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Maybe she’ll take acting lessons in L.A. She’s not sure. Meanwhile, she’s spending a few months in the Hollywood Hills with Jake and Ciara and Jeneal and a little dog named Muffy, a long-haired Chihuahua. For all that is unconventional and playful, her household seems surprisingly efficient. She eventually did get married to Jake’s father, drummer John Reynolds, but they only lived together briefly. “He’s my best friend,” she explains, “but marriage isn’t for me.” Now that she’s feeling pretty good, she has to figure out what she wants to learn next. She doesn’t know when she’ll make another record, but she says she has no plans to have another number-one record.
“No,” she said. “No.”
“No?” I asked.
“No, absolutely not,” she said. “That’s not the kind of artist that I am, luckily. Otherwise I’d never be taken seriously. Who gets taken seriously that puts out a number-one record? I’ll tell you who. No one, that’s who.”
“Well, let me think about that,” I requested.
“No, because then you’re immediately relegated into superstar status. And nobody . . . You’re pop then.”
“Well, I don’t know how many records John Lennon sold, but he was very . . . He sold a lot of records and he was taken seriously.”
“How many number-one records did he have?”
“I’m not sure,” I admitted.
“Well, there you go,” said Sinéad.
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