The portly songsmith turns for help. "Can I borrow your pass or something? I'm serious, mate, they won't let me in." This is not a joke. Andrew Farriss, the silkily skilled sonic architect of INXS's modern cathedrals of sound, is not being allowed into his own gig. Don't panic.
The first familiar face inside is guitarist Tim Farriss. "Can you come outside for a moment, they won't let Andrew in?"
"Andrew who?"
"Your brother."
"Jesus!"
Safely deposited on the fashionable side of the velvet ropes, Andrew Farriss is a small ball of gratitude."That was pretty embarrassing," he says slowly shaking his head. "Let's get a drink." He wanders over to the backstage bar: an area in which he has personally paid for all the drinks and, indirectly, employing the staff. "Two beers, please mate," he orders cheerily. "We're shut," snaps the bartender. Showing remarkable restaint (surely a full-blown rock star tantrum is in order at this juncture), Farriss shuffles upstairs to his dressing room and pulls a brace of bottles from the band's cooler. "As you may be able to tell from my unflustered demeanor," he grimaces dejectedly, "that's not the first time that this has happened to me."

Hearing of his colleague's traumatic brush with anonymity, Michael Hutchence wraps a consoling arm around the gnomish musician and coos sympathetically. "You see, that would never happen to me, mate, because I'm the deep, sensitive, sexy singer."

Welcome Ladies and Gentlemen, to the Get Out Of The House Tour, wherein INXS blow into your town - having announced the intimate venue they intend to play via local radio the day before - perform a storming show, lower the local vodka resorvoir, interfere with your womanfolk's loyalty and consign their collective backside to history before sun-up. It's part circus, part carnival, part pre-war Berlin burlesque,part Dada-ist experience. but mostly it's six Australian blokes having a laugh.

Michael Hutchence arrives to soundcheck in Boston to find an enormous black pillar directly in front of the stage. Unfortunately it appears to be holding the ceiling up. "It doesn't look integral to the structure of the building," he announces to SS officer calm. "Have it removed." He circles the obstruction once again. "Shit happens," he shrugs, "God this stuff really takes me back..."

As they snakes secretly across America, INXS have been using their soundchecks to entertain and inform local college papers. A handful of tainee journalists are invited along, the band play three songs and then hold a brief press conference. Despite behaving as if they are all auditioning to be MTV presenters, the rookies reporters manage to hold their own.
Students: "How long you guys been together?"
Tim Farriss: "About an hour and a half."
Michael Hutchence: "That's not true actually, is it Tim? We've been together for 16 years." Andrew Farriss listens in, standing on tip-toes at the back. A lanky youth, straining to get a quesion heard, realises that he's obscuring Farriss's view. "Excuse me, my friend," he appologises, assuming the keyboard player is a mature student. "That's OK," Farriss smiles patiently. "I kind of know them anyway."

In the Dressing Room, Pre-show, at the 600-capacity Paradise club, the conversation swings between the intellectual and the frankly unenlightening. One moment Hen-like aspect of golf. Then, without warning, Hutchence asks, "who do you think is the biggest in INXS? Who do you reckon is the Robert Plant of the band?" Following a mini-referendum, Hutchence is proclaimed the winner ("You've got to have one in my line of work") while Tim - amid assorted mimes in which hefty spherical objects are straining clutched at knee-height - is awarded the gold for testicular prowess. The talk segues smoothly into nicotine addiction then, with a nary a chance to cover the children's ears, in bounds on to the delights an Oscar statuette might bestow if used with a water-based lubricant between two consenting adults.

Five minutes to showtime. Everyone drains their Cape Cod (vodka and cranberry juice, the band's current top tipple which Hutchence ludicrously insists is good for the kidneys). Out front The Saint' I'm Stranded - "The first Australian punk single!" - gives way to Talking Heads' Psycho Killer and everyone jostles out into the Spinal Tap labyrinth of corridors.

The band take the stage 30 seconds before Hutchence. He waits in the wings, chatting in the relaxed manner of someone who is about to take a Strimmer to their herbacious borders rather than douse a frenzied audience in multi-grade pheromones. Peeking out beneath his armpit, you notice that whatever gunnels are, the club is stuffed to them. The walls are running unhygenically with student sweat.

Immediately prior to cantering, loose-limbed and artfully dishevelled, up to the microphone, Hutchence grabs his groin and shouts something in Mexican. An impish grin and he is out there - "Welcome to Wherever the fuck you are!" - soaking up the screams, dodging the stage divers, wiggling his narrow jeans and upping the moistness levels all round.

INXS live have always been an exciting deal.

Within the sweltering confines of a venue no bigger than the average Burger King, they are sensational. The invincible rhythm section of Jon Farriss and Garry Gary Beers (who, for the record, is playing these dates in what fashion experts would be forced to call a skirt - "Ceremonial Balinese costume, mate, great ventilation!") lay a quakeproof foundation of Tim and Andrew Farriss's chunky riffing and Kirk Pengilly's parping saxophone and off-kilter guitar runs. In musical terms, INXS are no virtuosi but they carry a tune powerfully and dependably much in the way that a brickie carries a hod.
In addition to most of the uptempo numbers from Welcome to Wherever You Are and smattering of now-celebrated anthems - Suicide Blonde, Need You Tonight, Devil Inside, Mystify - INXS are premiering a clutch of new songs. One sounds like Big Audio dynamite on steriods; another is pure AC/DC in a blouse. the new album should be interesting.

But for the most part, INXS live is about Michael Hutchence. combining the more feline characteristics of Jim Morrison and Iggy Pop, he is a mesmeric performer cabable of simultaneously quickening the pulse of die-hard rock blokes and hormonally-maddening underage girls.

It's two in the morning. The gig, it is unanimously decided, was a blinder. not as good as Detroit, where Hutchence almost died in the mosh pit, but a smallest and hottest thus far. (Tomorrow, The Boston Globe's critic will dismiss the show as too hot and too loud. "Christ," exhales Hutchence, "Did they send the chamber orchestra correspondent?"). But right now we have more pressing problems. The hotel bar has just closed and Michael Hutchence isn't drunk enough. That's not to say he isn't drunk. Far from it. He's not quite arms-around-shoulder-you're-my-
-best-mate-in-the-world-you-are drunk, more knocking-glass-over-cigerette-falling-out-of-mouth drunk. But he's working on it.

"Where's the fucking minibar?" he demands, prowling around his suite wrenching open cupboards, and bureaux, searching for the cunning concealing personal drinks cabinet. "I want alcohol!" he shouts. "Where the fuck is it?" Suddenly he stops in the middle of the room and starts laughing. "My! What a desperate boy I am."
Some Californian red wine (screw top, bad news) is eventually secured and Hutchence settles down to talk. Three sheets to the wind, he makes for a facinating interviewee. Sometimes he doesn't seem to make any sense at all - his answers a blur of impersonated voices, oblique interludes and mad, plot-lost ramblings. At other times he's concise, articulate, and nakedly honest. Several questions he answered "Yes" and then after a long pause "No". the telephone rings constantly with messages from concerned persons within the INXS organisation reminding him he has to take an early flight tomorrow and that he should really get to bed.

Once each caller has been faithfully promised, in a giggling, sleepy slur that he is already between the hotel sheets, alone, he charges the glass, and says, "right, let's get down to some serious, serious bullshit."
So Michael, tell us, where's your head at?"
"It's where I am, man," he smiles dopily. "I'm in fine form. I'm really happy. But then anyone would be with the amount of drink and drugs I've taken this evening. I'm fit, trim and fabulous! Even though tonight I'm spending an evening drinking red wine and talking with a sleazy, scumbag, journalist cocksucker, that's not what I normally do. I just figured why the hell not?"
Be honest, have you become fed up with INXS?
"No," he says slowly, "It's not as simple as that."
The other band members have intimated that if you'd continued playing stadiums and big arenas, INXS would have split up.
"Actually, that's kind of right," he allows causiously. "Let me elaborate. We've had a lot of success, relatively, ever since the record Kick. And as time goes by, you start thinking, Well, what are we doing: 10 songs every three years; touring around and round? And whatever the worth of those 10 songs, whether they're genius or crap, doesn't matter, because you're shackled to your success. You're shackled to arenas and stadiums. And to be honest, it hasn't served us as well as we thought it would. So we did a couple of small shows in Sydney and it was quite shocking because we could touch each other on stage. Smell each other. That sounds really trite but it means a lot. If I heard some other musician saying shit like that, I'd be thinking. What an arsehole! But I'll tell you what's great, is not being 60 feet away from the band and coming back and realising you're a quarter beat out of time. And if you say this to people you can see them nodding and smiling but they're thinking, Oh, what a major problem darling, you fucking pretentious prick! I understand that, and to a point it's true, but in this funny little rock 'n' roll world, things like seeing and smelling each other happens to matter."

Are you currently achieving what you want to achieve as a performer?
"Oh, fuck." Pinteresque pause. "Yeah, Er. No." then carfeully. "Within the context of a band I think I'm doing what I can do."
Are you frustrated?
"Why should I be?" he asks defensively. "I've had an ongoing struggle with myself since I started about what I am doing on stage. Why am I doing it? What does it mean? But I think that's a normal thing to do: question it."
But does being a member of INXS frustrate you?
"It's very difficult," he sighs. "If you think of playing live as being like a game of poker, then I've always got more chance of winning the game than the rest of the band because I start the game with a fucking ace every time. Because even if I behave like an imbecile on stage and someone else in the band is extraordinarily musically eloquent, then the audience keep looking at me. Let's be honest, it's a problem. But what more can we do? We've done our darndest, we really have, to exploit the band and not me."
It's been an uphill struggle though, hasn't it? People will always think of Michael Hutchence first whenever INXS is on the agenda.

"And the end of the day, it's worked against us. No matter how commited you are to the idea that we are six men together forging into the universe - the press, the people Entertainment Tonight, the Mail On Sunday, are not interested in these altruistic sensibilities. But, I've got to say this, when I started in this group, I was a dip-shit from Fuckoff, Nowhere, sitting in the back of the room shaking. You know, personally, I've never been able to find a public persona that works. When I walk into a room, sometimes, I can do it. Sometimes I can do it really well and I'm a great rock star. At other times, I'm just wallpaper. I don't know why it's like that. I'd hate to try and rationalise it."

How convincing a rock star are you?
"Very," he says instantly, "I really am a fucking great rock star. The others are pretenders. They have choreographers and people to do their hair, makeup artists, managers who tell them what to wear. I've never fucking done that. Ever. Rock 'n' roll for me is about more than music. It comes from a thousand years ago and a tousand years in the future, if that makes any sense..."
Absolutely none whatsoever but carry on...
"Rock 'n' roll is 51 per cent music and 49 per cent who is playing that music, what they look like, what attitude they have. And I'm very happy with that. I fucking adore that. I love Elvis, I love John Lee Hooker and JB, Aretha Franklin. I love fucking Suede. His lyrics are brilliant. I love Creep by Radiohead. I love this new-found depth in bands."
What happened to your acid house infatuation?
"Did you have to bring that up?" he laughs. "I was into acid house heavily for a couple of years. It was wonderful. Then it stopped."
Why did you stop?
"I was rolling around on the floor with 14-year olds and thinking, Mmm, maybe I shouldn't be doing this. Not that I was being moral, I just moved on. It was part of my life and....God, I had a fucking great time though. When I first got into Ecstacy I had a guy on the road with me with a big jar of it. El Grando! It was almost the break up of the band. You know, Hi, this is Roger the drug person; he'll be here for the whole tour. It was a weird time. I had a boom box with acid house on constantly, a strobe light in my dressing room, a smoke machine. I was an idiot. But a loveable idiot."
Have you got any drugs with you now?
"No, but I can get you some," he quips. "I take drugs now and again if that's what you're asking."
Do you see yourself as an entertainer?
"Oh fuck off! I hate that word. Entertainer. I might be entertaining but I'll never be an entertainer. Please. If you suddenly opened the door and said, Michael, I've got a hundred people here I'd like you to entertain. I'd be hiding in the cupboard. I don't know how to entertain. Maybe, darling, I just lose myself in performance."
Maybe you're an incorrigible show-off?
"Totally. I was thinking the other day that rock 'n' roll is the perfect scenario for people who need a lot of attention, who were ignored as kids."
That's an ancient theory. The "Look at me, Daddy" syndrome.
"Has someone else come up with that already? Shit, I thought I'd made that up. But it's true. It's the most indulged, ridiculous situation. It used to be that as a rock star everyone was happy if you killed yourself. Now they're happy if you jog."
Do you work out?
"Like Sting, I do yoga, and I'm learning to fuck for five hours at a time. In fact, I've already surpassed Sting. Five hours is just foreplay for me. It's virtually premature ejaculation, mate. Ha! Try 12 hours! That's fucking! And I've really got into kick boxing. A friend of mine is a kick boxing champion in Australia. It's a wonderful discipline. It's not just beating the shit out of people either, there's a hell of a lot of philosophy that comes with it. It gives you this real power. A very calm confidence. It's something I really want to learn."
Where are you in terms of your own personal development?
"I've no fucking idea sometimes," he frowns. "I'm blessed with a certain richness that I now appreciate. And I don't mean money."
Despite being worth 10 million pounds?
"Yeah, despite that," he tuts, rolling his eyes heavenwards. "I mean rich in friends, companionship, love, and all that stuff."

What do people think of Michael Hutchence?
"It's somewhere between. He's a sexy little guy pushing his tush around and, Mm, maybe we should have a second look at this bloke. I've never really been taken seriously by the right kind of people and I think I should be. Fucking right. How do you think I'm perceived?"
As a lightweight, super-model-shagging itinerant by some. As an intriguing, sensitive, sexually attractive singer by others.
"Really?" he raises an eyebrow suspiciously. "Ok. the idea that I'm a restless gypsy is weird. That, tomorrow, I'll go and live in Zanzibar! idea isn't really true. But the general perception of me, it's irrataing because I write better fucking lyrics and I sing better songs....Oh, what's the point?"

How's Helena (Hutchence is currently stepping out with Danish model Helena Christensen)? "We've been together since the first night we met, like two years ago. We've been spending a lot of time in Paris. It's very fine. Very fine. She's in Rome filming with Fellini at the moment. Can you beleive that?"
Are you in love?
"Mmm."
You're a bit of a hound for falling in love, aren't you?
"Oh who isn't? I think I used to be a lot more childish about it. I confused lust and love constantly. But my life at the moment has reached a point that I wouldn't have thought possible. It's not that eloborate or fabulous, it's just that I've got a place to live, good friends to be with, good wine, food, great conversation, books, no television. It's what I've always wanted but never really had."
Sickening isn't it? You're handsome, talented, wealthy, got a beautiful girlfriend and now you're happy as well.
"Yeah, it is sickening." He spreads his arms apologetically. "Sorry.....losers!" It is now 3:30am. The phone rings. Cripes! It's the girlfriend. "Bay-bee," he croons. "I was just talking about you!" He cups his hands around the receiver. "Hey," he hisses. "I'm about to talk very dirty. Get the fuck out."

As the band boards the midday Boston-New York shuttle the following day, the word is that Hutchence was dragged out of bed and made it to Manhattan in time for his early morning radio interviews. Indeed, as the taxi heads uptown along the East River, there he is on the wireless, mumbling about tonight's concert at New York's Academy.

Having shrugged off his hangover by teatime, Hutchence is back in the hotel bar, hammering the Cape Cods and recounting lurid tales from his "champagne, oyster and cocaine days. We'd just become well known and I went mad for a while. What I like to refer as my "dick" period."
"Used to fuck anything with a pulse," recalls Tim fondly.

There is some concern in the minibus en route from hotel to venue about tonight's guest list: Robert De Niro is down as "Bob", no-one is sure if the Prince Of Denmark's six guest's are accounted for and - a few rungs down the celebrity ladder - if Evian Dando shows up, will he be bringing the rest of the Lemonheads with him?

"Peace," shouts Hutchence as INXS conclude their New York set, "and don't trust the cavalry!" The band scamper off into the wings, grab bottles of Corona and swab themselves with towels. As the crowd bay for an encore, Kirk marvels at the size of a tuna sandwich he had at lunchtime, Hutchence nips off for a wee, a fag and a change of T-shirt and Tim waxes lyrical about a new golf club, a wood that you can use in the rough. Only Jon Farriss seems aware that 1,500 people, are waiting for them to reappear. "Let's keep 'em hanging on until they ask for us individually," he suggests impractically.

Encores successfully dispatched and sodden garments discarded. Hutchence flits around his candle-lit dressing room in tracksuit trousers, plaid shirt and spactacles (he is hopelessly myopic) coolly greeting the backstage back-slappers. Security men hover anxiously. A party has been organised a few blocks away and an alrmingly large horde of fans need to be negotiated in order to get the band into the bus. They needn't have worried. Hutchence breezes regally through them, mane-a-toss, a swift peck here, a hastily scrawled autograph there and he's on board with-out so much as spilling his drink.

He is already holding court in the corner of the Brasserie De Theatres by the time Andrew Farriss is waiting at the door, half-expecting to be refused entry. Having clambered over a gaggle of media slags and supermodels, Hutchence sashays through the throng to embrace his co-writer, "Darling! They let you in!" Farriss looks on with a wryly affectionate smile. He might write those monumental tunes but Michael Hutchence, even if he says so himself, is a fucking great rock star.