Let's Spend the Night Together: Backstage Secrets of Rock Muses and Supergroupies by Pamela Des Barres
Authors: Pamela Des Barres
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could find. Then one time, I wound up having sex with him. We had sex a couple more times, then, it was like, now what? Am I supposed to be your girlfriend? But we both knew we would never be boyfriend and girlfriend, because I was much too independent. So we thought, `What are we going to do? We love each other, but we know it's not going to work.' He said, `We will love each other, and be friends forever.' He was right, we are. And here I am, working for him. And look!" Cherry beams, holding out her arm, "He gave me a $15,000 watch for my sixtieth birthday!"
When I ask Cherry if she misses her former life and time spent with all those rowdy rock and rollers, she runs her hands through her tousled turquoise hair and grins, "I still love musicians, and always will. Rufus Wainwright is the love of my life now. Not that I date him, but if I were younger, he'd have been attacked already. He certainly wouldn't be a virgin for girls anymore, believe me!"
A Groupie Lament
By Cherry Vanilla
Love at First Sight
enny Bruce, the poster punk for fearless rule-breakers, C succumbed to heroin addiction exacerbated by much courtappointed ballbusting in August 1966. I was almost seventeen when I threw on Grandma's velvet finery and headed to Lenny's final resting place to pay my fledgling respects. After joining the colorful fray traipsing 'round the cemetery, I found myself at a tragically cool eulogy held in some hipster's backyard in Woodland Hills. I sat cross-legged on the ground along with many somber-faced groovers, while Lenny's peers paid him furious homage. I listened intently to Phil Spector, who insisted that Lenny had died "from an overdose of police." I tried to focus on the proceedings, but bright colorful splotches from another corner of the yard kept commandeering my attention.
Quietly frolicking on the kiddie swing set was the rock master of unrepentant irony, Frank Zappa, wearing outlandish flowered bell-bottoms, accompanied by a lissome, wide-eyed doll. She was model-pretty, and obviously entranced with him, but plainly holding her own. Although it was a thrill to see the leader of the Mothers of Invention, live, in person, and on a swing, I was curious about the girl perched on his knee.
The wives and girlfriends of my musical heroes were my heroines. I was too young to have appreciated Paul McCartney's freckle-faced actress lovebird, Jane Asher, and unsecretly hoped she would drown in the Thames, but I later revered the Rolling Stones' muses: Mick's cherubic Marianne Faithfull and Keith's wicked Anita Pallenberg, a disheveled dame who had settled on the guitar player after dallying with Mick and Brian Jones. Those cheeky dolly birds were in the center of all that mad music, proudly floating beside their satin-clad counterparts, privy to succulent secrets locked behind hotel room doors all over the world. I envied them ferociously.
It was a couple months after Lenny's eulogy that I laid my Twiggified eyes on Frank Zappa once again. My childhood best friend Iva Turner and I were among the hippies and freaks milling around the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights, protesting the closing of our beloved club, Pandora's Box. Imminent danger wafted through the incensed air, but just before a hundred batonwielding cops trooped in formation toward us, I spied Frank Zappa in the kaleidoscopic throng. Instinctively, I reached out and touched his rowdy mop of hair, then turned to Iva and marveled, "It's soft . . ." My next Zappa sighting happened at the Cheetah Club, and I actually rolled around on the floor with Frank before being formally introduced to the glorious rock icon.
I frequently danced at various Hollywood functions with an assortment of rambunctious girls called the Laurel Canyon Ballet Company. One of the dolls, Christine, worked as "governess" for Frank and his wife, Gail, taking care of their six-month-old daughter, Moon Unit. When she told Frank about her gaggle of newfound cronies, the ever-curious
When I ask Cherry if she misses her former life and time spent with all those rowdy rock and rollers, she runs her hands through her tousled turquoise hair and grins, "I still love musicians, and always will. Rufus Wainwright is the love of my life now. Not that I date him, but if I were younger, he'd have been attacked already. He certainly wouldn't be a virgin for girls anymore, believe me!"
A Groupie Lament
By Cherry Vanilla
Love at First Sight
enny Bruce, the poster punk for fearless rule-breakers, C succumbed to heroin addiction exacerbated by much courtappointed ballbusting in August 1966. I was almost seventeen when I threw on Grandma's velvet finery and headed to Lenny's final resting place to pay my fledgling respects. After joining the colorful fray traipsing 'round the cemetery, I found myself at a tragically cool eulogy held in some hipster's backyard in Woodland Hills. I sat cross-legged on the ground along with many somber-faced groovers, while Lenny's peers paid him furious homage. I listened intently to Phil Spector, who insisted that Lenny had died "from an overdose of police." I tried to focus on the proceedings, but bright colorful splotches from another corner of the yard kept commandeering my attention.
Quietly frolicking on the kiddie swing set was the rock master of unrepentant irony, Frank Zappa, wearing outlandish flowered bell-bottoms, accompanied by a lissome, wide-eyed doll. She was model-pretty, and obviously entranced with him, but plainly holding her own. Although it was a thrill to see the leader of the Mothers of Invention, live, in person, and on a swing, I was curious about the girl perched on his knee.
The wives and girlfriends of my musical heroes were my heroines. I was too young to have appreciated Paul McCartney's freckle-faced actress lovebird, Jane Asher, and unsecretly hoped she would drown in the Thames, but I later revered the Rolling Stones' muses: Mick's cherubic Marianne Faithfull and Keith's wicked Anita Pallenberg, a disheveled dame who had settled on the guitar player after dallying with Mick and Brian Jones. Those cheeky dolly birds were in the center of all that mad music, proudly floating beside their satin-clad counterparts, privy to succulent secrets locked behind hotel room doors all over the world. I envied them ferociously.
It was a couple months after Lenny's eulogy that I laid my Twiggified eyes on Frank Zappa once again. My childhood best friend Iva Turner and I were among the hippies and freaks milling around the corner of Sunset and Crescent Heights, protesting the closing of our beloved club, Pandora's Box. Imminent danger wafted through the incensed air, but just before a hundred batonwielding cops trooped in formation toward us, I spied Frank Zappa in the kaleidoscopic throng. Instinctively, I reached out and touched his rowdy mop of hair, then turned to Iva and marveled, "It's soft . . ." My next Zappa sighting happened at the Cheetah Club, and I actually rolled around on the floor with Frank before being formally introduced to the glorious rock icon.
I frequently danced at various Hollywood functions with an assortment of rambunctious girls called the Laurel Canyon Ballet Company. One of the dolls, Christine, worked as "governess" for Frank and his wife, Gail, taking care of their six-month-old daughter, Moon Unit. When she told Frank about her gaggle of newfound cronies, the ever-curious
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