"You're my besht mate!"

Poor old Adam Duritz. His Counting Crows can fill the Royal Albert Hall twice but life can be lonely when you're big all over. Still, there are always drugs, groupies and Friends actresses to help heal the pain. "It's obvious now that I'm attractive," he tells a startled Nick Duerden.

The clunking red Karmann Ghia convertible weaves its way noisily up the Hollywood Hills in the direction of Laurel Canyon, heading for the place Adam Duritz covets most in all the world. "I haven't been home for over a year," he says grimly, citing never-ending tour duties as the culprit. "I've missed it plenty." As he negotiates the road's twists and turns like a man used to negotiating many twists and turns, he speaks about an encounter the night before with one of his many female fans, for whom obsession is almost statutory. "She came up to me at this bar and started telling me how important I was," he begins. "So I told her, Yeah, I know I'm important, believe me, but she just wouldn't let up. No, she said, you don't get it, you are, like, rilly rilly important. You are my life, don't you realise that? Don't you? She was pretty persuasive. Man, I can do without all that stuff, I really can."

As he swings the car into his driveway, Duritz explains that we are now in one of Hollywood's most exclusive neighbourhoods. Opposite his own house is a blue palatial abode which once belonged to David Niven, Britain's most gentlemanly actor ever. "His fuck pad," Duritz says. "Thousands of women, apparently. Everyone who lives here is in the industry, just about. Except me. I'm just a rock star."

But not just any old rock star. Counting Crows are one of America's biggest bands, and Adam Duritz one of the country's most recognisable front-men. Their 1993 debut album, August And Everything After, was an exercise in musical melancholy that hit a nerve: it became the fastest selling US album since Nirvana's Nevermind, quickly passing six million sales, and suggested that Duritz, who wrote of lost love with an astonishing tempestuous poignancy, was a singer-songwriter with the potential to become another Dylan, Stipe or Gram Parsons.

"We got very famous very quickly," he says. "It was like waking up on Mars." Last year's follow- up, Recovering The Satellites, has done similarly brisk business. "What is it now?" ponders Duritz. "Three million, four? I kinda lose count these days. After the first platinum disc, things became blurred." Despite his wealth, Duritz's home resembles Withnail & I's ramshackle flat, except bigger. Upon entering, a musty smell violently assaults the nose, while the eyes gaze over an enormous open-plan living room that has seen better days. Aside from two sprawling, stained sofas, an overflowing bookcase and a piano there's no furniture. CDs and well-thumbed books litter the floor, as do several gold and platinum disks. The kitchen, meanwhile is a disaster zone. In order to make himself a fruit smoothie (ingredients: orange juice, several ice cubes, and some porridge-like powder), he has to rescue a cup from the bottom of a dangerously cluttered sink, but is unable to wash it properly as he can't quite find the washing-up liquid. "I'm happy to be home," he reiterates. "I really miss my friends when I'm away. And I miss my girlfriend .... well, my ex-girlfriend." He looks towards the bedroom. "Sleeping alone is pretty hard sometimes. . ."

When Duritz was in his early teens, his parents split up. He spent the next few years in a succession of boarding schools, an experience that traumatised him. 'The years one through 27 weren't good, " he says. By the age of 18, he was hell-bent on unfulfilling what he considered to be "some great potential, a really high IQ", and aside from the occasional building site job, he did very little. But he did do a lot of drugs.

"I wasn't very functional back then," he says. "My mind didn't work too well, I had a hard time leaving the house, I slept in my dad's bed, I couldn't tie my own laces. When you're a child, life is an endless series of possibilities. But when you become an adult, things suddenly don't look too optimistic. You have to work hard for everything. I just couldn't make that effort. I wasted away." It wasn't until he reached 28 that something finally clicked. Counting Crows formed, and were quickly signed. "I suddenly transformed from a bum into a workaholic," he says. What's more, the dread-locked singer of Russian-Jew extraction, had become unexpectedly famous, the band's sole focus. "It was pretty difficult for me," he says. "Here I am, this private person who writes these personal songs for public consumption. The thing that makes people want to expose themselves to the world doesn't necessarily make them well balanced. I wasn't well balanced before I got famous. After, I got worse."

After several uninterrupted months on the road, Duritz suffered a nervous breakdown. "I lived a life of hotel-bus-concert, and nothing but. I couldn't go anywhere without being mobbed. I felt like a prisoner. One time I went to the movies on my own. This kid comes up to me, starts talking, then disappears. Turns out he'd called all his friends. By the time the movie had finished, there were 300 people waiting for me outside. If you're not great with people - and I'm not at the best of times - then all fame does is add more people."

After the briefest of recuperations, he went on tour again. "It's what the band is all about," he reasons "It's great to trash your life and live on the road for a while. It makes for great fodder for songs and It's served me well over the past few years. But at some point, I want a life for myself. I don't have a girlfriend now because I'm away so much, That's a pretty big sacrifice. Too big."

The majority of Counting Crows songs revolve around Duritz's inability to hold down a relationship. That he chooses to involve himself with actresses doesn't make things easier, not least because of the constant glare of the spotlight. "Actresses have a similar kind of lifestyle," he says. "Also they're often independent, driven, and," he grins, "very, very attractive." Among those he has dated are Mary Louise Parker, Samantha Mathis, and two very close Friends, Courteney Cox - whom he refers to in the present tense and with the kind of reverence that suggests she's the love of his life - and, briefly, Jennifer Aniston. "Jennifer has a wonderful boyfriend," he says of Tate Donovan, her current beau. "I'm sure as hell she doesn't miss my sorry ass."

While an understanding of one another's often demanding lifestyles is one reason he dates famous women, another is more pertinent. "When I was at school, I never got to date the cheerleaders. I never considered myself particularly attractive. But fame has changed all that, which, of course, I'm pleased about. It's obvious now that I am attractive, and I recognise that I do have some really good, rare qualities. And because of my songs, women have this backlog of 'lie' for me. I don't have to try so hard." He then tells a story of another actress friend, Ashley Judd, whom he accompanied to the premiere of her latest film, the thriller Kiss The Girls. "I got to meet her mom (Naomi, once part of the sister-mother country act, The Judds), who is like this icon, and she said, Ah, you must be Adam from Counting Crows. I have heard so much about you and I'm awfully glad to meet you. I got such a kick out of that."

Though each of his relationships ultimately turned sour, he remains very close to them all. Especially Ms Cox. "She's a very special person. We have - had - the best time together...watching television, reading scripts, sequencing music, having dinner with friends, whatever. She's a beautiful, beautiful person. Being with certain people, even if it brings all this unwanted attention is...just worth all the weirdness in the world."

He turns to gaze out of the window. Adam Duritz is looking for, almost craving, love. That much is patently obvious. The trouble is, he hasn't been too successful at keeping hold of it as yet. Meanwhile, he gets lonely sometimes and doesn't like spending too much of his time alone.

"That's okay," he shrugs, "I have one-night stands, with fans, with girls I like. I like meeting people and being with them, whether it's for a year, a month, or even a day, I'm not about to pass up the offer from a pretty girl. But I'd choose a relationship any day." A protracted silence. Another cigarette. He toys with his dreads. "My best friend in all the world is just across town and I'm not seeing her right now because of my job. That's ... that's hard."

In the life of Adam Duritz there are as many downs as there are ups. But things are getting better, albeit slowly. He's attempting to "downscale" his life, to become happier, less stressed. One time, he'd talk about sadness, being fucked-up, contemplating suicide. He doesn't do much of that these days.

"I find I'm very adjustable, " he says. "About 12 years ago, I had an acid flashback that lasted a year. That kind of experience either kills you or ruins you completely. Somehow, I survived. I turned everything around, and I became one in a million. I'm a big success today, and that makes me very proud." As the constantly ringing telephone suggests, Duritz has a vibrant social life in Hollywood. Right now, he's off to the studio to oversee the production of the new album by Radiohead influenced Remy Zero, who he's recently signed to his new label, E Pluribus Unum (Out Of The Many Comes The One). Then, he's off to the screening of a small film he's helped finance. And after that he's off to a club with some of his many friends.

"You should come down," he most graciously offers. "LA can be a little dead unless you know the right people. I'll call you about eight o'clock a hotel, let you know which one we hit." What a nice chap.

The phone call, however, doesn't come. Rock Star bastard. As the hours pass my jet lag increases until sleep claws Q under. Out for the count. Some time later, shortly before dawn, your correspondent awakes and immediately notices the flashing VoiceMail button on the phone. The message, left at 1.1Oam, reads thus: "It's Adam. Some friends of mind are playing here at The Viper Room. Come on down. Just tell them at the door you're a friend of mine and they'll let you in, See you later.'

The sleeping couple next door are woken by a howl) of frustration.

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