CHAPTER 1

SWEET SIXTEEN

I had a dream that I was sweet sixteen And could play in a rock and roll band I saw some guys that played guitar They said, “Come on if you think you can.” —“ROCK AND ROLL MADE ME WHAT I AM TODAY” (WRITTEN BY LITA FORD)

I GUESS I COULD START WITH WHEN I WAS BORN OR MY FIRST CONCERT OR the first time I picked up a guitar or something like that. We’ll get there. But if you want to know the moment when everything started to shift for me, it was my sixteenth birthday party.

It was a Saturday night in September 1974. I was going to turn sixteen in a few days, and my mom wanted to throw me a party at our house. I wasn’t really the type to have a Sweet Sixteen, but I told my mom I would invite some friends from school and we’d keep it small. My mother had my aunt Rose and uncle Wyman over; they were planning to play cards inside and keep an eye on the party in the backyard. My dad was on a fishing trip in Oregon and due back the following night.

We lived in Lakewood Village, the “safe part” of Long Beach, California. My parents chose the area because the schools were better than the ones in downtown Long Beach, though not in my opinion. They were too white-bread for me. By the time I got to the ninth grade, I begged my parents not to send me to Lakewood High. It was full of football players and cheerleaders, and I knew I wouldn’t fit in. I wanted to go to Long Beach Poly. Long Beach Poly was rivals with Compton High and a war zone. Behind wrought-iron walls that were approximately forty feet high, we would be searched for guns or knives with metal detectors. It was more like a prison yard than a high school. A thirty-minute bus ride across town for me, Long Beach Poly was full of Crips and gang fights, drugs, guns, drive-by shootings, and riots. Violence was a common occurrence, and then school administrators would shut down both schools for days. If they felt the schools were ready to rumble, or that a riot was about to start, we’d all be on high alert.

Poly was where I met three guys who liked to play rock music as much as I did: Marc Seawright, Anthony Bledsoe, and Kent Taylor. These were the guys who taught me you had to have dynamite in your soul to have dynamite in your guitar playing. We often would ditch school to go to somebody’s house to jam.

Mark Seawright, who played bass and sang, was a tall, intelligent, and handsome black guy who was a star football player. He wore a rainbow-colored wool hat with a little ball on top and reminded me of Jimi Hendrix. Anthony Bledsoe played guitar. He was a badass. He played with his thumb, never a pick, which I thought was so weird. The school was majority black; me and my friend Kent Taylor, who was our drummer, were minorities. Kent was tall and as skinny as a string bean, with long brown hair. At the time, he lived mostly in his car. We all met in this program called School of Educational Alternatives, or SEA for short. It was for kids with high IQs but low grade-point averages. Teachers said we “weren’t applying ourselves.” The truth was school just didn’t interest us in the least. Basically, we didn’t fit in the box. A few years later, one of my schoolteachers saw me in the rock magazines at Queen parties, or with Kiss, Alice Cooper, or Rod Stewart. He knew I would amount to something someday. So he let me slide and gave me the credits I needed to graduate.

I’d write notes for me, Mark, and Anthony and give them to the nurse’s office, which would then excuse us from school for the day. Why the nurse’s office bought my bullshit is beyond me. The hard part was trying to come up with a different illness for all of us. I also had to change my handwriting and the pens and paper I would use. Marc, Anthony, Kent, and I would go to the first few classes, sometimes just first period, then we would head to Norm’s Coffee Shop, where we would talk about what we were going to do when we were rich and famous rock stars. We would end up at someone’s house where we could jam. It didn’t matter whose house it was as long as we could rock out as loud as we wanted. Jimi Hendrix was a huge influence for all of us. We’d also play tons of Sabbath and Deep Purple. We knew it all by heart, and those were the songs on the set list for my birthday party that night.

At about eight P.M. on the night of my sixteenth birthday, the guys and I were in my driveway setting up to rock. A handful of friends had already arrived. As I mentioned, my mother had invited my father’s sister, Aunt Rose, and her husband, Uncle Wyman. They were playing cards inside. More people started to show up outside. My mother started making sandwiches for everybody. I said, “Mom, what are you doing?”

She said in her thick Italian accent, “Oh, Lita, the kids are drinking. I don’t want to see anyone get drunk.” What she didn’t know was that it was about to become a block party. Suddenly, more and more people were arriving. She finally gave up when she realized she didn’t have nearly enough bread. I went outside and started jamming with my band. My mother was getting a little nervous about the volume. We were playing so loud that they couldn’t hear or talk in the kitchen and the whole house was shaking. My relatives had to scream back and forth to each other to play cards.

“You got a nine of hearts?”

“No, Isa! You got a six of clubs?”

Our front and back yards were both full of kids. People kept coming with their own supplies of alcohol.

The party began spilling into the street and down the block. It was pandemonium. We kept playing. Police helicopters were starting to circle. Sirens blared from a distance in between songs. It took the cops a while to figure out where the chaos was coming from, because the streets were too full of kids and cars for them to get through easily. My mother was passing through the backyard looking for me. When she finally found me she said, “Lita, I was walking through the crowd and I noticed one of the kids was wearing a badge. Then I realized it was Officer Steve.”

My mother worked at St. Mary’s Medical Center, and the police officer knew her from there. Almost everyone in Long Beach knew my mother. Officer Steve screamed to her, “Lisa, this is your house?” (My mother’s name was Isabella, or Isa, but people here called her Lisa.)

“Yeah, this is my daughter’s sixteenth birthday party!” she screamed back.

“Since it’s your house, it’s okay. Just make sure you quit by midnight.” It was ten P.M. at that time. That’s when my father showed up a day earlier than expected. He wanted to surprise me for my birthday. I thought I was in big trouble, but instead he cracked open a beer and stood in the crowd to watch us play. My dad was the greatest. We shut down at midnight, as promised, and then we spent the next couple of hours cleaning up the entire neighborhood. There were soda cans, beer bottles, wine bottles, trash, and cigarette butts in the street, in the gutters, on the neighbors’ cars and lawns for several blocks. What a mess!

After the party, word got out about the girl in Long Beach who could play guitar. The following weekend some local band was doing a show at a party. I didn’t know who the musicians were—they were friends of a friend—and at the last minute their bass player pulled out. They called me and said, “We know you don’t know us, but would you play bass for us?”

“I don’t play bass,” I told them. “I play guitar.”

“You can figure it out.”

I guess I couldn’t argue with that. After all, I figured out how to play guitar by ear. How hard could it be? I thought to myself, and I said, “Okay.”

I ended up doing that show at some little club in Long Beach. Little did I know that people were there scouting for musicians. Back then, the LA music scene was a small world that thrived on word of mouth and people vouching for your talent. Word started to spread through Los Angeles that there was a girl who played bass. People were shocked that a female was playing hard rock. At that time it was unheard of.

I WAS TEN years old when I asked my mother for my first guitar. She bought me a Spanish-style acoustic guitar with nylon strings for my eleventh birthday. She also signed me up for lessons from a guy in a little studio around the corner. He taught me my first chords. Although I liked Creedence Clearwater Revival, it just wasn’t riffy enough for me. I wanted to play heavier stuff like Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, or Led Zeppelin. I quit going for lessons after two weeks and decided I could teach myself instead.

I liked playing, but I didn’t like that guitar. That kind of guitar was mostly for classical-style playing; it didn’t make the right kinds of sounds. I was looking for a rock-and-roll sound. The power and the grit that come out of heavy metal music and the way it makes people feel and act attracted me, and ever since I can remember I’ve been drawn to it. It’s more or less the attitude that I loved, and that attitude is a part of me, so I was able to relate to it more than to any other attitude in music. I wanted something with balls, with some aggression, and hard rock offered that. Seeing Black Sabbath in concert a few years later would confirm all my feelings about this music I loved. It’s just something that’s in my blood. It’s natural to me—like what color my eyes or my skin are. It’s a part of who I am.

I finally said to my mom, “I like playing guitar. And I want one with steel strings.” So, God bless my mom, she got me an acoustic guitar with steel strings for Christmas. Of course, that’s not what I wanted either, but I didn’t have the heart to tell her. I played that guitar for two more years until I was able to get a job and make enough money to buy my own electric guitar.

When I was learning to play, I found out that by listening to the records quietly you could hear the notes and mistakes better. At the time, my mom and dad had an old stereo system. It was this huge thing where the dials were in the top of the right side, the TV screen was in the middle, and the turntable was on the left. The entire system was bigger than I was! I would sneak back into our apartment and put on whatever solo I wanted to learn that day. I would quietly start dissecting the song. I love Jimmy Page, but I gotta say, he had the most mistakes. I learned his solos note for note. If it went by too fast for me, I would gently slide the needle on the turntable back in the grooves of the record, over and over and over, until I had pieced together an entire solo or song. By the time I was thirteen I had mastered them all.

Neighborhood friends would come over just to sit around and watch me play. I never grasped what the big deal was. They couldn’t understand why they couldn’t do it but I could. Never mind being a female. It didn’t occur to me while I was growing up that I was doing anything out of the ordinary by liking the type of music I did. No one told me that girls can’t do this. That never entered anyone’s mind at that time. Even though I had no female role models, it didn’t dawn on me that I was doing anything that hadn’t been done before.

I WOULD HAVE been excited that all these people were talking about my musical ability, but soon I was dealing with something I could not yet comprehend. I had gone out a few times with a guy named Davy, a guitar player who was a couple years older than I was. He was a cool guy with long hair and crooked teeth. We would play guitar together. He was more advanced than me, so he really taught me a lot. He was the one who taught me my vibrato. However, the consequences were bad news. I found out I was pregnant. I was only sixteen! Davy was a gentleman, but I didn’t want to tell him for fear he would try to talk me into marrying him and keeping the baby. I was just too young to deal with that. There was no chance of me raising a child at that point in my life: I wouldn’t have made a good mother at the age of sixteen. I had a friend, Karen, who had had an abortion not too long before this. I asked Karen what to do. She directed me to a medical facility where the doctors would give underage girls abortions. I couldn’t believe they would do it without any parental consent, but they agreed. I started making the arrangements.

I told my parents I was going hiking up to the mountains for the day. I said that I would be home later that night. It was horrible. I was a petrified little girl, alone, with a baby inside of me. I had so many questions, but nobody to answer them. What do I wear? What if the doctors are quacks? What if they destroy my insides? How long is the recovery and how do I excuse myself from school? The funny thing was there weren’t any mountains around where we lived. My parents never questioned me, though. They had complete faith and trust in me. But I had to do what I had to do. I had to betray my parents. I think they would have helped me and understood, but I didn’t want the drama or concern, so I just took it upon myself to go and get it done.

At this time many people were trying to outlaw abortions. They were picketing abortion clinics and chanting, “Stop killing babies.” It was all over the news. I felt like a murderer. But I knew that if I kept the baby, it would have to be raised by my parents, who both worked full-time. It wasn’t possible for us to have a child at that time. So I toughened up and went through with the abortion. All alone. I stayed away from Davy after that.

No one knew. The doctors were great, and everything went smoothly, thank God. But after the abortion, I was so upset. I never wanted to get pregnant again, so I told my mother that I was putting myself on birth-control pills. She didn’t argue. I was becoming sexually active and she knew it. It was the right thing to do.

Soon after that I went to a Halloween party where there was a palm-reading woman. I told her about the abortion. Karen and the palm reader were the only people who knew about it. I always wondered if the baby was a boy or a girl and I wanted to know. She told me it was a boy. I guess I was really meant to be with the boys. My instincts had already told me it was a boy: I still love him today, and sometimes wish I had never had that abortion. But I was a wild child. When I saw Black Sabbath as a thirteen-year-old, I knew I wanted to be a rock star. It became my dream, and I knew I was going to fulfill it. I saw the light at the end of the tunnel, guiding me toward that dream, and I knew it was real. My fantasy was to become the queen of rock and heavy metal: the one and only female guitar player of my stature. All the hurdles I was going to have to jump to make that dream come true weren’t going to be possible with a child to care for.

LET’S BACK UP a little before I get into the madness of the Runaways.

I was born in London to a British father, Harry Lenard Ford, whom everyone called Len, and an Italian mother, Isabella Benvenuto. At the age of twenty, my father found himself serving in the British army. Hitler’s Nazi Party had driven Britain and France to declare war on Germany, and that set the stage for what would become one of the most violent and largest armed conflicts in world history: World War II. Four years into the war, my father was stationed at Anzio beach in Italy, and as a result his battalion was one of more than twenty that took part in the Battle of Anzio, otherwise known as Operation Shingle. Of the thousand men in his troop at Anzio, my father was one of the nine who survived.

However, during the battle a stick grenade was launched toward him. A stick grenade is exactly what it sounds like: a stick that’s about fourteen inches long with a grenade at the end of it. It has a time-delay fuse of four to five seconds and an effective blast of about twelve to fourteen yards. My dad put up his hand to shield himself from the blast, and it blew off his middle and ring fingers. Ironically, his hand was left in the shape of the heavy metal horns. For the rest of his life, my father picked shrapnel out of his body when it would rise to the surface of his skin. He kept the pieces in a little jar in the medicine cabinet.

When he was hit, he was taken to the nearest medical facility, and while he was recovering in the hospital in Italy, he met my mother, Isabella Benvenuto. Benvenuto means “welcome” in Italian. My mother was a very loving and caring person. This is one reason why she was a nurse’s assistant during the war, and I think had I not been a musician, I would have been a nurse myself, because I like to care for and help people just like she did. She had volunteered her time tending to wounded soldiers at the hospital, and my father was one of the soldiers she helped.

My father had picked up on the Italian language and started to fall in love with her deep, passionate, and alluring Italian voice while he was still recovering. He learned to speak Italian fluently and became enamored of the entire Italian culture: their language, food, even Italian opera. My father would often say that the Italian people were the most passionate and caring he had ever met. What first attracted my mom to my father was the fact that he needed her help. He was also a survivor, and she was drawn to him for that reason. He was a lover and a gentleman who liked guns and motorcycles: a little on the James Dean side, but with a British accent. They were both in the war, going through hell at the same time. They were there to save and help each other, and they lived to tell about it. That bond became the foundation for the love they had for each other. He was discharged from combat with two missing fingers and a wounded face, but he had fallen in love with my mother and asked for her hand in marriage. They were married on January 19, 1945, in Trieste, Italy, where the mountains meet the sea.

After they honeymooned in Trieste, they moved to England. Shortly after they got married, my mother suffered a miscarriage in a train station. This was a traumatic experience for my parents, so they decided to wait before trying to have another child. My mother became pregnant again and gave birth to a baby boy, who would have been my older brother. At the age of nine months, however, he caught pneumonia. They took him to the hospital, but the doctors were not able to help him and so my parents were faced with the death of their firstborn child. My mother hardly ever spoke about this—I think it was too painful a memory for her.

About two years later, my mother became pregnant again. On September 19, 1958, Lita Rossana Ford was born. My father was one of eleven kids, nine of whom were girls. He was probably hoping for a boy, but no, he got me instead.

Until I was four years old, we lived in Streatham, a working-class neighborhood in South London. We didn’t have a lot of money and rented a little flat where the walls were all covered in different-colored but equally faded paper. My mother would invite some friends over for birthday parties or play dates, and I can recall waiting for my father to come home from work. I would ride my red tricycle with white fringe coming out of the handlebars down the street to meet him. It was an everyday ritual.

I remember watching my favorite television shows, which included the Disney movie of the week every Sunday night and The Ed Sullivan Show. I loved how he would pronounce show as shoe when he said, “It’s going to be a really great shoe tonight,” but the best part about his show was the Italian mouse Topo Gigio, whom I referred to as “Popogigio.” He captured my childhood heart while declaring his love to everyone. There has never been a children’s cartoon character as cool as Topo Gigio! I also remember taking drives to the English Channel, which was a full-day adventure. Running on the beach, climbing the rocks, and going fishing meant I was exhausted by the end of the day. On the way home we would stop and pick fresh strawberries at a nearby farm.

My mother, however, wasn’t quite as fond of England. She grew up on the beaches of the Mediterranean and couldn’t stand the cold, gray English weather. She longed for a place with more sunshine and beaches. Her younger sister, Livia, lived in Boston, and we moved there when I was four, thinking it might be better weather. It was nice and warm in the summer, but the winters were brutally cold with tons of snow. It was actually ten times worse than England! My father had to shovel his truck out of the driveway almost every morning because the snow would block it in. Needless to say, we didn’t stay there more than one winter. When I was in kindergarten, we moved to Dallas, where my aunt Flo lived. She was one of my father’s nine sisters. We were only there for about a year before my mother was able to convince my father to move to Southern California, where two more of my father’s sisters lived—and where there were warm, sunny beaches. By then I was in second grade.

Once we moved to California, my mother was in heaven. She grew up on the beaches of Italy and was a sun worshipper, so she loved being near the ocean. As a child, I remember my mother picking me up from school every day and heading straight for the beach. We’d be there until sundown, and when I got older, if my mom was working the later shift and couldn’t go with me, I’d ride my bike to the beach and spend the day there by myself.

My father became a mechanic for the Ford Motor Company. He eventually went into real estate and worked for Century 21 in one of those snazzy mustard-colored blazers. I still have his jacket. At first we lived in a little apartment in Long Beach, but my father did quite well at work and was able to buy a three-bedroom home in Lakewood Village, a suburb about five miles outside of North Long Beach, thinking that I would go to Lakewood High, which was a safer school than Long Beach Poly. It was a little ranch-style house, and my parents decorated it Italian style. Every room was different—one room was all plaid, one all mirrors, one all horses, one all brick. My father was really handy and built a faux-brick arch in the kitchen and planted 280 rosebushes in the garden for my mother. Those rosebushes were her pride. They lined the entire perimeter of the front and back yards. My father also turned the garage into a back house with a bathroom, shower, and little kitchenette. He drywalled it and painted it, and my parents put a bedroom set in it along with my father’s Sony reel-to-reel tape recorder. It became a mini-apartment, which I took over and used to continue learning the guitar. That is the home where I grew up, and years later it was the home I would return to every time the music scene beat me down.

My parents were always filling the house with music when I was little, usually Italian opera by Pavarotti, or Mario Lanza and Dean Martin. It was a wonderful thing. I would bring my parents into the back house to play them the latest lick I’d learned and they always loved it. “Oh, Lita, play the Black Sabbath again,” my mother would say in her great Italian accent. “Play me the Santana.”

MY PARENTS WEREN’T the only ones who encouraged my love of music. My cousin Paul, who was six years older than me and the oldest of my Long Beach cousins, also knew about my fascination with heavy metal and had been to plenty of rock concerts. He invited me to see Black Sabbath with him at the Long Beach Auditorium. It was September 25, 1971. Only six days after my thirteenth birthday.

Paul picked me up in his ’54 Ford. The Long Beach Municipal Auditorium was an eight-thousand-seat hall that opened during the Depression next to the Pike, an amusement park built over the ocean. It must have been beautiful back then, but by 1971 the Pike was seedy and nearly abandoned. Used syringes littered the beach, and the roller coaster probably should have been shut down years before. When we entered the auditorium, I looked around, taking in the big, echoing barn with a balcony that ran all the way around. To some it probably looked like the place had seen better days. To me, it was a wonderland.

The Long Beach Arena, as we called it, was thick with smoke. At that point I didn’t even know what marijuana was, but the funky smell and haze that hung over the crowd made me feel like I was part of a scene I wanted to know more about. Paul bought cheap tickets in the balcony, but we didn’t stay there long. We snuck down to the floor where there weren’t any seats. Instead, everyone was standing around, packed together under a cloud of pot and cigarette smoke. We made our way toward the stage.

There were crazy fans in the crowd who were hanging off the balcony and dropping onto the stage below. The dark hall was carefully lit to make the guys onstage seem like silhouettes—part men, part shadow. All you could really see were these massive piles of thick, black hair, and, every so often, a glint of light would bounce off the crosses they wore around their necks.

My life flashed before me as I focused on the guitar player, Tony Iommi. He seemed superhuman, almost godlike. I had never been to anything quite like that concert before. It seemed like I had crossed over into a whole new world, and I never wanted to return to the old one.

I walked out of the arena knowing what I wanted to do for the rest of my life. I wanted to make people feel the way Black Sabbath had just made me feel. It didn’t occur to me that I was a girl. Nothing went off in my head that said girls couldn’t do what Black Sabbath did.

SOON I’D MADE up my mind that I needed a chocolate Gibson SG like the one Tony Iommi played that night. I wanted to earn it with my own money, though, so the next year I decided that I would get a job at the St. Mary Medical Center in Long Beach, where my mother worked in the dietary department. There was an opening for a food administrator. I was only fourteen, so I was too young to get a job. In the interview I lied about my age. I had big boobs and my mother helped me play that up by giving me a padded bra. The supervisor, Jaylee, asked me how old I was, and before my mother could say a word, I answered, “I’m sixteen,” which meant I was old enough to work. I got the job.

It was a full-time job every day after school. I pushed a food service tray from room to room and served everybody their meals. These people were very ill—some were dying—and they each had a different diet. It was very important not to screw up. Certain patients could only have fluids. Others got baked chicken and mashed potatoes that I had to heat and serve. It wasn’t all that easy for me, since my heart went out to some of the patients who were so ill.

I saved all the money I made until I could afford the SG. I went to a local guitar store and picked it out. I knew exactly what I wanted. I paid $375, which was cheap for a Gibson SG. I took it home and plugged it into my father’s Sony reel-to-reel tape player. I slapped on the echo and it sounded like God.

IN APRIL 1974 I saw an ad for the Cal Jam on TV. A few of my favorite bands were playing, and one of them was Deep Purple. I had never seen Deep Purple play live, but their lead guitarist, Ritchie Blackmore, was another one of my idols, with his double-picking guitar solos. I decided I had to get there no matter what. My friend Patti wanted to go too, but there were a few obstacles. First of all, our parents wouldn’t allow it. Second, it was fifty miles away in Ontario, California. We were only fifteen and could not drive. Our only option was to lie.

Patti told her parents she was spending the weekend at my house, and I said I was staying over at her house. She was a beautiful Indian girl with long black hair that went to her waist. We were both dressed in faded Levi’s and T-shirts and carried the camping gear we needed to stay the night in Ontario. We met at the corner bus stop early in the morning because it was a good place to start hitchhiking.

We knew we could get into huge trouble, but screw it—it was worth whatever shit we were getting ourselves into. We stuck out our thumbs and waited for a car to stop. After a while, a pickup truck pulled to the side of the road and a weird guy rolled down his window.

“Where you headed?”

“Ontario,” I told him. “You?”

“Alaska. But I can stop off in Ontario. Hop in, girls.”

Alaska? Really? I questioned myself, but we got in anyway. I was a little older than Patty so I made her sit in the backseat. She was scared. The guy driving had never seen California before. Back in 1974 it was really beautiful. Strip malls had not overtaken the landscape yet. Instead there was a lot of wide-open space and mountains and palm trees as far as you could see. The man decided he had to get it all on film, so as he was driving he started looking for his home movie camera. He was digging in his bag, reaching into the backseat. He let go of the wheel and Patty freaked. I grabbed the wheel and held the truck steady as he found his camera. I held the wheel for the next few miles while he filmed. Patty was in the back, sure we were going to wreck, but I refused to die until I saw Ritchie Blackmore play guitar in the flesh.

Finally, we made it to the Ontario Motor Speedway. We just had to face the final obstacle: we were not old enough to get into the show. Now what? We snuck in through an opening in the fence and found a spot to set up our camping gear. We were surrounded by people making out, getting stoned, pissing in beer bottles, and talking music. Awesome!

The stage at Cal Jam was built for eight major bands. It was enormous, made of five hundred sections of scaffolding and twenty-three thousand square feet of plywood. There were four towers that held fifty-four thousand watts of sound and a million-watt lighting system that lit up everything from the stage to the parking lot. A quarter million people filled the grandstands and the vast grounds inside the racetrack. Patti and I fought our way into the infield.

The bands were the best of the best: Seals & Crofts; Earth, Wind & Fire; Rare Earth; the Eagles; Black Oak Arkansas; Black Sabbath; Deep Purple; and Emerson, Lake & Palmer. We liked Black Oak Arkansas because their lead singer, Jim Dandy, was hot.

Black Sabbath came on when it was still daylight. Once again, I was so infatuated with every move Tony Iommi made. Deep Purple came on next, and by this time it was dark. The entire vibe of the festival changed. The stage lights came on, and they were breathtaking. The way the light hit Ritchie Blackmore was captivating. It captured how he held his guitar so gracefully, how he stood, and how his fingers moved. There was a battle between Jon Lord on keyboards and Ritchie on guitar. I just stood there with my mouth open watching these two guys. The cameraman seemed to be getting in Ritchie’s space and I think it pissed him off, because at the end of Deep Purple’s set, Ritchie threw his guitar up in the air and smashed it to the ground, sending pieces flying. Then he took the guitar neck and shoved it right through the cameraman’s very expensive television camera lens. Ritchie had obviously had enough of him by that point and it was payback time. I thought it was the coolest thing I’d ever seen. Blackmore mesmerized the audience that night. Nobody could follow that act. Nobody could match that rage. Not even Emerson, Lake & Palmer, who came on last with Keith Emerson’s revolving keyboards.

During the weekend we made friends with some guys who gave us a ride back the next day so we didn’t have to hitch again. The whole way home I kept thinking about how great both Ritchie Blackmore and Tony Iommi were. If I had known the Sunset Strip existed, I would have set my sights on those lights that same day.

BUT LONG BEACH would not let me leave for Hollywood before I learned to fight, to be tough, to take no shit. I didn’t know it then, but it was great training for a life in rock and roll. I was sixteen years old when I got into my first big fight in 1975. My mom and I were going to Boston to visit my cousins and my aunt Livia. We had to catch a plane. My mother said, “Lita, we don’t have time to cook dinner before we go. Why don’t you run up the street with Daddy’s car and get some sandwiches from Arby’s?”

There was a big mall a few blocks away from our house with a couple of fast-food joints. I drove to Arby’s and went in to order some food. There were only four other people in the restaurant—two girls and two guys. They had on tons of gang markings and wore headbands, and the girls had on these big false eyelashes. They had a look to them that said: Do not mess with us. I, on the other hand, was wearing my bathing-suit top, cutoff jean shorts, and flip-flops. Once I got my food, one of the guys said to me, “Hey, baby, let me pinch your chi-chis.”

I looked at him and said, “You’re fucking crazy. Your girlfriend is right next to you. How could you talk like that in front of her?” And I walked out of the restaurant.

And then, of all things, his girlfriend got mad at me! She followed me into the parking lot and picked a fight. We were yelling at each other. She was screaming, “Don’t talk to me that way.”

“I didn’t say shit to you. Your boyfriend is the one with the big mouth. I was talking to him.”

“Well, don’t talk to him that way!”

I walked away from her, thinking she wasn’t worth my time. The next thing I knew, she grabbed the Coke from my tray and threw it inside my father’s car. That really pissed me off, but I didn’t let it show. I put my food in the car very calmly and drove off without saying a word to her. But instead of going home, I went to my girlfriend Peggy’s house and told her, “Peggy, there are four of them and one of me. I need your help.”

She didn’t ask for any details. Her only question was “What do you need me to do?”

“I just want you to drive.”

She hopped in her mom’s car and we went to a drive-through McDonald’s and bought a large Coke. Then we drove back to the Arby’s, but they were gone, so we drove around the mall looking for them. We cruised around the parking lot looking in between cars and down the sidewalks. Finally, I saw them outside of JCPenney. I told Peggy, “Pull over to the curb. There they are.” She stayed in the car and I approached them with the Coke in my hand. The girl had her back to me so she didn’t see me coming. I tapped her on the shoulder. She turned around and we made eye contact for a split second before I threw the Coke in her face. We immediately started throwing punches. Her girlfriend jumped on top of me and grabbed my hair, trying to get me off her friend. I was sitting on the girl’s chest, holding her down. Her fake eyelashes were starting to fall off because of the Coke I had thrown in her face. After a few minutes, I was just trying to get her to stop hitting me. One of the guys hauled me off her. My knees were bloody from kneeling on the concrete. I said to the girl, “I’m leaving. We’re done. This is over.” I started walking quickly back to Peggy. She had left the car door open for me. Just as I got one leg in the car door, I felt the bitch coming up behind me. She had taken off her belt and wrapped it around my face. The buckle caught on my nose and I felt it crack in half. That fucking cunt! Even though I never hit her once, she still took her belt off and hit me in the face! I kept my face down so she didn’t see the blood coming out of my nose. I somehow managed to get in the car and close the door. “Move,” I told Peggy. “Get out of here.” Blood was dripping down between my boobs. “I think I need to go to the hospital,” I said.

Peggy took one look at me and said, “Ah, yeah, Lita, I think so.”

She took me to the ER, but they wouldn’t work on me because I was underage. I called my parents, who were wondering where the hell I was with their roast beef sandwiches at this point. I told them what happened. They gave the hospital approval to work on me and then got in the car to come meet me. I had a broken nose and needed stitches on the side of my nose. I found it funny that I needed parental approval to get my busted face fixed but not to have an abortion. I’d never known how painful it was to have a broken nose. The right side of my face was black and blue, and my eyelid was swollen shut. One side of my neck was completely bruised. I still had a deep scar on my nose, together with seven stitches, and the white part of my right eye was bloodred when I auditioned for the Runaways that same September—the first of many battle scars yet to come.