Though he routinely denies it--including about seven times in the half-hour I spend with him--Pharrell Williams is dying to be a rock star. You can tell with one look, if he's got one of his trademark mesh trucker's caps on, an ugly yellow or red thing with a crude depiction of a cornfield or a locomotive or maybe those lascivious Rolling Stones lips emblazoned on its front. If he's without the accessory, like he is today, you can tell by the way he distracts you from your job at hand: In my case, that's threatening to jump off the hotel balcony we're standing on in the middle of downtown Boston while I try to ask him questions about his music. He's been doing this since the friendly guy with the overactive cell phone and the artfully trimmed facial hair who's currently acting as Williams' handler accompanied me in the elevator up to Williams' floor and introduced me to one-half of the by-now-ubiquitous production... More >>>
"This album is for your mind; it's not for me," Pharrell Williams, center, says. "It's for you to find out, whatever it is that you're trying to find out or you to find whatever it is you're looking for." Right. Gotcha.