Read an extract from Moby's autobiography

When I stepped out of the hotel elevator I saw four large men standing with Ali. One of them walked over to me: “Moby, nice to meet you. I’m Constantin, your promoter.” Constantin was tall and well dressed and I noticed they all had gun bulges under their jackets.

“Ali tells me you’re not well. I’m so sorry, but we have good show planned tonight, no?”

I could barely stand or think, but my promoter was clearly Eastern European Mafia, and even in my fevered brain I knew that I couldn’t cancel the show and expect to leave with all of my fingers.

“I’m sick, but hopefully I can do the show.”

“You do show. Good. Also you do promo for album. I own record label, so onstage you throw cassettes into audience?”

“Ali, is that okay?”

“It’s okay, no problem,” Constantin answered for Ali. “Nice to meet you Moby.” He walked away through the lobby with
his bodyguards.

“Still want to cancel the show?” asked Ali.

“I’d rather not die here,” I said. “I’m going back to bed.”

“Lobby call in 90 minutes,” Ali said.

“Good night.”

I was woken by a ringing phone.

“Wakey wakey, time to throw cassettes into the crowd,” Ali said.

“I’m dying,” I complained.

“You will be if you don’t do the show,” he said, laughing.

I pulled on my stage clothes: jeans, T-shirt and a warm orange jacket that I thought looked like something Flea would wear. I looked in the mirror. I didn’t look like Flea. I looked like a sick man with a receding hairline and a ridiculous orange jacket. A minivan took us to the venue, a hockey arena.

“Hey Moby! How you feel? Constantin asked as he entered the locker room.

“Still sick,” I said.

“Ha, you be fine. These are cassette singles of ‘Feeling So Real’,” Constantin said.