Let's Spend the Night Together: Backstage Secrets of Rock Muses and Supergroupies by Pamela Des Barres Page A
Authors: Pamela Des Barres
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Mr. Zappa invited the five of us over for tea.
Decked out to impress the maestro, we arrived en masse at the infamous log cabin in Laurel Canyon, which was once owned by 1920s Hollywood cowboy Tom Mix. His beloved four-legged costar Tony the Wonder Horse was supposedly buried under the bowling alley in the basement. Upstairs, there was a fireplace the size of a movie star's closet, and Frank sat nearby at his piano, creating works of cryptic splendor.
We giggled and danced and showed off shamelessly for Mr. Zappa, but I kept sneaking peeks at Gail, who was busy making tea and snacks for her goofy guests, while Christine bounced baby Moon on her scrawny hip. Even when pie-eyed Miss Mercy stamped into the kitchen and gobbled up a stick of butter, Gail was gracious about the peculiar intrusion. She's got it all, I thought dreamily: a genius rock star husband, a house full of wild musicians, and her own little bundle of baby-joy cooing along with Daddy's brilliant jingles. How had she done it? With all the femmes on the prowl, how had she captured this coveted rock god?
I have been friends with Gail Zappa for thirty-eight years now and have long known the answer to my ardent teenage question. She quickly became my confidant, guidance counselor, and mentor as I went through my endless groupie travails. Her distinctly droll point of view helped me to deal with my lamentable romantic foibles, and I still go to her for advice of all kinds. She's somehow able to cut through the dross and get right to the heartbeat of the matter. She has raised four superb people, Moon, Dweezil, Ahmet, and Diva, and is now Grandma Gail to Moon's baby daughter Mathilda. She also adored, protected, and tended to one of our most prolific, awe-inspiring musical masterminds, until his untimely death in 1993. I truly believe that Frank Zappa should, and will be, revered in the same way that Beethoven and Mozart are one day. Not only did Mr. Zappa compose astonishing music, he also wrote hysterically astute lyrics!
Betwixt and between our endless pressing engagements, Gail and I somehow find the time to drink several cups of tea in her overstuffed kitchen. Gail has remodeled, but I remember exactly where the intercom was back in my governess days; when the sound of four-year-old Moon's sweet voice would wake me up, asking me to come in and make "breaktess," while Keith Moon waited impatiently in my little guest house, wearing my leopardprint spike heels.
Gail has always laughingly referred to herself as a groupie, although her rock star dalliances ended when she met Mr. Zappa. "Being a groupie is a state of mind," she insists. "There was the negative side of groupies who only wanted to be with groups for the lifestyle. I remember going to a party and there were all these girls designed to find the pop star of their dreams, and hopefully get a castle in England in the bargain. They took groupiedom to a whole other level that you might call `professional: Groupies who just got lucky-girls servicing the bands. Then there were the desperate ones servicing the crew or anyone near the bandcousins, road managers, whatever."
I mention that I recently spoke with the infamous Sweet Connie from Little Rock, a proudly unrepentant groupie with no qualms about tending to any and all backstage personnel. I think it's pretty cool that she makes no apologies for her behavior. "And why would she?" Gail wonders. "There are some people who might be outwardly remarkable for something they're known for, but someone else might recognize them as being so special that they take it to a higher level. They have much more humanity than most people would ever recognize-more than the average person could dream of."
After we nosh on piles of spicy Indian food, Gail and I cover many topics while the family dogs snurfle for attention, and cats languidly meander across the tabletop. Even after decades of late-night chatathons with Gail, I discover loads of fascinating new info about
Decked out to impress the maestro, we arrived en masse at the infamous log cabin in Laurel Canyon, which was once owned by 1920s Hollywood cowboy Tom Mix. His beloved four-legged costar Tony the Wonder Horse was supposedly buried under the bowling alley in the basement. Upstairs, there was a fireplace the size of a movie star's closet, and Frank sat nearby at his piano, creating works of cryptic splendor.
We giggled and danced and showed off shamelessly for Mr. Zappa, but I kept sneaking peeks at Gail, who was busy making tea and snacks for her goofy guests, while Christine bounced baby Moon on her scrawny hip. Even when pie-eyed Miss Mercy stamped into the kitchen and gobbled up a stick of butter, Gail was gracious about the peculiar intrusion. She's got it all, I thought dreamily: a genius rock star husband, a house full of wild musicians, and her own little bundle of baby-joy cooing along with Daddy's brilliant jingles. How had she done it? With all the femmes on the prowl, how had she captured this coveted rock god?
I have been friends with Gail Zappa for thirty-eight years now and have long known the answer to my ardent teenage question. She quickly became my confidant, guidance counselor, and mentor as I went through my endless groupie travails. Her distinctly droll point of view helped me to deal with my lamentable romantic foibles, and I still go to her for advice of all kinds. She's somehow able to cut through the dross and get right to the heartbeat of the matter. She has raised four superb people, Moon, Dweezil, Ahmet, and Diva, and is now Grandma Gail to Moon's baby daughter Mathilda. She also adored, protected, and tended to one of our most prolific, awe-inspiring musical masterminds, until his untimely death in 1993. I truly believe that Frank Zappa should, and will be, revered in the same way that Beethoven and Mozart are one day. Not only did Mr. Zappa compose astonishing music, he also wrote hysterically astute lyrics!
Betwixt and between our endless pressing engagements, Gail and I somehow find the time to drink several cups of tea in her overstuffed kitchen. Gail has remodeled, but I remember exactly where the intercom was back in my governess days; when the sound of four-year-old Moon's sweet voice would wake me up, asking me to come in and make "breaktess," while Keith Moon waited impatiently in my little guest house, wearing my leopardprint spike heels.
Gail has always laughingly referred to herself as a groupie, although her rock star dalliances ended when she met Mr. Zappa. "Being a groupie is a state of mind," she insists. "There was the negative side of groupies who only wanted to be with groups for the lifestyle. I remember going to a party and there were all these girls designed to find the pop star of their dreams, and hopefully get a castle in England in the bargain. They took groupiedom to a whole other level that you might call `professional: Groupies who just got lucky-girls servicing the bands. Then there were the desperate ones servicing the crew or anyone near the bandcousins, road managers, whatever."
I mention that I recently spoke with the infamous Sweet Connie from Little Rock, a proudly unrepentant groupie with no qualms about tending to any and all backstage personnel. I think it's pretty cool that she makes no apologies for her behavior. "And why would she?" Gail wonders. "There are some people who might be outwardly remarkable for something they're known for, but someone else might recognize them as being so special that they take it to a higher level. They have much more humanity than most people would ever recognize-more than the average person could dream of."
After we nosh on piles of spicy Indian food, Gail and I cover many topics while the family dogs snurfle for attention, and cats languidly meander across the tabletop. Even after decades of late-night chatathons with Gail, I discover loads of fascinating new info about
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