LAST time I saw Billy Boyd he was presenting the award for best film at the Empire magazine televised luvvie fest. This time next year he might just be back, but, rather than doling out such fleetingly glittering prizes, he might just be picking one up. Because, bizarre as it sounds, the same Billy Boyd you've seen in Christmas shows at Edinburgh's Royal Lyceum Theatre, and who you're about to see in Stephen Greenhorn's adaptation of Belgian playwright Arne Sierens rock 'n' roll love-fest, The Ballad Of Crazy Paola at The Traverse, has spent the bulk of the past two years in New Zealand filming the long-awaited big-screen adaptation of Tolkien's hippy-dippy Dungeons and Dragons cult doorstopper, Lord of the Rings, trailers for which are currently playing at a
multiplex near you.
Boyd is playing Pippen, one of the Hobbits, those pesky, slightly stunted little rogues at the heart of the story's multi-layered sword-and-sorcery tomfoolery. Hence the unwarranted round of press interviews Boyd is currently being called upon to undertake by just about every hack in the land.
It's a familiar scenario. Scotland's latest great white showbiz hope is about to hit the big time for five minutes, sprawled across the cover of every no-imagination magazine around in strict, not to say heavy, rotation with Ewan, Bobby, Dougray, Daniela, and co. Just one more micro-celeb to help kid ourselves everything Scottish is good, ergo everything that is good must be Scottish. Except, none of this will be any of Billy's fault. It's just what happens in a culturally insecure country desperate for an heir apparent to Big Tam Connery, but consistently sold short with a production line of young pretenders.
And anyway, Boyd was offered the gig for goodness sake. What's he supposed to do? Say nah, no thanks, Mister, I prefer to play in my own, admittedly minuscule back yard and be a big man? Not likely, matey, so-called Scottish film industry renaissance or no. This is blockbuster territory, and was quite rightly embraced with open arms. And, even if he did feel a bit daft at the Empire awards 'cos no-one knew who he was, stuck at a table rubbing shoulders with the greats, as junkets go it was a rather tidy intro to the tinsel-town glitz he's going to have to get used to pretty darn sharpish. As, indeed, he is too with the media circus that's set to crawl all over him like the smarmiest of rashes. Because, while he's affable enough, happy to chunter on in between rehearsals, he's not quite got the hang of this interview malarkey yet, despite having banged on and on about Lord of the Rings to
all the major film glossies ad infinitum already.
''It's amazing the attention it's getting already,'' says Boyd, with an expression on his face that partly suggests he's still blinking into the headlights, if not the soon-come, none-stop camera flash, but with an old lag's assuredness borne of a couple of years being tended to in his new Zealand trailer. ''The whole thing's been very strange, but in a really exciting way.''
But enough already. You'll be hearing more about Lord of the Rings than you can shake a magic wand at soon enough in this and plenty other organs. We're here, after all, to talk about The Ballad Of Crazy Paola, in which he plays taciturn drum teacher Raymond, whose latest pupil turns out to be the son of his dead half-brother, Serge, a live-fast die- young drummer whose muse, Paola, is the boy's mother. Think John and Yoko, Sid and Nancy, or Kurt and Courtney, and the intensity of Serge and Paola's burnt-out, not fade away romance becomes instantly apparent.
''Raymond was always on the outside,'' according to Boyd. ''He never really fitted in, and never took the chances Serge did. Now here he is in his thirties playing with guys half his age.''
While it's not clear yet whether he'll have to pick up sticks and tap something more than a toe onstage, The Ballad of Crazy Paola won't be the first time Boyd has played a drummer. Which takes us back to his first brush with the silver screen, in the largely unsung Brit-flick, the marvellously monickered Julie and the Cadillacs. It told the less than swinging story of the aforementioned Julie, a sixties chick who fronted a bunch of lovable mop-top musos who made the traditional trek to London, and almost made it big. ''We're from Liverpool,'' said one hopefully, in a bizarre nasal brogue of his own design. ''Except our drummer. He's Scottish.''
Sure enough, there was Billy, grinning away in an unnecessarily cheeky Scouse fashion. Being a musical, everyone was occasionally forced to burst into song, wiggle their hips and generally act the daftie a la Absolute Beginners on a 50p budget. In terms of credibility, that Toyah played the band's manager speaks volumes. The girl who played Julie wound up in the soap that nobody watches, Family Affairs, thus prompting Channel 5 to shove Julie and the Cadillacs into the schedule one afternoon last summer. It could be a cult yet. Look how long it took Tolkien to get there.
Boyd is understandably coy about the Julie and the Cadillacs experience, though watching the film is an abject lesson in how not to do pop music onscreen. Not as bad as Spice World, perhaps, but then, what is? Onstage, such sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll histrionics can look even naffer, especially if over-trendified by baby boomer Woodstock casualties or the latter-day equivalent of middle-aged punks gone legit. Having played in bands himself, Boyd recognises the pitfalls of getting it wrong.
''Being in a band is a really intense thing,'' he says, ''because for ages I used to wonder why some bands sounded good and we sounded like we were playing four different things. I thought it was something magical that happened, but it was just practice, and when it did gel it was something special.''
Even so, the hedonistic side of the music scene never really appealed. ''We were playing at that time in the eighties, when you were still able to say something lyrically in your music,'' he says, ''and as the singer, that's really more what I was about. I was more Raymond than Serge.''
From Glasgow's east end, Boyd was drawn to performing from school age, and, while he clearly showed promise beyond the hobbyish, his background suggested he should opt for a trade with a more solid foundation, and he became an apprentice bookbinder. Over the next six years he'd bind books by day and play the Glasgow pub circuit with his band by night. As each book came together, he'd make time to read it, front to back, coverless to coverless, as it were. One volume that went through his hands though was simply too big, too unwieldy even to browse through at one, two, or even three sittings. It was Lord of the Rings.
It could have, but probably wasn't, that book's magical propensities that caused Boyd to take stock of where he was at, jack the job in, and apply for drama school. ''Something just clicked,'' he says, ''and it just seemed right.'' He was abroad, taking time out, when he heard he'd been accepted.
Boyd's last major stage role was in The Traverse production of David Greig's imagined history epic, The Speculator. Since then, he's not only read Lord of the Rings, but lived it. A fantasy life, as rock 'n' roll as they come. ''I suppose so,'' he grins, relishing the memory. ''It's been all right, aye.''
Boyd checks his watch. He's running to a strict schedule, and time's up. Another interview at teatime and two more tomorrow. Could be the start of something big. ''What happens after this, I don't know,'' he says, getting the hang of the interview business. Offers are out, and he's co-scripting a movie of his own which may see the light of day at some point. ''Next year it might be back to square one.'' Considering that was the Empire awards, square one sounds like a pretty good place to be.
The Ballad of Crazy Paola, Traverse Theatre, Edinburgh, previews October 5-7, then October 9-20, then touring. Lord of the Rings opens in December.
