Somebody to Love?

by Grace Slick

  The short of it is that I eventually stepped back through the window and lived to tell the tale. I'm not ordinarily a nature girl, but there are some weather opportunities that can't be refused.

  38

  All-Access Pass

  In 1976, I was back in the place of my birth, Chicago, for another offer that couldn't be refused. Skip and I were on tour, enjoying an evening of room service and lovemaking, when he suddenly asked me to marry him. My marriage to Jerry Slick had been nothing more than assumed theory sliding into practice, and Paul and I never tried to formalize things, so no one had ever actually proposed to me before. I was honored and delighted. But since Skip was so young and we were both high at the time, I said, “I love you, too, but it's late, we're loaded, and maybe you're just reacting to the moment. If you still feel this way in the morning, ask me again. And if you don't, I'll understand that it was just temporary enthusiasm.”

  Since Skip had to get up early for work the next morning, he was gone when I awakened, but there was a note on his pillow that said, “Will you marry me?” The guy was serious.

  YES, I wanted to be his partner; there was no question about it. And I knew that China adored him, which also helped me make my decision. Skip was young and energetic enough to offer her more than the usual “I'll watch while you play” togetherness that often passed for adult/child bonding. Both mother and daughter found his antics pretty irresistible.

  The group always tried to book Hawaii as the last job on our tours so we could stay a while afterward and enjoy the islands. One afternoon in Oahu, Pat Dugan, China, and I were hanging out in Pat's hotel room on the ninth floor, when she looked over at the window and let out a yell. There was Skip, who had climbed up the outside of the building. Casually swinging one of his legs over the ninth-floor balcony railing, he smiled and said, “Good afternoon, ladies.” China did a hand-clapping giggle, I decided Skip was Robin fucking Hood, and Pat wanted to strangle him for almost giving her a heart attack.

  That same night, the band and crew had dinner at Michelle's, a fantastic restaurant right on the beach. The open room included long, wide windows facing the beach, close enough to the ground for a child to climb out and run off for some fun in the sand. Skip and China took advantage of the situation. While the two of them headed off in a random dance toward the water, the reddish pink sunset and bright blue ocean surrounded their silhouettes—a clear memory that I call up from time to time when I want to remind myself how lucky I am to still have both of them in my life.

  Skip is from Philadelphia, and as a lighting director, he literally shines his lights on me, so this old Elton John song still makes me get out the Kleenex:

  Shine a light,

  Shine a light,

  Philadelphia freedom,

  I love you.

  Another wedding party: Cynthia Bowman, the bride, China Kantner, Skip Johnson, and Billy Johnson. (Ivan Wing)

  From cleaning toilets at the Spectrum in Philadelphia to production manager for The Who in the space of three years, Skip was one of the lucky kids, like myself, who saw it, wanted it, and got it.

  The all-access pass.

  Drugs, groupies, limos, five-star hotels—we lived the all-expenses-paid life that everyone dreams about while they're wiping off the countertops at Burger King. A lot of people will tell you, quite sanctimoniously, that money won't buy you happiness, but as David Lee Roth said, “Maybe not, but it'll buy you a big fucking yacht that cruises right up next to it.”

  Sure, there've been times when I've been miserable over one thing or the other, but I'd rather not have the burdens of back rent, no job, and an overdrawn bank statement to pile on top of whatever the base misery may be. Bucks grease the hassles; a good attitude drives the whole car. But maybe it's a matter of personality types, because I've noticed that some people are unhappy no matter what's going on. I remember feeling pretty good, even in my rats-in-the-basement, shit-hole apartment in Potrero Hill in San Francisco, so I guess I've managed to live my entire life in a kind of splendid Disney denial. Whether I'm ecstatic or furious, my life seems part of some colorful fairy tale that just rolls out in front of the 130-decibel soundtrack with endless production credits.

  Skip and I were married by a Japanese justice of the peace in the outdoor pavilion of the LaHaina Hotel in Maui in November 1976. Right up to the last minute before the ceremony, my mother was helping me sew organdy flowers onto my wedding dress. Nervous and afraid we wouldn't finish in time, I snorted some cocaine to zip through the sewing process, then popped a quaalude to get “serene” for the wedding. Everything came off as planned, but, in hindsight, I would have preferred to be a totally sober bride—no chemicals at all, not even food.

  Some kind of belated desire for purity.

  China was the flower girl at the ceremony on the beach, where we both stood by Skip in front of a spectacular Hawaiian sunset. Cynthia Bowman was my maid of honor; Skip's brother, Billy, was best man, and I brought the entire band and their families over for the occasion. Everyone seemed genuinely happy for us, and the party afterward took place in various parts of the hotel until people were wearing the champagne and confusing some chips of fallen white ceiling plaster for lines of cocaine, trying to snort up the rugs. Paul wasn't there for obvious reasons, but neither was Marty. Why? Who knows. The man remains a mystery to me. Everybody else in the group brought their girlfriends, wives, and children, but I guess Marty had his own illusion to attend.

  39

  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 ha
ve 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.

  40

  TUIs

  “How Can I Miss You if You Won't Go Away?”

  —TITLE OF A SONG BY DAN HICKS

  After that fateful tour, Marty left the group again, Grace was already gone, and Starship began the search for a new lead singer. While they were regrouping, I'd settled (?) back home and was alternately working on a solo album titled Dreams and driving the highway patrol nuts.

  Some drunks sit around and cry or watch infomercials, but when I was high, I just had to drive a car. It is a great bit of good fortune that I never hit any living beings, because an automobile is definitely a weapon in the hands of chemically altered individuals. I was arrested during the seventies on three separate occasions for drunk driving, but I wasn't actually in the car for any of the three arrests.

  How did that work? It's called a DUI—“driving under the influence.” But in my case, it should have been called a TUI—for “talking under the influence.”

  When my first arrest occurred, I'd had a couple glasses of white wine (Vanessi's restaurant in San Francisco had enormous glasses), Paul and I were arguing in the car on the way home, and I was driving. When he got tired of the debate, he reached over, pulled the keys out of the ignition, and heaved them out the window onto somebody's front lawn. Completely disgusted, he got out of the car and started walking home, while I also got out of the car and started rooting around in the grass on my hands and knees, searching for the keys. After about ten minutes of unsuccessful close-to-the-ground ferreting, I heard the delicate footsteps of someone approaching me on my right side. Turning my head to view the inquisitor, I came face to feet with a pair of black boots. Lo and behold—it was a member of the SFPD. He stood there in full regalia: navy blue outfit, badge, hands on hips, and an expression that asked, “What's going on here?”

  When I heard him actually utter the words, I started laughing because I had a good idea where I was going next—the Bryant Street police station. I stood up to face him and he repeated the question, “What's going on here?” Now I knew where I was going next because instead of answering him, I kept on laughing. Cops don't like it when you laugh instead of answering; they get highly offended when you show them you don't give a shit. They also don't like it when you're down on all fours, rooting around in some strange person's lawn. I already had several strikes against me.

  At the jail my cellmate was puking all over the place, so I started practicing karate, knowing that if they thought I might be violent, they'd give me a single-person cell. I was transferred to alternate accommodations, but unfortunately, I was accompanied by a girl, high on speed, who sang Paul McCartney's “Band on the Run” all night long. After three forms of gray food for breakfast, bail was posted, I was let out, and my name appeared in the newspaper for my parents and friends to enjoy with their breakfast.

  The second TUI was a result of not checking the oil gauge in the car. At 150 mph, racing uphill on Waldo Grade in Marin County, a car without oil is bound to give the driver some strong objections to that oversight. On the way back down the hill, when my Aston Martin started belching and throwing flames out from under the hood, I pulled over to the side of the freeway and got the hell out of the potentially exploding car. As I waited (it was 3:00 A.M., so there wasn't much traffic) for someone to flag down, a guy in a Volkswagen pulled over. “Do you want me to call the highway patrol for you?” he asked.

  “Yes!” I said.

  In about five minutes, the black-and-white pulled up. I was ready to do the female in distress thing, but the officer, six feet, four inches, with thumbs hooked in his belt under a beer gut, said, “Okay, what's going on here?” His mistake. My problem.

  “I'm having a goddamned party at three A.M. all by myself on the fucking freeway,” I heard myself answer. “That's what's going on here.”

  We took an instant dislike to each other: I didn't like his helpful tone of voice and he didn't like my snappy rejoinder. I was booked for a DUI masquerading as a TUI and spent the night at the Frank Lloyd Wright Marin County Jail.

  The last TUI happened when I played Omar Khayyam in a black pickup truck. I thought it would be romantic to take a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and a book of poetry, and go out among the woodsy back roads of Mill Valley. I was already out of the truck, sitting against a tree trunk, reading, eating, and drinking, when, in sharp contrast to the lovely green foliage, the old black-and-white swung around a curve in the road. The uniformed driver got out, stood there, and watched me for a moment. I was clearly enjoying myself, but he decided to inquire about why I happened to be there. The fatal sentence escaped his mouth.

  “What's going on here?” he asked. (Don't they know any other words?)

  “Is it really any of your fucking business?” I answered.

  That was the wrong answer. I could have been pleasant and said, “Just having a peaceful meal in the woods,” but badges, liquor, and those four little words turn me into a smaller version of Roseanne at best, or a larger version of a wolverine at worst.

  So Officer Krupke says, “I'm arresting you for being drunk in public!”

  “Public!? You call pine trees, squirrels, and you PUBLIC?!!”

  Back to lovely Marin Civic and my old room in the female lockup for the evening. Skip and a lawyer friend rescued me in the morning.

  My glib recounting of these events comes off like I didn't give a shit about anything or anybody. But really, I've always felt a ki
nd of contrition when I cause pain to people who've done nothing to deserve it. Lawyers get paid to post bail or show up in court, it's their job. But I do care about my friends whose days are interrupted by calls informing them that “the nut is at it again, trying to bad-mouth the police” or “we need to get Grace out of the slammer again.” I know these unfortunates all have better things to do than come to the aid of Yours Truly. Unfortunately, there's this hard-to-squelch part of me that comes off like some ninety-year-old Ozark ruffian determined to guard her illegal gin mills to the death.

  Is it genetics? Environment? Or just plain irresponsibility? Probably all of the above, and too much pepper in the bouillabaisse. But I don't blame the Master Chef in the sky; there's a slippery rascal down here spicing her own soup.

  “Gun Mouth Grace” (Grace Slick)

  41

  Immoderation

  The CHP finally got tired of seeing my face at the registration desk. When I was informed that unless I went to six months of AA meetings I'd lose my driver's license, I was confused. I didn't want to lose my freedom to drive, but I imagined that AA was one of those sermon-and-a-free-meal Christian deals where they try to convert the penniless.

  I told the judge, “You don't understand, I can pay for my dinner. How about community service?”

  “No, you don't understand,” she said. “Alcoholics Anonymous isn't a charity. It's an organization of people who help each other stay sober.”

  Oh.

  I began attending daily AA meetings, and to my surprise, I immediately loved the concept. There were no overseers with funny outfits, no cultural, racial, or gender exclusions, no Bible, Talmud, or Koran thumping, and no “You're going to hell unless you …” threats. It was just a simple premise based on spiritual progress. While I went to the meetings and stayed “sober” for as long as it took to quiet the authorities and placate my family, I learned to listen and appreciate the affecting personal stories of people from dissimilar backgrounds. I also learned to burn “this too shall pass” into my repertoire of clichés. And I made new friends.