Firing Myself
Sometimes I'll be driving on the Pacific Coast Highway in Malibu, watching the ocean roll in and out under a sun-blasted sky, and I get so happy, tears run down my face. That happens about once a week these days—the feeling of things being exactly perfect—no drugs, no reason, just some spontaneous reaction to beauty. But in the late seventies, it was hard for me to see that much beauty in anything.
In 1978, Jefferson Starship was bound for a European tour. Let's bring wives! Mothers! Children! Oh boy!
Arghh. My idea of hell.
By that time, everybody was competent enough with whatever instrument they played to pull off the shows without a hitch, but the disparities in personalities were not as easily mastered. The comedy of errors and irritations escalated until they became nearly unbearable for Yours Truly, and while everybody else seemed to think this Jefferson Starship tour was a great family-fun adventure, a big rock-and-roll party atmosphere all the time, it made me very uncomfortable.
Imagine the confusion of fifty people showing up for a train ride, someone's kid kicking someone else's kid, and the parents, of course, sticking up for their own kid. Somebody's girlfriend forgetting her hair dryer and the entire pack of us waiting for her to retrieve it. And since China was with us, we brought along Pat Dugan to watch her because Paul and Skip and I were all working. I ask you, how many insurance companies, banks, publishing houses, etc., bring a circus to work? Since I was the kind of person who prefers to do one thing at a time, my biggest problem was dividing my attention between the ex-boyfriend, current husband, daughter, and entourage. Not to mention travel considerations and attention to performance.
It literally made me sick.
When I went to Europe with my parents back in 1957, about every three days I remember coming down with a vomit/diarrhea combination, resulting from exposure to various water bacteria. When the Starship family-fun entourage got to Lorelei in Germany, my body started shooting out reminders of 1957. Trips to the toilet ranged in frequency from between three to five minutes, making it difficult, if not impossible, to perform even one song without having to excuse myself to fill up the latrine.
When I told the band—with a doctor in agreement—that I couldn't go on that night for obvious reasons, Paul decided they shouldn't play without me.
“Why not?” I asked him between toilet runs.
“Would The Rolling Stones play without Mick Jagger?” he asked.
“No, of course not,” I answered, “but The Rolling Stones only have one lead singer. We have two, and Marty can carry it off quite nicely.”
In fact, the international hits we had at that time were mostly Marty's anyway. But Paul was adamant. While arguments continued whether to play or not to play, word leaked to our audience that we were considering canceling. The timing was unfortunate. By the time Paul was about to come around, the American soldiers based around the area were so pissed off that we were considering canceling, they made the decision for us by completely trashing the stage. Now the performance had to be canceled. But the guys got new equipment, the camaraderie in the group was ostensibly patched together, and I was well enough to press on to the next show.
Frankfurt.
At the airport, I stopped in at one of the tourist shops and purchased a quaint, Heidi-cute, German dirndl skirt and a felt vest with puffy white sleeves—an Aryan costume that I thought would be a nice contrast to my opinion of the Germans' unbelievably stupid WWII performance. I took the outfit back to the hotel, but after imbibing some alcohol, I decided that cute was not the way to go. On went the black shirt, black pants, and the black jack boots. I'd decided to become the remembered enemy, with the encouragement of a well-stocked minibar.
It was time for the fingers-up-the-nose-of-the-guy-in-the-front-row trick. I know exactly what came over me; instead of it being an act of God where my insides were spilling out totally beyond my control, this time, I created the unpleasantness all by myself. Hammered to the tits, well into the first song, I was inexorably attracted to a pair of nostrils in the front row. They were attached to a German guy who had no idea what was about to happen when I staggered toward him with the intention of picking his nose. He didn't seem to mind too much, or at least he was so shocked, he didn't do anything.
But even as I pulled that stunt, it was clear to me that I'd developed a major attitude problem. I didn't like pandering to Nazi offspring, I didn't like the “reconstituted Airplane” situation, and I didn't like me for taking part in it. I wanted the Germans to see a mirror of repulsive self-loathing, I wanted the band to see an uncontrollable mutant, and I wanted to be so out of line that when I fired myself the next day nobody would object.
The ultimate American punk.
The truth is, I'd had it with everything and everybody except Skip and China. Since Skip had been on my side of the argument with Paul over whether or not I could actually sing and shit at the same time, he was ready to leave as well. Skip and I were both out of there the next day, and the tour continued without us, Marty singing solo lead for the group's remaining appearances.