be good at sucking," Boyd muses. "All of us started out just plain sucking. We sucked for years. We got brilliant at sucking."

Over the years, they must have shared many embarrassing moments. Einziger says, "Some of the most embarrassing moments are for sale right now at CD stores around the country."

Of all the guys, Einziger is the unreconstructed geek, the one who still admits he's a Rush fan. His traveling kit backstage has a paperback tucked into a protective plastic pouch, right between his shampoo and his deodorant: The Little Giant Book of Optical Illusions. He has a proud mass of geek-hair frizz. "I have big hair," he says. "It rises like the unleavened bread of my ancestors."

Brandon's dad, Chuck Boyd, was a model and actor in the Seventies. "He was the Salem man," Brandon says. "If you go through old Playboys from the Seventies, you see his Salem ad in every one. I have this picture of him and me as a baby, and we're posing in front of his Salem billboard, but I've just pooped my diaper and I'm crying." He also had bit parts in crime shows such as Starsky and Hutch and Hart to Hart, as well as the 1974 Chuck Norris film Slaughter in San Francisco. "The one I remember best is Days of Our Lives," Brandon says. "He played a mogul whose daughter gets kidnapped by mercenaries. His big line was, 'Find her. I don't care what it takes. Just find her!' I was five years old, in front of the TV, going, 'That's my dad — he's scary!' "

Boyd is a family man himself these days. For the new album, he wrote the big-hearted love ballad "Southern Girl" for the real Southern girl in his life, his girlfriend, Carolyn, who keeps calling his cell to ask for directions to tonight's show. "She's from the Florida panhandle," he says proudly. "She calls it the Redneck Riviera." I start to mention that I once heard the supermodel Carolyn Murphy make the same joke on Fashion Television — and then I shut up, wondering if it's the same Carolyn. Of course it is.

Murphy makes a big entrance backstage, looking more like a cheerful suburban soccer mom than a pampered glamazon, carrying daughter Dylan, a blond angel of three. Dylan comes from Murphy's previous marriage, but she calls Brandon "Daddy." The first thing Dylan says upon arriving backstage is "I'm gonna lick you!" Then she puts a purple cone-shaped party hat on Brandon's head and licks his jacket with a mouthful of crackers. Boyd doesn't mind getting baby slobber all over his jacket, even though he's wearing it onstage in a few minutes. "Dylan's really changed my life," he says. "She's such a girly-girl. She even wants to sleep in heels. I grew up with two brothers, so it's all new to me."

"Dylan's got crushes on the other boys in the band," Murphy says with a sigh. "I guess that starts early." Her biggest crush is obviously Pasillas, who bends to kiss her and then pulls away, to her delight. More family crowds around the tiny backstage area. I get introduced to step-parents, siblings, girlfriend's boss's daugters. Boyd's mother, Dolly, an effervescent lady who could be an old- fashioned movie star, has brought presents for Dylan, including a pink Cinderella storybook. As the only band parent with anything like a grandchild in the room, she gets a few envious looks from the others. Dolly says, "I feel a little nostalgic when the boys go on tour. I feel like, 'Why not just sever one of my arms and take it away for a year?' "

For Boyd, family values are part of the inspiration behind the anti-war anger of "Megalomaniac." "Anger can be spiritual," he says. "The anger in this song is definitely spiritual. The message is simple: We've tried killing each other for years and years. It's been tried. It doesn't work. It has to stop."

[From Issue 945 — March 10, 2004]