A VEGAN WHO SAYS CHEESE

Here's an article from the Globe & Mail, Wed. Oct 20th, 1999.

"A vegan who says cheese" - Lunch with Bryan Adams by Jan Wong

Bryan Adams wants to eat at Prego's. At least, that's what his publicist says. But when the rock star arrives 40 minutes late, he suggests moving to a nearby deli. Alas, I've already raided the bread basket, so he sits down.

His publicist has also nixed a photographer, the celeb logic of which escapes The Globes's photo department. After all, Adams is in Toronto to launch Made in Canada, his book of photographic portraits of 89 Canadian women. He'll be autographing copies of it on Friday at 7 p.m. at the opening of an exhibit of these photographs at the Royal Ontario Museum. (On view until Nov. 6. Free admission.)

Given that proceeds from Made in Canada go to the Canadian Breast Cancer Foundation, The Globe makes him an offer he can't refuse. There's a loaded camera on the table. If Adams will take a picture of himself, we'll pay him our $225 freelance rate which he can donate to the Breast Cancer Foundation. He says yes.

But first, Adams scans Prego's menu. He sets it down. Stars don't eat from menus. Adams, after all, is a three-time Oscar nominee, with 55 million records sold, plus duets with Celine Dion, Sporty Spice, Bonnie Raitt and Luciano Pavarotti.

Adams has been a vegan for the past decade. But, surprise, none of the salads - mesclun, romaine, endive - appeal to him. "We have arugula," says the waiter, mentioning a leafy green that's not on the menu. "Arugula," Adams nods. "With lime and oil." "Lemon and oil dressing?" the waiter says. "Lime(italicized)," Adams says. Next he wants a pizza. There are two on the menu, but neither will do. Adams wants a plain pizza, with a bit of cheese. The waiter nods and rushes off. But wait. Vegans aren't supposed to eat eggs, milk and cheese. "I love cheese, but I can't eat it," says Adams. "I pull it all off. It's just for flavour."

We first met late last March when he shot me for Made in Canada. Had I sutdied the faxed invitation about raising funds for breast-cancer research a bit more closely, I would have realized the photographer was the(italicized) Bryan Adams, not just another guy named Bryan Adams. "I remember we talked about lunch," he says. He did. During the photo shoot, he casually asked if I'd lunch him for this column. I laughed politely. After I reread the fax, I spent the next six months chasing down his publicist. "Are you serious? You really didn't know who I was?" says Adams. "I'm not the least bit offended."

He turns 40 in two weeks. But he's a walking video of his hit song, 18 til I Die, in shiny black designer jeans, a tight grey sweater, and despite his voluble veganism, leather biker boots.

His acne-ravaged skin contributes to his eternally boyish look. His complexion only settled down in his 30s when he became a vegan. Perhaps that's why he won't allow photographs of himself. At a TV studio in Toronto recently, he specified no close-ups. And he kept checking the monitors to make sure.

Like a student, Adams carries a backpack. Inside it, he tucks a trendy new cellphone with a tiny ear piece. Fear of brain cancer, he explains. But when he takes a call at lunch, it just looks like he's lost his mind. He sits there hunched over, chatting by himself to his backpack.

Adams was born in Kingston, Ont., the oldest son of English immigrants. His father was in the British and Canadian armies, later a United Nations observer and eventually a Canadian embassy visa officer. Adams grew up in England, Portugal, Austria and Isreal, before moving to Vancouver with his mother and brother when his parents split up.

He always wanted to be a drummer. His father, who loathed rock music, disapproved. At 10, Adams got a Spanish acoustical guitar for Christmas, but no lessons. So he listened to records and figured out the chords by himself.

To this day, he can't read music. He plays entirely by ear, and can mimic a melody after hearing it only once. And although he has a $3-million recording studio in Vancouver, he "writes" by switching on a tape recorder.

At 5 feet 8 inches and 150 pounds, Adams is surprisingly scrawny. When his salad arrives with the correct lime dressing, he tucks his napkin into the collar of his sweatter and digs in. His pizza arrives. He eats it. He does not(italicized) pull off the cheese.

He was always, he says, serious about music. At 15, he dropped out of high school, determined to carve a career in music. "There was something inside of me - I knew I would stay in music, whether work in a record store, a roadie (the guys who slog gear) or work in a band," he says. "My first band was Shock, and we were shockingly bad."

He grew his famously dirty blond hair "past my nipples." At this lunch, it is relatively short and looks greasy. Either he's applied gel, or he may just be badly in need of a shampoo. He won't say which. "I have a bath once a week," he deadpans, "even if I don't need it." He didn't speak to his father for years. When his mother moved in with her boyfriend, Adams, then 17, got his own apartment - and took his 16-year-old brother with him. Today, he is close to his whole family, especially his mother, whom he calls "the classic British eccentric." He pauses. "And I mean that in the sweetest, most endearing way." His mom supported his foray into rock. She also advised him to avoid being "frivolous" and to "make a good go of it."

In 1976, when he was 16, he went to hear a band called Sweeney Todd. After the show, he sought out the producer and said he could sing way better than the lead vocalist. He got the job.

"You have to have insane self-confidence that you're going to get through this," he says, explaining how he copes with being a high-school dropout. "You end up getting an education another way. I ended up reading a lot of books I should have read, way after school."

Adams, who has dual citizenship, now lives in London. He once flubbed the updated lyrics to O Canada at an NHL all-star game in Vancouver. But he considers himself a staunch Canadian.

His blue-grey eyes are sharp. Unaided by glasses, contacts or laser surgery, he can read my list of questions sideways and across the table. He isn't happy about the section on his love life. Sample: Is he still with his long-term girlfriend, Danish model Cecilie Thomsen, a Bond girl in Tomorrow Never Dies? Answer: No comment. Sample: He cuddles with supermodel Linda Evangelista on the cover of a CD he did for breast-cancer research in the U.S. Did they have an affair? If not, why not? Answer: "That's for me to know and you to find out," he says with a grin. "I love women." He certainly loved photographing them, even though, between his schedule and theirs, it was a logistical nightmare. "I didn't have any trouble with anybody," he says diplomatically. Indeed, a mole confirms the majority of big names were utterly cooperative. Still, some women demanded a limo pickup. Others requested touchups and airbrushing before approving their photos. Margaret Atwood was only available in London or Paris.

Ontario Lieutenant-Governor Hilary Weston, who had six fur coats in her front closet, didn't want to be portrayed as a socialite. Flare magazine, which sponsored Made in Canada, conducted long negotiations over her pose. In the end, she vetoed the photo Flare liked, and chose a more regal one.

Actress Sarah Polley was out of sorts because the last time Flare ran a photo of her, the accompanying article noted that she had stood the writer up three times. ("Not just cancelled," said the mole. "She just didn't show up.")

Inevitably, many prominent women are missing. About 10 women didn't make the final cut. Scheduling didn't work out with Sheila Copps, Kate Nelligan and Buffy Sainte-Marie. As for Adrienne Clarkson, Canada's new Governor-General, "her name never came up," says Adams.

The final battle was over the book cover. Flare magazine wanted to put Pamela Anderson Lee, naked but for a Canadian flag, on the cover. Adams wanted Donna, a Vancouver friend he had known since he was 17. He won.

Donna, whom he won't identify by her last name, had breast cancer. She is beautiful, with liquid dark eyes, a gentle smile and a head rendered bald by chemotherapy. "She died shortly afterward," he says. "She never saw her photo."

Adams is told that not many male rock stars have given their time to a female disease. Who can imagine Mick Jagger doing this? "Breast cancer doesn't only affect women," he says. After lunch, we walk across the street to the Royal Ontario Museum. He can't wait to see my reaction to my portrait. After all, I got to put on a $700 Armani outfit, have my hair done by a New York stylist and my face painted by a makeup artist who has her own agent.

But in my photo, I'm out of focus, my eyes are shut and the clothes make me look like a Viet Cong peasant. But never mind. Sarah Polley, who refused all hair and makeup treatment, ended up with only half a face.

Inside the exhibit, Adams takes his own photo for The Globe. It turned out blurry, but it's unmistakably Bryan. He'll get the $225 - and the photo credit.

Take me back where we started!