Paper Magazine - 1 June 2003

Mark Ronson Escapes From The DJ Booth

Outside of Beverly Bond's weekly party at Joe's Pub, Mark Ronson (who is a DJ, though he does not like it when you call him that) is sitting in the front seat of a Mercedes-Benz SUV. A cluster of his friends, hip-hop guys turned out in Phat Farm and Roca Wear, crowd around. "They want to hear something off the album," he explains through an open window. "The track with Ghostface Killah." Ah, Ghostface. The SUV isn't Mark's, but the album they're talking about is. Music moguls, take note: the rich young kid who started out DJ-ing for party god Peter Gatien at Club USA ten years ago and became a $5,000-per-hour lure for fashion bashes, is finally making music of his own.

Before we found the Benz, I met Mark back at his "bunker," a scuzzy music studio in Tribeca where he's working on songs with his little sister Samantha and rapper-on-the-rise Saigon. "I like to work 20 hours a day sometimes. I can stay here all night if I want," Mark told me as he fiddled with equalizers.

In one of the rooms, maracas, record crates and keyboards were strewn at Mark's feet next to paint cans and utility buckets. Dusty plaques with inscriptions like, "This is to commemorate the sale of 11 million albums of The Chronic," were stacked in corners. After some heated two-way paging, Mark's sister Sam left to meet Roc-A-Fella Records CEO Damon Dash for drinks. Saigon ("Think of him as the next 50 Cent," Mark explained) stayed behind with us.

Our first stop was Joe's Pub, where Mark chatted with Guru from the rap duo Gang Starr. Girls in snug sweatsuits bopped around to DJ scratching and soul standards by Zapp and Michael Jackson. It smelled like weed. Mark -- who's DJ'd everywhere from the Playboy Lounge to Notorious B.I.G.'s last birthday party to a White House Correspondents' dinner -- considered spinning a set (he carries a Milkcrate backpack with him everywhere, just in case). "Nah, I just don't wanna break the mood these guys have going," he explained. "I don't have the right records with me." After a while, Mark extracts himself from the throng, giving fisty hip-hop hugs. In the cab across town, Saigon, who just told me he's recently completed a seven-year prison sentence for allegedly shooting two people in Upstate New York, takes deep breaths of relief. "Yo, man, some shit was about to go down," he exclaims. Mark nods in agreement. "That was close, man. I can't believe he was there." They later explained to me that Saigon had been in a fight at a club the night before and things hadn't entirely cooled down.

The evening's distinct hip-hop flavor seemed a little preposterous, considering that Mark grew up down the street from Paul and Linda McCartney in London before moving to a five-story mansion on Central Park West. His mom is British socialite Ann Dexter Jones, his stepdad wrote Foreigner's "I Want to Know What Love Is," and his biological father collaborated with Bowie and co-wrote "Jack and Diane." Mark has a set of textbook-cool twin sisters (Sam is also a DJ, Charlotte designs clothes) and famous family friends (Jann Wenner, Sean Lennon). Model Frankie Rayder is one of his ex-girlfriends, and Rashida JonesQuincy and The Mod Squad's Peggy Lipton, is his fiance.

That upbringing begat serious ambition and a vast coil of connections. Mark's debut album, Here Comes the Fuzz (Elektra), reflects both. Produced entirely by Mark, the clutch of pop and hip-hop tracks features vocals from a ridiculously wide array of guests, including Jack White, Rivers Cuomo, Ghostface Killah, Q-Tip, dancehall ace Sean Paul and Nikka Costa.

"Sheryl Crow called me today. She wants me to do a song for her," he tells me over a slice of pizza in the West Village. "I'm never gonna say 'no' to Sheryl Crow. She's five billion times bigger than me, and she's dope." Mark never takes his connections for granted. "The first time Q-Tip called me, I saved the voice mail for six months," he says. Guru's was also saved for a while, and he still has the message from Ghostface.

But despite all the hook-ups, it could be a tough sell to peddle a Mark Ronson album outside Manhattan. Heck, even on the island he has trouble. "I feel like I'm constantly fighting a credibility issue," Mark laments. "The label 'celebrity DJ' is totally wanky. There's no celebrity-anything else in other fields."

A little later when we get to Joey's bar on Avenue B, Rashida, Mark's fiancee, appears. We chat about the smoking ban (she and Mark recently quit; it's been tough) and the recording studio/bunker ("Oh, man," she says when this comes up, wrinkling her nose knowingly). Mark clowns around with his pal Max LeRoy (son of the late Warner, who owned Tavern on the Green and the now-defunct Russian Tea Room), and the now-defunct Russian Tea Room), and eventually we set out for a party at Don Hill's.

The crowd at the long-running rock 'n' roll party is part models/low-watt celebs and part college kids who don't recognize them -- perfect social symbiosis! Model/actress Rie Rasmussen (the one who makes out with Rebecca Romijn-Stamos in Femme Fatale) sauntered past us outside, and Sopranos star Drea de Matteo is jumping around near the entrance when we walk in. As Saigon disappears into the crowd, a pack of guys who look like they're on the way to Shea Stadium crowd around Mark at the bar. Grinning, Mark introduces each of them as an old friend from childhood or high school and turns to Rashida, who's beside him. The two of them throw back shots of tequila, "Summer Nights" from Grease starts playing, and nobody even flinches.

By Meghan Sutherland
Photos by Caroline Torem Roeg
Source: Paper Magazine