Caldwell is rather straightforward when it comes to explaining the time off. “I was at a point in my life where I was content, I was with (Charlotte Adams) and we were happy and it was kind of our John and Yoko phase, where we were just in love and doing whatever we wanted and for the first time in my life I was putting music second. You might not be able to relate unless you’ve been simply content at some point in your life, and if you’ve never been utterly content, if you’ve never had long periods of happiness and not thought, ‘Well this is boring,’ you wouldn’t understand. It was months of unbroken happiness.” If wanting to spend time with the love of his life was the reason for his pause from music, it might stand to reason that the absence of that person would result in his return. Caldwell has little to say about Adams’ accidental death, occurring two years ago at his home in the middle of a July night, other than that he still struggles to deal with the loss. Matters were made more trying when he was charged, that August, with her murder. Three months later he was found not guilty. Adams’ passing brought about many changes for the young star, including an end to his once-famous alcohol consumption. As best I could tell, Darin has been sober for close to two years, a decision he made after the accident.
Besides the partnership with O’Neill, Caldwell’s life is relatively bare. Naturally he has a revolving door of conventionally attractive women parading in and out of his home, but it appears rare that any of them last. The only reoccurring character during my time with him was his butler, gardener, cook and friend, Oscar Bryant. Thirty years Caldwell’s senior, Bryant also acts as chauffeur and personal assistant. The two share a peculiar bond, whereby each is inclined to look out for the wellbeing of the other. When I pointed out a soccer goal set up on one end of Mainshead Manor’s vast backyard, Caldwell explained its purpose: Bryant had hoped the two would spend time playing each day, an attempt to ensure the younger man emerged from the house on a daily basis. Caldwell, in turn, encourages Bryant to leave the property to enjoy a social life in London. Neither attempt by either man has proven successful.
That anyone needs to worry about whether or not Caldwell is stepping outside the house each day is telling, and a far remove from the globetrotting, rockstar persona people had come to know. A lot has changed for him over the past few years, not insignificantly the murder trial (which Caldwell assured me was more of a witch hunt than a true and balanced search for justice) and the fading ubiquity of all things Darin Caldwell. Though occasionally trying to stay current and top of mind, Darin failed to generate any buzz within the last few years. This seemed partly by choice, and partly brought on by poor experiences with the press. He swears he doesn’t mind the fans (“The fans never bothered me, they were always courteous and respectful”), but there are no pretensions about his feelings toward publicity (he admitted at one point to “despising people who work for magazines” and feeling completely misunderstood and misrepresented in print). That extends, I found, to the people who snap up those magazines for $3 an issue at the grocery store and interest themselves in his café of choice. Riled up one afternoon, he explained that the “the people who read those fucking tabloids have nothing to occupy them inward, they can only look out. If they had any sense of self they wouldn’t need to feed off the idiotic details of what clothes I wear or where I ate my breakfast.” Caldwell had simply grown tired of his old life, the limelight, and the untethered infiltration into his personal life that his success brought upon him.
So what does one do when the tentacles of fame encroach too far into one’s personal life? For Caldwell the answer seems to have been a large step back, a retreat from everything he previously was. This recess included a break from his family, with whom – it seemed after repeatedly trying to broach the topic – he no longer has in his life. His father passed three years ago, after a long fight with cancer, and Darin seems unmoved by the loss. His mother, still alive, has minimal contact with her son. At times he showed an affinity for his younger brother and older sister (he keeps pictures of both on display), and conversations about them often brought about a different side of his personality, one marked by nostalgia and warmth. This does not, however, mean he speaks with any regularity to either. His brother’s once-frequent trips to accompany Caldwell on tour tapered off as the touring did. The relationship with his sister, earlier a seemingly tight bond, soured after a careless joke from Caldwell proved too much for what was, in recent years, a strained relationship. His father’s half sister, the product of a youthful indiscretion by Darin’s grandfather, was kept from Caldwell and she never became a part of his life. He saw her only once, from afar, and they never formally met. Other extended family plays no role.
He is, for the most part, alone. And though he remains adamant that he was pushed out of the United States by paparazzi and an overeager press, it is difficult to belief that is the full truth. Granted, it is possible daily life was made incredibly difficult, but it would hardly be the first time a celebrity dealt with the pitfalls of public adoration. Of course there are examples to the contrary – Michael Jackson’s inability to freely move about anytime he stepped outside Neverland Ranch; British popstar Robbie Williams’ move to California where he’s rarely recognized; the Beatles – but Darin seems to be looking for more than just peace and quiet. He is paying the price for something not evident, and under a self-imposed exile for reasons that never become evident. And it’s unclear if he minds.
One gets the sense, in speaking to Caldwell at length, that he has set up his life to grease the machine that is his music-making process. Besides his basement studio, which allows for immediate action when inspiration strikes, most of the rooms in his mansion are left bare, clear of furniture and wall decoration save for one with a couch and television, and another collecting empty amplifier boxes and guitar cases. When questioned about the sparsity, Caldwell came up with two reasons. The first boiled down to laziness, but the second, I suspect, told the real story. “They’re useful the way they are. When I want a particular sound and I can’t get it in the studio, I’ll set up an amp and a mic (in a room) and try to get what I hear in my head.” He is a man who dislikes clutter in his life, and is able to live, for him, a physically comfortable existence devoid of the need for aesthetic touches. In a time when it would be very simple for Caldwell to furnish and decorate (there are professionals who do that sort of thing, and he’s spent more money on less beneficial endeavors), his lack of doing so speaks volumes of his commitment to shape his world around the ability to make music, with a simplification of his everyday life that apparently drives (and protects?) that ability.
As Caldwell plans the next tour, the final release of his recent album trilogy, and as he begins the press appearances sure to be devoured by his many fans, I wonder if such a single focus is healthy and sustainable for any individual. I was assured by Caldwell that he has every intention of enjoying a long career and growing as a songwriter and artist. Given his track record, he is probably correct. The costs seem high, though, the rewards not as sweet as most imagine. As he told me, creating his body of work is a painstaking process. As someone outside looking in, with no cost more expensive than a speeding ticket, I glimpsed the boy inside the man, and saw nothing more than a child’s misunderstanding of a man and woman’s embrace, and a lifelong attempt to make sense of it.
Bonus Track
In the middle of the night my phone rang. I didn’t bother to see who was calling, never considering any option besides letting it go to voicemail. After six rings, it did. I blindly reached out towards the nightstand, fumbled around to locate the little nob on the side of the phone and switched it to vibrate mode. Judging from the absence of light outside my blinds I still had at least a couple hours before any obligation arose to get me out of bed. I rolled over, turning my back to the distraction, and exhaled deeply.
Behind me the phone buzzed. Again I ignored it, again the voicemail kicked in. There was no news I needed or wanted to deal with in the middle of the night.
On the third call attempt I flipped over and sent it straight to voicemail. Immediately the person called back. I cursed out loud, got the anger out, and stared at the phone. This was what I wanted to avoid, the fully coming out of sleep that would mean I couldn’t get back to it. My mind was a racer, and if I went to bed sober, which I had been doing a lot, it went from zero to sixty and there was no settling it back down until I’d been up for sixteen hours. The phone nudged itself across the nightstand while I watched. On what I thought was the fifth ring I grabbed it, looked at the number, answered.
“Hello.”
“Chris! Finally. Why didn’t you pick up right away?”
“Did you look at the time where you are?”
“I didn’t, no. Been down in the studio, I suppose I lost track. Got something good together, though, almost finished. Better than a rough cut. Would you like to hear it, I could play it for you over the phone?”
“No. I don’t care.” I let him hear the exhaustion in my voice. Even after not speaking to Darin since leaving Mainshead Manor, I found my patience for him surprisingly short. The previous three months had been difficult, personally and professionally.
“Right, right. I understand. Sorry, been going hard for a bit, lost track of myself. Look, Chris, I read that article you wrote about me.”
“You’re one of the few. I’m surprised you found it.”
“One of my lady friends showed it to me. Apparently she has a search alert set up, gets told when I’m mentioned somewhere in the vast networks of the web. A little creepy, but she doesn’t have to be perfect in every way. Anyway, she showed me and I was intrigued. Very. A little disappointed it was on a blog, I was hoping for better coverage, but I’ll be straight with you. It’s been eating at me, and I’d like to investigate further.”
He paused, and I let it linger. He did too.
“So?” I finally asked.
“I’d like to investigate. What you found out? ”
“Which part, Darin?”
“I’d like to hear about my father and this half-sister of his. I want to know exactly what you found out.”
“You really want to hear about it? You want to know that he didn’t cheat on your mother?”
Darin took a moment to respond, and for half a second I felt bad for dropping the news on him over the phone, without easing into it. I had no way of seeing how he was reacting to the discovery that the foundation of his beliefs about male/female relationships was built on a misconception. The pang of guilt passed quickly.
“I do,” he said, his voice steady and purposefully composed. “I want to hear everything you know.”
“Okay, call me tomorrow. Call me when it’s daytime here. If you catch me in a good mood, maybe I’ll elaborate.”
“Not on the phone. In person. I hate the phone.”
“Why not hire an investigator or something? You have the resources and enough to go on now.”
“I don’t want to start over with someone. I’ve no patience to go through the process of building trust again.”
“Is that what we did?”
“You know me. We’re quite honest with each other, you and me. I don’t want to explain things from the start. I’d like to do this journey, with you.”
I thought it over, let him wait for an answer while I considered what it would look like to be in contact with Darin again, let him into my life. My mind was at top speed, searching for the bear trap.
“Chris?”
“I’m here,” I surveyed my studio apartment, three bookshelves packed full, a small circular table with two chairs, a non-existent kitchen with just enough countertop space for a small cutting board.
“Are you waiting for me to convince you? I don’t grovel well.”
“You don’t need to. I’ll do it. I’ll talk to you about what I know. You’ll pay me for my time. And it’s on my terms. You come here. You come to New York.”
Within the silence on the other end I could hear gears turning in Darin’s head. Calculating. Considering.
“Okay, I’ll be on a flight later today. I’ll call when I land. Can you pick me up?”
“I don’t have a car. And I’m not putting you up anywhere. You can pay for your own hotel.”
“Rubbish. Can’t I be a guest in your home?”
“Why would you want that? Why would I want that?”
“I’ve been reevaluating things. Thinking about how I’m living, maybe making some changes. Getting back to my roots, the way things were before the success. Sounds like you’re hard up for cash, so I’ll pay you to stay at your place. We’ll be able to talk all night. It’ll be more intimate that way, and I sense there might be conversations that prove rather upsetting in nature.”
I didn’t bother refuting his claim, money was tight and I found the idea intriguing. “If you’re comfortable sleeping on a floor, my answer is yes. Any travel involved, and there might be some in order to sort things out more thoroughly, comes out of your account.”
“Of course, of course. It’s a great deal. I’ll take it.”
“Then I’m hanging up and getting some rest. If this isn’t some ruse, you call me when you land. I’ll let you know where to have the cab drop you off.”
“Couldn’t you have a car sent to fetch me? I’ll pay for it.”
“No. I don’t work for you, I’m not your assistant. You want to talk, you get yourself here. I’ll tell you what you want to know.”
Again the gears turned on the other end.
“See you soon.”