I’m sitting here in my wildly messy office, looking out at my wildly messy backyard full of unkempt, delirious fruit trees, pondering my past. It’s not something I do that often, since I live each second like it might, be the most important one yet. I teach a creative writing workshop, and right now my living room is filled to the brim with talented dolls scribbling away in their notebooks. I’ve discovered there’s nothing like sitting in the middle of a sweet slab of creativity that I have set in motion. Used to be, I’d sit between, say, Jimmy Page and Robert Plant while they concocted a minor masterpiece, or be alongside Frank Zappa as he composed a ditty that equals anything Beethoven ever created. And these days, it’s just as satisfying dancing my still-small ass off to my boyfriend Mike Stinson’s exemplary country-raucous tunes. But the joy of joys is to dig down inside myself and whip out a sentence or two that really pleases me. I have spent so much time wistfully flitting about, caring for creative souls and—wonder of wonders—I have finally come to recognize the potency of my very own creative soul. We all have one.
It’s been almost 17 years since I wrote that P.S. you just read, and it feels like Yesterday—when all my troubles seemed so far away. . . . Aahhh, yes, I may as well divulge here and now that last summer I finally met Beatle Number Four—my fave-rave, Paully Waully Paul Paul—the man with the longest, leanest thighs that a certain wide-eyed teenybopper from Reseda, California, had ever seen. Not to mention those dreamy, flutter-lashed, bedroom eyes that invaded my dizzy, fevered dreams on a nightly basis. (Let’s put the fart list aside for now, shall we?)
Sitting on Mike Stinson’s lap, the sweetest place in the world. © RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
One of my ex-husband Michael’s ex-guitar players, the lovely Brian Ray, had recently secured the gig of gigs, playing lead guitar for Sir Paul, and invited us to the Staples Center to witness the glory.
The show opened with a massive silhouette of Paul’s unmistakably recognizable Rickenbacker bass, then after a hushed and awed silence, he appeared on stage, holding that same curvy instrument while the captivated crowd went entirely bonkers. Along with his solo monster hits, Paul sang 33 Beatle tunes, as well as heartfelt tributes to his fallen bandmates, George and John. I felt united with the Universe as Paul chanted, “Life is very short and there’s no ti-i-i-i-ime for fussing and fighting, my friend. . . .”
Michael and I knew there was a slight chance we might find ourselves in the same room with His Nibs after the show, since we had some sort of backstage sticker, but I wasn’t holding my breath, because there are rooms within rooms within rooms at a venue as humongous as the Staples Center. I had brought along an original hardback copy of the very tome you’re holding, on the off chance that I might personally present it to the Cute Beatle. We hopefully hung around in one of the aforementioned rooms, eating very large strawberries until Brian appeared, appropriately charming and disheveled, but alas, it seemed Sir Paul had already left the building. Sigh.
We were halfway home on the 101, still immersed in “Maybe I’m Amazed,” when Michael’s cell phone chirped. It was Brian inviting us to a “small gathering” for the band at the Four Seasons Hotel. Deep breath. Two deep breaths. Three.
We arrived at the elegant suite, and the bash was in full swing. Heaps of fruit and vegetables, all shapes, sizes, and colors, spilled out of snazzy crystal bowls. Tea-cakes, biscuits, and seeded buns shone in the perfectly dim, chandeliered light. A plethora of vivid wild flowers adorned every polished surface. Wine, sparkling water, and frothy cappuccino flowed. I spotted the amiable band members, but a quick scan told me that Paul was not in the room. Michael, the quintessential min-gler, was off and mingling while I pondered the sumptuous repast, wondering if one of my rock ’n’ roll dreams was on the verge of coming true.
Many years ago, if you recall, I was at the Topanga Corral watching the Flying Burrito Brothers when several Rolling Stones entered the building. The shift in energy was unmistakable, and I felt the same shattering force shake up the air as I turned to see Sir Paul stride into the room, arm in arm with his lucky significant other, Heather. I was a mere six or seven feet from my favorite Beatle, and my heart slammed around in my rib cage like it had somehow come unleashed.
Brian, the person who could make introductions, was across the room, deep in conversation, and to tell you the truth, I was relieved. I stood there by the luscious mango slices, palpitating, holding tightly to my book, actually unable to move. Across the table, Paul was meeting and greeting various folks, smiling his crinkly smile, dressed comfortably casual, his tousled Beatle hair graying a bit, his bedroom eyes sparkling up the room. He looked absolutely beyond fab, dolls.
Suddenly a fellow I didn’t know approached me and attempted to start up a conversation. I didn’t want to be rude, but I just couldn’t take my eyes off Paully Waully. When he asked me about the book I was hanging onto, I came out of my trance and rose to the social occasion. We began a little chitchatting, and I wound up telling this kind stranger that I was fortunate enough to meet the other three Beatles, but had never made the acquaintance of my fave. “What are you waiting for?!” he marveled, then grabbed me by the arm before I could squeak out a protest, and seconds later, there I was, standing in front of Sir James Paul McCartney.
I dawdled there silent and google-eyed, and when Paul turned his billionaire gaze on me, I stammered out my name. He graciously offered me his hand, and I shook it briefly before thrusting I’m with the Band at him. He took it, bemused, and started thumbing through it. I blathered at him a bit about my groupie/muse history and he smiled up at me, raising his arched eyebrows questioningly, a bit fearfully, actually. “Uh . . . did we . . . uh . . . we haven’t met before—have we?” Momentarily struck dumb, I finally bleated, “Unfortunately, no.” He looked over at Heather and smiled, “See, dear, I’ve never met her. I’m innocent.” He tried to give the book back to me, and I told him I brought it for him, pointing out a couple of Paul passages. He seemed to get a kick out of the whole thing, thanking me sweetly, and then I went on my merry way, having met my fourth Beatle. Fairy tales can come true, it can happen to you. My heart took an eternal snapshot of that moment, when Paul’s actual Beatle fingers turned the pages of my book. What a sight.
I’d like to nutshell the past seventeen years, but I wrote about a bunch of life in my second book, the sequel to Band—Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up. It’s basically about the rise and fall of a rock ’n’ roll marriage and raising our amazingly unique, gifted son, Nick. I lost my daddy to black-lung disease and my dear friend Michele Myer to breast cancer. At the end of the paperback version of that book, in 1993, I was still cohabitating with the young blond darling Jimmy Thrill in my seaside Santa Monica cottage. The lovely little pad was handed down to me by my old flame Don Johnson when he moved to Miami and altered menswear wear forever with sockless pastel panache. Jimmy and I lasted almost five years and are still fast friends. So are Don and I, of course. I feel very strongly about always loving people I have loved so dearly. My ex, Michael, and I are now like actual blood siblings. Since we are both only children, it’s quite a comfort and solace to know he will always be there for me, come what may (and vice-versa, of course).
My last book, Rock Bottom: Dark Moments in Music Babylon, was a long, sad investigation into rock’s low points, and it took a wicked toll on me. I had visions of Hendrix for months afterward, complete with fiery guitar licks, and although Eddie Cochran died before I got out of Junior High, he still rattles and rolls in my psyche, slinging that wild orange Gretsch every which way. Brian Jones, Janis Joplin, Jim Morrison, and Marc Bolan all cavort around me like angels plugged in.
I’m a journalist these days, still traipsing around with various rock stars—some up and coming, some coming back, some in their prime and full of themselves. I find them all fascinating. Anybody who creates for a living always perks me up. Some standouts have been my old teen steam Dion, the unassuming Tommy Lee, dark-eyed Dave Navarro, the enigmatic sweetheart Slash, Chrissie Hynde, my old chum Ray Davies, Iggy Pop, the delightful Beck, sexy John Doe, my favorite doll Lucinda Williams, and the heavenly Michael Hutchence, who was my first big-time interview. He made it so easy, I figured I just might have found a new calling. I’ve been interviewing creative folks for a living ever since. I had an E! online music column for five years and discovered many musicians that flipped my switch: Ryan Adams, Rhett Miller, the Old 97’s, MiniBar, Todd Snider, the Webb Brothers, Lucinda Williams, Chris Cornell, James Intveld, and Eminem. I could go on for another whole page.
I’m working on a fourth book, Let’s Spend the Night Together: Backstage Secrets of Rock Muses and Supergroupies, in which I plan to redeem and uplift the horribly misunderstood word groupie. My first chapter is about the tempestuous Tura Satana, who had a long-term fling with the King of Rock and Roll in his early days. She definitely treated that Southern mama’s boy real nice.
The G word continues to haunt me and crack me up. Although it’s turned into quite a negative slam, it started off innocently enough. Originally it just meant a person who hung out with rock groups. Period. Let’s face it, dolls, everybody wants to get backstage, and people who put down groupies will never have an all-access pass. These days, sadly, most real groupies seem to have gone the way of the glorious vinyl record album, overtaken by actresses and models pretending they’re not groupies. You know who they are. Oh well, as Dylan said, “Everything passes and everything changes. . . .” But never fear, there are some amazing dolls that followed in my spike-heeled footsteps, and they are still making lucky musicians all over the world very, very happy indeed.
I’m still hoping Band will soon be up on the big screen for all to thrill to. I’d like to begin where Almost Famous and The Banger Sisters left off. And tell a true story while I’m at it. I met Kate Hudson and Goldie Hawn, and both admitted to using me for inspiration in their groupie roles. Kate told me she had pictures of me up on her dressing room walls. At the Banger premiere, Goldie threw her arms around me and asked, “How’d I do?”
Like I said, nutshelling 17 years is impossible, but there are a few details of my life I feel a need to share with my dear readers. My precious mama, the patient, understanding, stubborn, and inspiring Margaret Ruth Miller, passed on a little over five years ago from lung cancer. No matter how many deals I made with her, including putting down marijuana if she’d lay down the cancer sticks, she just couldn’t stop puffing away. In fact, when the doctor told her the dire news, she took out her Zippo and lit her Virginia Slim right then and there. I got a house in the Valley, and she moved in with me for her last three years. It was a blessing to be able to put my head in her lap for a little gentle patting and the world’s most unconditional love. Once I thanked her for letting me be me, and she said, “Well, that’s the whole point, isn’t it?” I have tried to apply her simple wisdom raising my son, Nick, and hopefully I have succeeded.
I have always been a James Dean freak, and a few years ago I started working on a screenplay about the ultimate rebel’s friendship with jazz singer Toni Lee Scott. I had carried a picture of his tombstone around in my wallet in junior high school, and six years ago I finally made it to his hometown of Fairmount, Indiana. I felt instantly at home in the tiny Midwest farm town where he’s buried and made some close forever-family friends. In fact, I’ve been thinking maybe I’ll buy a little house there and spend my golden years basking in Jimmy’s eternal mythological rebellion. But who knows where I’ll be in 20 years?
In the late ’90s, I took a long-desired trip to Israel with my dear pal and fellow Jesus lover (and stellar chiropractor) Shelley Bosten. (There’s another entire book in me about my religious/spiritual experiences, and I’ve already written whole chunks of it. I have spent moments in Nirvana, dolls, and I’m not talking about a trip to Seattle.) My turbulent relationship with the Lord began when I was eight years old and in the panicky throes of guilt for just being born. As the years went by and I hit my flower-child stride, I studied the Bible looking for passages that condoned my love-strewn existence. Eventually I made tight-knit friends with Jesus of Nazareth and for decades had wanted to walk the cobblestones in old Jerusalem.
We were on a tour with a passel of other people, and, as we made our way to all the Jesus sites—Bethlehem, the Sea of Galilee, and the Mount of Olives—I longed to grace the spot where the crucifixion took place. The accuracy of many of the sites is questionable, but the location of the crucifixion has been proven historically accurate—an unfortunate area where many traitors and rabble-rousers met their demise on giant wooden crosses. A mammoth stone church has been erected over the site, its origins from 300 A.D., all a-tumble with countless types of architecture through the ages.
As our little troupe arrived, pilgrims from all over the earth were lining up inside a small, incense-infused rock cave nestled within the cavernous church walls. I lined up with the rest, gazing around agog at this most revered place, inhaling the pungent, musky scent, waiting my turn. Ladies murmured exotic prayers, priests fondled ropes of rosary beads, monks swung burning incense lamps back and forth, chanting, whispering, evoking His name.
My lovely son, Nicholas Dean Des Barres. © RANDEE ST. NICHOLAS
A large wooden table full of candles was situated over the spot where Jesus’ very cross supposedly stood, and as I reached the ultimate destination, I clambered beneath the table, got down on my knees and stuck my face into the holiest of all holes. Waves of opulent frankincense wafted around me, engulfing me in a sanctified shroud of heady majesty as I inhaled, inhaled, inhaled until I felt faint. Then I got back in line and did it all over again. In fact, the next morning as my fellow travelers slept, I hailed at taxi at four A.M. and went back to the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. This time, there were only one or two others present, and as the sun rose, making the holy place rosy pink, I was able to fulfill my ardent desire and spend more time next to the consecrated spot. Before I left I lit candles for all of my loved ones, saying potent prayers for their happiness.
I have lost so many friends and lovers in the last few years, there must be quite a party going on in that smoky, red-curtained corner of rock ’n’ roll Heaven. The reason I smoked marijuana in the first place was because Bryan MacLean, the guitarist from the band Love, didn’t love me. I suppose he did, in his way, as we remained friends until he died on Christmas day 1998 from a brain aneurism. Bryan was a dear, complicated soul who took the Bible literally and believed Heaven was an actual place with paved golden highways. The music he was making before his death was celestial and unnerving.
Daryl De Loach, the Iron Butterfly’s splashy, flashy, wayward front man, died a terrible death from liver cancer three years ago. Thankfully I got to see him a few days before he split, and he seemed totally at peace with his unruly life. When Nick was about 11 years old, Daryl took us on a fun little jaunt to Tijuana, Mexico, where we put on big sombreros and took photos with a somber burro and ate loads of spicy frijoles and juicy mangoes in paper cones. We were united again when the L.A. Weekly newspaper drove Daryl and me up and down the Sunset Strip in a convertible to capture our outrageous recollections.
The GTOs. © RAEANNE RUBENSTEIN, 2005
A couple years ago, there was a questionable Jimi Hendrix birthday tribute at B. B. King’s Blues Club, at which they flew my old darling Noel Redding in from Cork County, Ireland. He was properly venerated, but seemed ill at ease, slightly bewildered, and morose. He told me he was going to sue everybody in the Hendrix camp for overdue royalties and wept over his absent girlfriend, repeating, “Me bird, me bird,” clinging to me as if I were a red-headed life raft. His beloved mother had just passed away, and he would join her a few months later. God bless Noel, born on Christmas day. I still have all his letters.
Mercy, Sparky, and I are the only remaining GTOs. The divinely scandalous Miss Lucy died of AIDS, leaving behind two boys. Miss Sandra died of ovarian cancer, leaving four children without her spunky Earth Motherness. I found out a few weeks ago that Pumpkin Butt fibber supreme, Miss Cynderella, passed away in 2001, and I don’t know where or how. Hopefully they’ve all found the Dr. Seuss character of the GTOs, Miss Christine, who beat them to those pearly gates by several years. Perhaps they’ve come across our Master of Ceremonies, the inimitable genius (not a good enough word for him) Frank Zappa, who tragically died 12 years ago of prostate cancer.
I wrote a rock ’n’ roll cookbook a few years back with Dick and Dee Dee (“The mountain’s high and the valley’s so deep . . .”) and got super close with Dick and his wife, Sandy. Dick was a Unitarian minister and often reminded me that we create our world with our thoughts and words. He was cleaning his rain gutters, toppled off the roof, hit his head, went into a coma, and didn’t make it. Two months later Jan Berry, the genius behind Jan and Dean’s innovative surf music, passed away after suffering much too long due to the notorious “Dead Man’s Curve” car accident decades earlier. Most recently, my old friend Danny Sugerman, Jim Morrison’s biographer and buddy, passed on, also from lung cancer. My ex, Michael, and I went to his funeral and bid him a fond rock ’n’ roll adios.
My dear ol’ hunk o’ outlaw man Waylon Jennings escaped death back in ’59 when he graciously gave up his airline seat to the Big Bopper the day the music died, but complications from diabetes got him in 2002. I’ve gotten to know his talented, hell-raising son Shooter, and he told me that his dad always spoke sweetly of me. The first country artist to sell a million records, Waylon was known as an uncompromising, good-timing scalawag, but he’ll always be a good-hearted man to me.
I miss them all.
After Jimmy Thrill and I broke up, I dated a few fascinating characters, all of whom taught me many massive life lessons. There was a long-term, deeply profound dalliance with a certain soul singer, an intense six months with a TV comedy legend, and a short, sweet almost-fling with Jon Voight. But the Midnight Cowboy shook his head one too many times, announcing that I reminded him way too much of his estranged daughter, Angelina Jolie. I took it as a compliment, of course.
Before I met my current beau, Mike Stinson, I had been alone for a long time. I had even thought, “Perhaps I’ve had all the love, sex, and romance a woman can stand.” It’s often been said that, when you stop looking, the perfect person steps right up.
I am tickled hot pink that this particular perfect person also happens to be one of my favorite musicians. L-U-V takes you by surprise and strips you of caution and fear; it smoothes out troubles and soothes an anxious heart. I am so profoundly grateful and blessed to feel this way again. I had been a fan in Mike’s audience before we hooked up, and sparks started flying in dim little barrooms all over town. Mike’s lyrics are clever, insightful, and sincere, and when he whispers his unique Southern version of sweet talk into my ear, I melt like all girls do when they’re in love.
When I carried my precious diaries around with me during the Sunset Strip heyday, I knew for certain I was dancing through an earth-shattering era. I wonder how many more times I can answer questions about those all-important rock gods? How many VH1 specials will come calling, how many Stones documentaries can I appear in? How many shows about (ooh!) groupies will titillate the masses? I forget what number I was on MTV’s Most Shocking Rock Moments, but I was Number 5 in Spin magazine’s Sleaziest. Naughty, naughty. Free love was short-lived, and it’s a shame.
I’m sure who ever voted for me in those spicy categories would be surprised to find that I have become an ordained (albeit nondenominational and freewheeling) minister and I just presided over my goddaughter Polly Parson’s wedding to her hubby, Charlie Terrell. I read the lyrics to Dylan’s “Forever Young” for good luck. And a little “Stairway to Heaven” never hurt anybody.
Shining it all around with Mr. Plant. PHOTO: GARY MILLER (gmillerphotography.com)
Speaking of that classic little ditty, not too long ago I went to the annual South by Southwest music convention in Austin, Texas (one of my favorite towns), and the keynote speaker was the Golden God himself, Robert Plant. I hadn’t seen him in way too many years and hoped for a nice long visit. After his charming and witty speech, I skedaddled over to his press conference and stood up to ask the final question: “Do you still have groupies?” He looked momentarily perplexed, trying to come up with a suitable answer, but when he saw it was me, he was flabbergasted and leaped around the table calling “Miss P! I can’t believe it’s you!” and swept me into his arms while flashbulbs crackled and popped. He insisted that my friend Kymm and I join him (and his band, lovely son Logan, entourage, etc.) for lunch at the Oasis restaurant, miles away on the lake. For hours we chatted about everything under the hot Texas sun. He’s in great shape, very present and clear-eyed, fearless, and supremely cool. His show that night was stellar, and the new album, Mighty ReArranger, is divine. The next morning we had breakfast and gabbed it up until he had to leave for the rest of his short tour. I can’t tell you how good it felt to reconnect with Robert and to discover that, after all these years, we still have so much in common. He bubbles with self-deprecating candor, humor, and optimism. It was a total joy.
Not too long ago, my former crony-in-crime, Cynthia Plaster Caster, came across a bundle of letters I had sent her back in the fine years 1968 and 1969. I was hurtled back to that tumultuous, tantalizing time. . . . I circled a few passages and want to share them with you.
NOVEMBER 5, 1968 “Sweet Cynthia Pinata-Face, I saw Noel a couple of times. He’s sorely depressed with the Hendrix Experience, I’m sure you’ll hear about it when you see him. Will you do me a favor and give him my LOVE? Sigh, perhaps you could deliver a letter for me? I want to thank him for my CLIMAX! Oh yes, Rodney Rooster Stewart was in town, but I think I fancied Ronnie Wood, tho’ the Rooster wore grand clothes. Miss Lucy was the one with Jeff Beck. . . . The only drag about pop stars is their attitude toward chicks. There are so many girls surrounding them that when they actually meet a true blue person (like me and you!) they don’t see these stunning qualities, right? That’s my only complaint, however. I DO make love to music, I know I do. It has become my MAIN thing. 1. God. 2. Music.”
NOVEMBER 18, 1968 “My Dear Cynthia, So much is happening! The GTO’s did an article for Rolling Stone—a feature!! And guess who we ran into in the parking lot? GEORGE HARRISON! After Hi, Hello, he said obviously the rumors he heard about the GTO’s were true! Then he said I had pretty legs! Can you stand it? I was so thrilled about seeing one of them in public that I wept for joy. I saw Deep Purple last night and can’t dig them in the slightest. They think they’re all Jimi Hendrixes. Miss Cynderella was sitting with her legs slightly ajar and Jimi #2 said ’Will you please close your legs, you’re offending me.’ RUDE. I would think the sight would please him.”
DECEMBER 3, 1968 “Sweet Pinata, The GTO’s saw the Jeff Beck group every day and I started fancying Rodney, of all people! He charmed me daily and the last night they were here I finally consented to plating him. He so filled me to the brim with romantic compliments and wild stories of how luscious I was, who could resist? After telling him only two people had been ’inside’ he wanted to all the more! But I didn’t give in. . . . Jeff and Rod played on our album, and stayed in the studio with us for hours, and it was splendid, oh delicious days!”
DECEMBER 6, 1968 “Due to circumstances I couldn’t control, nothing happened with Led Zeppelin. But as I said previously, I am not pushy and just couldn’t open that dressing room door. I sat next door with Alice Cooper, but there were at least 30 girls in LZ’s room and I didn’t want to be one of the flock. Wait ’til you SEE that singer, Robert! He has golden brown, fluffy hair, very sensual body, clear and beautiful face and SUCH a voice you’ve never heard. Oh, such MOVEMENTS! You’ll die 1000 deaths. Jimmy resembled a pink rose bud, long soft hair down to his slim English shoulders. . . . Today Frank took Miss Christine and I to USC (huge college) to speak to a sociology class. We talked about our school days, groupies, and Frank elected me to deliver a speech on plaster casting! I did very well if I don’t say so myself! I drew diagrams on the blackboard and had Frank beating his knee!”
DECEMBER 14, 1968 “You’ll never guess who I am finally GETTING IN THERE with! After 5 fucking years! CHRIS HILLMAN! At last! I got an invitation to his pad! Halliloo! So Mercy and I journied to the olde Valley, and when we arrived, Gram Parsons (my new fave-rave) said “Welcome! We were expecting you!” We had a grand visit and got invited to the Flying Burrito Brothers recording session that night. They came to our show at the Shrine and sat with us during scary (before performance) moments. Gram drove Mercy and I ’round and ’round the Shrine in his white T-bird and got us high as kites. We’ve been with them in the studio every night since. They finished their album last night and we sang on it! GTO’s and Burrito’s!!”
DECEMBER 20, 1968 “Gram called me 3 days in a row and took me on a date. A date! Can you imagine? Where does my charm go when I get a crush? It vanishes into thin air! I hope it comes back. . . . I turn into a do-do silent mouse and when my words come, they’re crooked! Chris and Gram are such hillbillys, they’ve influenced me terribly. I mean I LIKE George Jones and sequined jackets! I just phoned Frank to wish him a happy birthday (today, it is) and he was sitting with Moonie by the fire. Wait ’til you see that baby, just beautiful! Hey, is fucking fun? I truly don’t know. When I’ve been with Nick I worried so about making him happy that I forgot about me. Being with Noel was super, but not enough times to truly tell if it was enjoyable. I guess it was. I’m so glad you threw up all over Deep Purple’s room. I find them so yucky, I don’t even consider them a group. (But I’m sorry you were sick).”
JANUARY 14, 1969 “I went to the Palomino last night and got terribly zonked because Gram kissed my hand and then went off with some chick. Chris made an appearance (alone) and I stared at him (drooling) while sitting with Tommy and Bobby (Boyce and Hart) as Bobby caressed the underside of my thighs. Well, when your fave-raves turn you down you settle for second best, right? Before long I noticed Mr. Hillman’s eyes on me and he motioned me over (as Gram petted his chick and Jerry Lee Lewis beat on the piano). I joyfully (and rather sloppily because I’m drunk, remember?) jump into his waiting lap and listen to his lecture on the sins of drinking and the sins of Boyce and Hart (Burrito’s arch enemies). From this moment on, Chris was MINE. ’I’m taken,’ he said, ’Tonight I’m with Miss Pamela. . . . I love you, my girlfriend. . . . I just might marry you.’ And he was not, I repeat WAS NOT drunk or stoned! He asked me out on a date Friday to see BUCK OWENS and WAYLON JENNINGS!”
JANUARY 19, 1969 “You are being written to on Chris Hillman’s stationary. Gram is taken. His old lady Nancy came to town for a while and I’m babysitting little Polly (their adorable daughter). I pretended to be asleep last night when Chris came home and he covered me up with the covers from his bed, pulled the hairs from my face and just looked at me. I dropped dead. I must have looked luscious for I was lying by the fire with my long purple dress spread all around me, and he fell asleep beside me in the living room. SO heavenly. . . . Ah, what a happy time, my year has started wonderfully. The GTO’s have an interview tomorrow for Rowan and Martin—how fun! Money and Fame!”
FEBRUARY 16, 1969 “The GTO’s did a local TV talk show, ’Tempo,’ and we were at our bizarrest. People called in and asked questions, and needless to say, we were ridiculed to death, but came back with some groovy answers: Man—Did any of you finish high school?’ Us—Yes, we did. Mercy—No, but who’s on this TV show? You or me? That one got a big response. I rapped about the Burrito Brothers. . . . I really love Chris. We discussed it at length the night before they went on tour. He said he wasn’t able to give himself to me as he kept so many things within. He said how he cared about me and all kinds of junk and my heart broke with every word. Phooey.”
MARCH 13, 1969 “The GTO’s start recording on the 25th. I’m also singing with a hick, John, from Gram’s last group, the International Submarine Band. We do gospel, spiritual Jesus songs. We’re gonna record an album and we’re playing a club called Mr. Benjamin’s. ’Miss Pamela and Mr. Corneal.’ Chris called just now and invited me to a Burrito session, he was aloof, but he called! You should see the shirt I’m making him now, it’s taking me 4-ever to embroider—rhinestones and flowers, etc. Heavens! I’m listening to ’Gilded Palace of Sin,’ as usual. Did you hear the cut ’Hippie Boy’? That’s Mercy and I singing on that.
© RAEANNE RUBENSTEIN, 2005
My thoughts are with you daily, Pinata Face . . . and I love you dearly . . . Your true, truly, truest, Pamela.”
It’s such a blast to have this book in print again. It seems as if I’ve become an authority on the subject of classic rock ’n’ roll and the spectacular swingin’ ’60s and sensual ’70s—a positive reminder that not everybody succumbed to the plethora of vices that floated through the purple hippie haze. Sometimes I’m looked at askance and sometimes with admiration. I’ve gotten used to it.
The fascination with that experimental, freewheeling time only grows stronger. Pretty soon those trailblazers—Morrison, Hendrix, Zappa, Zeppelin, Gram Parsons, Keith Moon, and yummy, young Jagger—will be mythologized and made more (or less) than human. I hope I brought some warm flesh and blood to the myth, before it’s too late. I wanted to take you there with me, let you feel a bit of the spine-tingling passion and blissed-out alchemy in the air. I was fortunate enough to romp through the modern musical renaissance and live to tell the tale.
I’m thrilled to say that it’s not over yet, dolls. Each spanking new day promises some sort of unexpected escapade, and I count my lucky stars, along with my blessings, every single night.
I’m going to sign off the way my beloved, long-lost friend Gram Parsons always did, because it’s the truth—I am happily “sound as ever. . . .”
PAMELA DES BARRES
Spring 2005