1979–1983
I settled in Frankfurt and resumed my romantic and working relationship with rock promoter Mike Scheller, who I first met on the Santana tour. For the next four years I worked with a number of bands, including Phil Collins, Queen, Led Zeppelin, Grateful Dead, Frank Zappa, Santana, Fleetwood Mac, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Boston, Electric Light Orchestra, and lesser-known artists such as Italian recording artist Angelo Branduardi and the English postpunk band Echo and the Bunnymen. Along the way, in airports, hotel lobbies, and trips back to England, I reconnected with Mick Jagger, George Harrison, and Eric Clapton, and I stayed in close touch with my three best friends, Pattie, Maureen, and Astrid.
But for most of those years I drifted, lost, alone, depressed. I’d lost my identity somewhere along the way. Everything I’d once called family was all torn up or shuffled around. Pattie was with Eric. Eric was in deep trouble with alcohol. George was with Olivia. Ringo and Maureen were divorced. Ringo was living with Barbara Bach. Bill and Astrid were having problems. My memories from that period of time are all mixed up. The best I can do is to tell the stories that come back to me now like dreams, fragmented yet still somewhat whole in my mind. These bits and pieces of memory are out of sync. They connect with each other only in the larger story they tell about my deepening depression, my loss of self, and my spiraling drug addiction.
Mike and I drank a lot, but it was a new level of drinking. We’d mix schnapps with beer or wine and top it off with cocaine. That was our evening routine for a while, and then it became an afternoon ritual. After a while, the first thing we’d do in the morning was pop a beer.
I was in a bad state. Mike would often stay late at the office, and I’d lie on the couch in our apartment and cry. I just felt so—useless. It was the same feeling I had when I moved to Los Angeles with Leon. I was someone’s old lady, and that was the beginning and the end of my identity. I had no sense of purpose, no goals, no role to play except being Mike’s girlfriend, and I hated my dependence on him, but I didn’t know what to do. I’d lie on the couch, feeling sorry for myself and listening to the Eagles’ new album, The long Run. I loved the song “I Can’t Tell You Why” because the lyrics described my life perfectly. I’d stay up all night, wanting to hold tight to Mike but loathing myself for being so needy, loving him, hating him, tearing myself apart, tearing us apart, oh so lonely but with no idea why I was so utterly miserable or what I could possibly do to turn my life around.
Everything had changed. I couldn’t go backward and I couldn’t go forward. Loving Mike, knowing that he loved me, wasn’t enough. I needed work, a job, something that would give my life meaning and purpose. My work had always shaped my identity, but with nothing to do and no set routine to follow, I was getting perilously close to the sense that I had no value.
Well, I couldn’t go on living like that. I had to do something, so I decided to learn German. I bought a book and a tape and spent hours studying and talking to myself. Lieben. Ich liebe dich. Du libst mich. To love. I love you. You love me.
It was a start.
Mike sent me on tour, first, with Angelo Branduardi, a tiny elflike man with a long, crooked nose, heavy-lidded eyes, deeply etched smile lines, and a swirling halo of curly hair. Angelo was an old soul. His music, so positive and hopeful, evoked memories of long-ago times and faraway places where people believed in fairies and witches, and the line between good and evil was finely drawn. Every time I watched him onstage, the audience spellbound, I thought about Pattie’s comment comparing musicians to Pied Pipers with adoring crowds following them wherever they go.
We traveled by bus through the German countryside, and the highlight of the day was stopping for a meal. The rumbling would start at the back of the bus, mangiamo, mangiamo, let’s eat, let’s eat, and soon they’d be chanting the refrain, just like little kids moaning and groaning in the backseat, endlessly repeating, “I’m hungry, when are we going to eat?” until finally the bus stopped, and they’d all pile out, barely able to contain their excitement. Mangiamo, mangiamo!
I couldn’t speak Italian, and the band and crew didn’t speak much English, so we couldn’t communicate very well, which was frustrating at times. But I did learn a few choice Italian phrases. Fuck you. Let’s eat. let’s go. Now that I think about it, those words pretty much sum up the touring experience.
Phil Collins was not like any rock star I’d ever met. “How are you?” he’d always say, putting the emphasis on “you.” A round-faced, happy guy with gentle eyes and a great smile, he made you feel good just being near him. Phil was so unusual because he never displayed that nervous, hypersensitive, high-strung side that so many musicians have, the “I’m the star, take care of me” attitude that almost defines the rock star personality. He wasn’t a big drinker and didn’t use drugs as far as I knew, so maybe that explains some of it. Truthfully, though, I think he was just one of those people who was born happy and, at least for the time I knew him, hadn’t figured out how to ruin it.
When Queen arrived in Cologne, Germany, for their tour, Mike sent me to the airport to greet them. I was in the lead limo, two limos following behind us, and we hit a huge traffic jam on the autobahn. After what seemed like hours of frantic pleading with the limo driver, I finally talked him into pulling onto the shoulder and driving on the grass divider, right past all the traffic, but we were late and I was freaking out because Queen was a big group, and they were used to being pampered. I knew exactly what I was walking into when the limo pulled up to the curb. Deep shit. I walked into the terminal and the whole group of them, tour staff included, glared at me. They were pissed.
I was not a popular person that day, and I didn’t like that feeling one little bit. I wasn’t used to being unpopular on tour; I was the one who made people laugh, who kept up their spirits, poured their drinks, took care of their problems, and made sure they were fed, slept well, and woke up on time. After a few days, though, things began to loosen up. Roger Taylor was the first to be nice to me and then slowly the others came around as they started to trust me and have faith that I wasn’t going to screw up again.
Queen was such an exciting band to watch, so tight and together. With most bands, even with the Stones and Dylan, I’d stand out front or on the side of the stage, listen to a few songs, and then go backstage and relax with a drink and a magazine, skipping most of the concert. But I never missed a song with Queen.
I have two strong memories of that tour. One day Roger Taylor, Mike Scheller, and I were at a restaurant when a friend who worked at Deutsche Grammophon walked in and handed me a beautiful boxed set of Beatles albums. Roger knew I had worked for the Beatles and he watched me intently for a moment as I looked at the individual albums and repeated some of the song titles.
“Wait a second,” he said, leaning across the table. “Your last name is O’Dell, right? Chris O’Dell? Are you the Miss O’Dell in the George Harrison song?”
“Yeah,” I said, feeling a little embarrassed. When I was touring with other bands, I didn’t like to bring up my connection with the Beatles or the Stones. Oh sure, every once in a while I’d throw it in as a power play if someone was ignoring me or treating me like shit. But for most of my touring years, I was reluctant to even talk about my past because it felt like bragging or one-upmanship. I didn’t want to take away from the present moment; my job, after all, was to make each group feel that they were special and unique, the entire focus of my world for the time we were together.
“Wow, I didn’t know that! You’re famous!” Roger lifted his glass to me, and I saw the change in his face, the subtle shift in his attitude as he realized that I had worked for the Beatles and become close enough to George that he had written a song about me.
My second favorite Queen story took place in Munich after the final show. The local promoter invited us to a popular club, which he’d reserved just for the band, road crew, tour staff, and friends. What a wild night. In the midst of all the fun, Freddie Mercury asked me if I had any coke. Well, I just happened to have some with me.
“Yeah,” I smiled. “You want some?”
We found a broom closet, shut the door, snorted a few thick lines, told a few good jokes. It was a lot of fun. I love to tell people that I was the one who put Freddie Mercury back in the closet.
During the Fleetwood Mac tour I was standing in a hotel in Cologne talking to Lindsey Buckingham and John McVie when who should come strutting into the lobby but Mick Jagger. He walked straight toward me and gave me a big fat kiss on the cheek. Lindsey, who was in absolute awe of Mick, looked at John as if to say, “Who is this chick we’re touring with?” I smiled to myself. Mick gave me instant credibility, and that felt good. Touring with the bands, big and small, in Germany, I was always slightly on the outside, a stranger the musicians and road crew got to know in the days or weeks of the tour, only to be forgotten when the tour was over. But once upon a time, I’d been on the inside, and Mick Jagger had not forgotten me.
Led Zeppelin, the Grateful Dead, Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young, Electric Light Orchestra—I remember bits and pieces of those tours. I loved ELO, which surprised me because I’d dismissed them as a sort of “bubblegummy” group. I remember raving to George about the band and feeling happy when George told me later that I was the one who had turned him on to Jeff Lynne, who would become one of his closest friends. Led Zeppelin wasn’t my kind of band, a little too hard-rocky, but I thought Robert Plant was beautiful with his blond corkscrew curls. I kept wishing he’d make a pass at me.
Bobby Weir of the Grateful Dead told me a really sad story. My old friend Frankie from the Hells Angels’ days at Apple shot herself in the stomach. “She got really weird,” Bobby said, shaking his head in amazement. “She lived through it, but man, it was strange.” I couldn’t quite believe the story; the bubbly, fun-loving Frankie I knew wouldn’t shoot herself. What went wrong? I’d never seen her act depressed. What had she been hiding? Perhaps the depth of her emotions was masked by her drug use. It never occurred to me then that the drugs might have caused the depression. Back then we all equated drinking and drug use with fun and craziness, wacky behavior for sure, but not depression—drugs took you up, not down! We were just so damn clueless about drugs, even as people all around us were dropping off the face of the earth.
Eric Clapton stopped in Frankfurt on his way back from Poland, and I decided to surprise him at the airport.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he said, half laughing, half serious when he saw me waiting outside customs and immigration.
“I thought you’d like a welcoming committee.” I had expected his reaction, steeled myself for it, and figured I’d power right through it. He was married to my best friend, so I couldn’t exactly ignore him. We went back to his hotel for a few hours and had a good talk.
“You know, Chris, sometimes you make me so angry,” he said after we’d both had a few drinks.
“Well, that’s pretty obvious,” I said. Nothing like the truth.
“Yeah, I was writing in my journal just the other day,” he said, “about how I really love you, but I can’t stand it when you and Pattie are together.”
I’d always known, deep down, that Eric was jealous of my friendship with Pattie, but it sure felt good to hear it from him.
Frank Zappa came to town for an outdoor rock festival, and it was raining so hard that the band had to leave the stage. Water and electricity do not mix. I’d had a lot to drink that day, and for some reason I got it in my head that I could entertain the crowd until the band returned. I walked to the front of the stage and started clapping my hands. People in the front rows were laughing and clapping, which encouraged me to continue making an ass of myself until I finally got bored (not to mention drenched) and left the stage.
The next morning I woke up feeling so sick—physically, mentally, emotionally, spiritually—that I knew it had to stop. I went to a Twelve Step meeting and for the first time, in German, I admitted that I was an alcoholic. “Ich bin ein Alkoholerin,” I said. I stayed sober for three weeks that time and when I started drinking again, Mike was clearly relieved. He missed his old drinking buddy.
Mike went bankrupt, and Pattie suggested that I ask George for a loan. I flew to England and spent several days at Friar Park before I found the courage to bring up the subject. I just kept thinking about the time, that long-ago spring at Friar Park, when George got into a little rant about taxes. “I have to earn a hundred pounds just to buy a pack of ciggies,” he said. “The government takes the fucking rest.”
“So you wanted to talk to me,” George said. We were in the kitchen drinking tea, just like the old days, but on this particular morning I was feeling terribly uncomfortable. George didn’t like parting with his money, and he liked even less people who took advantage of him. Would he think I was using him somehow? Would my request for a loan threaten our friendship?
“Yeah,” I said, not sure how to start.
“Well, let me tell you this, Chris,” George said, trying to ease my discomfort. “Whatever you want, you’ve got it.”
I was so grateful to George for making it easier for me and stumbled around trying to explain why I was asking him for the loan. “If I were able to invest in the company,” I said, “I’d be an equal partner and then maybe I’d be able to set aside some money for my future.”
“How much do you need?” George said. He didn’t really want an explanation.
“Six thousand pounds.”
George smiled. “Well, it turns out that I have that exact amount upstairs. I just sold a car.”
He walked upstairs and came back with a money bag holding exactly six thousand pounds.
“I’ll pay you back,” I promised.
“That would be okay, but the truth is, I don’t want this to come between us,” George said. “I do have one favor to ask, though. Don’t go around telling people I gave you money because then everyone will be lining up outside my door.”
I will always regret asking George for that money. Years later we talked about that day and I told him how sorry I was that I’d put him in such an awkward position.
“I never should have asked you for a loan.” I paused, feeling a little ashamed. “And I never did pay you back.”
“Oh, Chris.” He laughed. “That wasn’t a loan, it was a gift. Don’t worry about it.”
I flew back to Germany with the bag of cash, and Mike and I registered a new company, which we called Modern Sounds Concerts. But nothing could save us at that point. The drinking and drugging got worse than ever, and Mike and I were miserable together, shouting at each other when we were drunk, refusing to talk to each other when we were sober, incapable of getting along but afraid to face life without each other. We both knew it had to end.
My touring days were coming to an end, too. I knew for sure that I was done, over, finished, kaput when Mike asked me to work with groups that I had never heard of before. Like Echo and the Bunny-men.
One night one of the Bunnymen, sweating profusely after the show, asked me to fetch him a towel. Now if he had been George or Mick or Bob—or Angelo, Roger, Phil, Frank, Lindsey, or Freddie—I would have gotten him a towel and probably been happy to do it. But a Bunny-man?
“Get your own damn towel,” I snapped.
I was at the end and I knew it. Mike’s concert promotion business was headed into bankruptcy for the second time (and, with George’s loan, I owned half of it). We were drinking all day and all night, and every morning I’d wake up with a searing hangover, unable to think clearly, my emotions veering wildly out of control. I had no goals for the future, no purpose in the present, and I couldn’t go back to the past. I was drained, despairing, lost. My eyes were wandering, looking for someone to replace Mike, always a bad sign because the only way I knew how to break up with a boyfriend was to find a new one. I missed my closest friends—Pattie, Maureen, Astrid—and I missed my old life where anything seemed possible. Life in Germany had gotten all “too real,” as Ringo might have put it, and I had had enough of reality.
Time to leave. Time to end it with Mike. Time to get the hell out of Germany. Maureen invited me to stay with her in England, but first I decided to take a little vacation to visit Astrid. We had stayed in close touch, and whenever the Stones toured in Europe or the States, I’d try to find a way to meet up with them and spend a few days with her. The years had taken their toll on Astrid and Bill’s relationship, as he grew weary of her drug taking and she got fed up with his womanizing. After sixteen years together, they were breaking up and Astrid had isolated herself in their house in the South of France. The view from the villa, set high up on a hill in the quaint village of Saint-Paul de Vence, took my breath away. From the windows in my sky blue room I could see the town of Nice far off in the distance, and beyond, extending to the horizon, south, east and west, the sparkling Mediterranean Sea.