Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up by Pamela Des Barres, Michael Des Barres Page B
Authors: Pamela Des Barres, Michael Des Barres
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mortified. Sobbing silently, I wished I could sink through the floor and wind up on Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride in Fantasy-land. In the middle of John Wayne’s star on Hollywood Boulevard. On the dance floor at the Whisky a Go Go, whirling my brains out. Anywhere but this puny, stuffy office on 57th Street in New York City.
When I came out of the office, my costars—Morgan, Michael, and John—were standing sheepishly in the hallway, waiting it out. I felt like I was burning at the stake while they hugged me, making me feel better and much worse all at once. The actor’s ego is the most fragile thing on the planet, and they understood all too well how dejected, rejected, and deflated I felt. They took me back to the Russian Tea Room, where I trampled on my health regimen with three White Russians and two black ones. While my acting mates patted on me, I tried to eat a gushing, buttery chicken Kiev, but myunsuspecting tummy retaliated, and the tempting morsel was whisked away. “This is probably the best thing that ever happened to you,” Michael Nouri stated encouragingly. “Who needs an idiotic soap opera? You’ll get back to Hollywood and star in a Scorsese movie.” And hogs will dance in heaven, right, pal? I called my weirdo acting coach Bill Hickey, and he assured me I was too good for the show anyway, and with my squashed ego semi-assuaged, I packed up all my stuff, grabbed Debbie and a guy from acting class, Joe Hardin, to help with the driving, got a spanking-new, drive-away Cadillac and headed west. Don and Melanie helped load up the car and stood at the window above the French bakery, waving as I started the three-thousand-mile trek back to my darling Michael.
III
After a four-day, whirlwind drivathon, with only one major stop to swoon over the glory of the Grand Canyon, I got back just in time. Michael had been getting used to living the bachelor life, thriving on it, basking in it, and I felt like a cowgirl, inept with a lasso as I tried to corral him back into my devoted, adoring heart.
June 1, 1975 —
It was real weird the first couple of days home, uncomfortable even. He’s just so used to being on his own
—
I felt like an intruder, but I’m working on it. I see no signs of drugs, but a few mumblings here and there tell me he’s been indulging during my absence. He’s kind of into himself and withdrawn
—
even from me. We found a pad today, a pink and green old Hollywood bungalow right above Franklin Avenue on El Cerrito Place. It’s so lovely, lots of bamboo, plants, and sunshine, lots of cooking in my big yellow kitchen
.
The other side of the perfection surfaced in the diary a few weeks later:
July 28 —
I really wish at times that I was with a normal-formal guy and didn’t have to worry about competing with music and drugs. I don’t mean to sound negative, because everything is coming along beautifully. Michael’s new band, Detective, has just signed to Swan Song. I always knew we had a link with Peter Grant and the lads, for better or for worse. But even if it’s looking real good now, I know that Led Zeppelin are a hazard in my life
.
Detective—the new HEAVY, cranking band Michael put together—signed on to Zeppelin’s exciting label Swan Song and started tons of rehearsals for the first record. The band consisted of Michael singing lead; the tall, lanky pouf-haired Michael Monarch, ex-Step-penwolf, on lead guitar; Jon Hyde, a true redheaded health freak with pale, white porcelainlike skin, on drums; Tony Kaye, the elegant ex-keyboardist from Yes, on piano; and a soul-brother bass player, Bobby Pickett.
The Zeppelin liaison was a mixed blessing in disguise. I was in Hades-torment, knowing their wretched excess would tempt my fiancé into his usual oblivion, but being signed onto the new label Zep had conjured up with Atlantic Records was extremely prestigious as well as frighteningly hip. I would have to grin and bite it.
Detective had to work a lot with the VP of Swan Song,
When I came out of the office, my costars—Morgan, Michael, and John—were standing sheepishly in the hallway, waiting it out. I felt like I was burning at the stake while they hugged me, making me feel better and much worse all at once. The actor’s ego is the most fragile thing on the planet, and they understood all too well how dejected, rejected, and deflated I felt. They took me back to the Russian Tea Room, where I trampled on my health regimen with three White Russians and two black ones. While my acting mates patted on me, I tried to eat a gushing, buttery chicken Kiev, but myunsuspecting tummy retaliated, and the tempting morsel was whisked away. “This is probably the best thing that ever happened to you,” Michael Nouri stated encouragingly. “Who needs an idiotic soap opera? You’ll get back to Hollywood and star in a Scorsese movie.” And hogs will dance in heaven, right, pal? I called my weirdo acting coach Bill Hickey, and he assured me I was too good for the show anyway, and with my squashed ego semi-assuaged, I packed up all my stuff, grabbed Debbie and a guy from acting class, Joe Hardin, to help with the driving, got a spanking-new, drive-away Cadillac and headed west. Don and Melanie helped load up the car and stood at the window above the French bakery, waving as I started the three-thousand-mile trek back to my darling Michael.
III
After a four-day, whirlwind drivathon, with only one major stop to swoon over the glory of the Grand Canyon, I got back just in time. Michael had been getting used to living the bachelor life, thriving on it, basking in it, and I felt like a cowgirl, inept with a lasso as I tried to corral him back into my devoted, adoring heart.
June 1, 1975 —
It was real weird the first couple of days home, uncomfortable even. He’s just so used to being on his own
—
I felt like an intruder, but I’m working on it. I see no signs of drugs, but a few mumblings here and there tell me he’s been indulging during my absence. He’s kind of into himself and withdrawn
—
even from me. We found a pad today, a pink and green old Hollywood bungalow right above Franklin Avenue on El Cerrito Place. It’s so lovely, lots of bamboo, plants, and sunshine, lots of cooking in my big yellow kitchen
.
The other side of the perfection surfaced in the diary a few weeks later:
July 28 —
I really wish at times that I was with a normal-formal guy and didn’t have to worry about competing with music and drugs. I don’t mean to sound negative, because everything is coming along beautifully. Michael’s new band, Detective, has just signed to Swan Song. I always knew we had a link with Peter Grant and the lads, for better or for worse. But even if it’s looking real good now, I know that Led Zeppelin are a hazard in my life
.
Detective—the new HEAVY, cranking band Michael put together—signed on to Zeppelin’s exciting label Swan Song and started tons of rehearsals for the first record. The band consisted of Michael singing lead; the tall, lanky pouf-haired Michael Monarch, ex-Step-penwolf, on lead guitar; Jon Hyde, a true redheaded health freak with pale, white porcelainlike skin, on drums; Tony Kaye, the elegant ex-keyboardist from Yes, on piano; and a soul-brother bass player, Bobby Pickett.
The Zeppelin liaison was a mixed blessing in disguise. I was in Hades-torment, knowing their wretched excess would tempt my fiancé into his usual oblivion, but being signed onto the new label Zep had conjured up with Atlantic Records was extremely prestigious as well as frighteningly hip. I would have to grin and bite it.
Detective had to work a lot with the VP of Swan Song,
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