Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up

by Des Barres, Pamela

  In between all this madcap hullabaloo, the day came that I was invited to Bob Dylan’s birthday party. I felt like I had won first prize on the planet. What could be more divine than helping my hero celebrate his day of birth? What do you get Bob Dylan for his birthday, anyway? What becomes a legend most? Another black leather vest? I spent two entire days traipsing all around town, attempting to procure the perfect trinket and wound up with an antique copper ashtray painted with real berries and grasses and hand-beaten by an entire tribe of Indians. That’s what the très chic salesperson told me. She was wearing some sort of authentic-looking buckskin getup with several old Indian-head nickels down the front, so who knows? They wrapped the important artifact in unbleached muslin and tied it with raffia. I wrote something on the card about lifelong inspiration, trying real hard not to kiss his ass too profoundly. You can tell he’s real sick of it.

  Precious Patti was also among the chosen few to cruise down to Malibu that warm Gemini afternoon, and to say our spirits were high would be the world’s most laid-back understatement. Some of that scary old peering-through-the binocular mentality threatened to rear its wicked head, but I admonished it into submission. Get lost, you lame negative thought pattern! I did the old one-two with my cosmic inner fists. Out, out, damn spot!

  We got to Bob’s house on time and the roosters scattered and the dust flew. It was so ramshackle on the outside, it must have been designed to keep out prying eyes, but after wading through the chicken coops, yakking ducks, heaps of old wood, cages, rubbish, it was like pulling back the Technicolor curtain to the land of Oz. Lush green all around a gigantic glass-and-wood abode, with the shimmering ocean as a backdrop; children frolicking, music playing, dogs yapping. The first person I ran into was Roy Orbison, all in black with serious sunglasses on. Hmm, there’s Tom Petty, Jeff Lynne, Debra Winger, Joycie, Carole, various cool musicians, hip record-business types, George Harrison . . . GEORGE HARRISON!!! Fab Four flashbacks stung my head like blazing confetti; bobbing-head Beatle dolls, goopy teen Fab Four mush stories, a gently weeping guitar, “I’d be quite prepared for that eventuality.” So Bob calls Patti and me over to embrace us, and we sit down with him under a big umbrella. Dogs woof, children laugh, the sun glints and sparkles on the sea, it’s Bob’s birthday and it’s all too perfect. He introduces us to George; we are pink-cheeked and starry-eyed. “Oh, we’ve met a couple of times, haven’t we?” George said to me. Did he remember me sinking into the blacktop at A&M Records back in ’69? The brief moment in the recording studio with that nutty friend of mine a couple years ago? “Bob, have you read that wonderful book of Pamela’s? I’m not in it . . . unfortunately.” He laughed and told Patti that she was a legend, and she said, “Look who’s talking!” It was a bit overwhelming, all very charming and tra-la. The way George said “unfortunately” was exactly how he said the word “eventuality” in A Hard Day’s Night. I was still trying to get over the fact that one of the Beatles had read my book when the Beatle in question introduced me to his mechanic. I suppose he takes the man everywhere. George said to me, “This is so-and-so, he works with engines the way you and I work with words.” YOU AND I! He was comparing himself to me as a creative creature, and I was overcome with rapture. I shook the mechanic’s hand and grinned a whole lot. Bob leaned over to me and said, “Maybe we could work together on a screenplay or something.” I grinned the whole rest of the day and well into the star-filled Malibu night, dancing to cool old songs on the cool old jukebox that George, Jeff, and Tom had gotten Bob for his birthday. None of the brilliant, creative souls at the party could figure out how to hook the thing up at first. Bob stood by watching with his arms crossed saying, “Don’t look at me,” but Tom Petty finally plugged it in, and everybody cheered. As I rocked out to “Runaround Sue,” George called me over to him and whispered, “You’re really cute, you know that?” Beyond wow. Being called “cute” at forty by one of the Beatles is a truly glorious thing.

  Bob seemed to enjoy his jukebox, but I didn’t get to see him open the other gifts, so I don’t know how the hand-beaten, berry-stained ashtray went over. I hope he liked it.

  VI

  The book went into a second printing, and then a third, and so after a brief dollop of duty at home, Morrow put me back out on the road. This time I got to go to Chicago, where I hung out in dingy, frantic rock clubs with my old friend, Cynthia Plaster-Caster. She is still casting semifamous rock penises, or is it peni? She was invited to come on Oprah with me to describe her seemingly sordid past and present but declined out of shyness. Besides, Cynthia’s poor mom still has no idea that she’s the legendary dick-mistress.

  So I had to share the Oprah stage with Gene Simmons and Paul Stanley along with Jackie Collins, who had just written a no-dimensional novel called Rock Star. Paul and Gene were telling horny, amusing anecdotes about groupies, Jackie was regaling the angry audience with trumped-up tales about her rock friends, and I was ticked off because I had read her “rock novel” but couldn’t express my opinion because a pal in publishing had smuggled the early galleys to me. Kind of a cloak-and-dagger thing. A smoke and Jagger thing. Ha ha. The audience was unamused when Gene said he had sex with two thousand women. (It’s actually close to three thousand, but he didn’t think they could handle it.) The would-be libbers booed and jeered when he stood up and grabbed his crotch, and started hump-hump-humping the air. He ate it up with a sticky spoon. Jackie was alone in her upper-crust world of hype, and I was there to represent the real thing: the groupie girl. Groupie woman? (Actually the former groupie girl/woman. I always have to remind people of that fact.) I didn’t get two words in edgewise.

  In place of Cynthia P.C., the Oprah show had dug up the “butter queen” to spew a few outrageous vulgarities from in between two pent-up polyester matrons-before-their-time. Oprah asked her exactly what she did with her trademark cube of butter, and the matrons sputtered indignantly while she described her cholesterol-laden antics. I always felt bad about being lumped in with girls like the butter queen, God bless her. I like to think of myself as a romantic soul who happens to love rock and roll. I became established in that world before the notion of “favors” came into being. There were no passes, stickers, or laminates that guaranteed access to that hallowed ground, where true acceptance can never be bought and paid for. After Oprah I went down to Miami, where everyone wanted to know all about Sonny Crockett’s massive member. It seemed I was surrounded by dicks but living like a celibate.

  It was at this time that I suffered the rotten lowlight of my entire publicity glare. I had rushed from one coast to the other on a tiny moment’s notice for The Late Show, just to be lambasted by the chilly charmer, Suzanne Somers, who asked me how many times I had gotten the clap, right on national TV. “How did you meet these guys?” She asked through a smudged veil of sweetness, “Did you stand around on street corners?” Yeah, right, smartie-pumps. Mick, Keith, Elvis, and Jimmy Page just happened to be wandering by while I stood there on the corner of Sunset and Vine. Where was Joan Rivers when I needed her? As I made a mad dash for the plane, the producers apologized, all pink-faced, and told me how well I handled myself. Thanks a lot, guys. I had been in the smoggy City of Angels and hadn’t even been able to see Nick. Later on that night, too pooped to peep, back in my room in Miami, my mom called to tell me she wanted to wring Suzanne Somers’s neck, and how could she get to her?

  Always, some of the public adored me—thwarted rock-dollies who glommed onto my past like it was their very own, girls who told me I spoke their minds for them, guys who wished they had been there; and always, another part of the not-so-adoring public saw a scarlet letter—a raised, searing welt in the center of my forehead. Shame, shame, shame. On a live satellite show to Australia, the scum-host said menacingly, “How does it feel to be known around the world as a slut?” The world has never liked admitting that a woman can have a live-wire sex life. So when my old friend Robert Plant called from London to say he was giving the book to his teenage daughter, Carmen, s
o she could see what the glorious rock dog and doll days had really been like, I was pleased and strangely proud.

  I spoke to Michael and Nick every day from the road, and their love and support energized me. Fortunately, Nick was too young to take much interest in the PR proceedings, but poor Michael had been subjected to hideous cracks and jibes about his wife, the groupie whore who kissed-kissed-kissed and told. How did he feel about his wife of thirteen years announcing to the world that she had slept with ALL THOSE rock-legend creeps? Always the devil-may-care sophisticate, Michael defended me to the hilt, telling people he was proud of my accomplishments and my blazing, colorful past. He said none of the revelations had been a surprise to him and he had been much, much worse in his heyday. He championed me with a big smile on his face, and I was grateful, but inside I knew he was squirming. Michael was home alone with his unhappy child, while his wife paraded around on Geraldo with her knickers down around her ankles, evading questions about the size of his best friend’s dick.

  August 14—On the big bird headed back to L.A. I didn’t write much on the entire tour—so hectic. Swell time with Donnie in Miami—we have such a special thing. I feel truly comfortable with him, so much Evian under the bridge. Lovely dinners, hysterical conversations, exquisite rides in his boat late at night under the huge full moon, mist steaming up off the ocean. He had one of his teenage no-ones with him part of the time, but we might as well have been alone. The Harmonic Convergence is occurring on Sunday, and I am ready for a transcendental awakening.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  I

  The minute I got home, even before a nap, Michael dropped the bomb: He had found an apartment in the hysterical heart of Hollywood, very close to several of our former family love nests. He had recently completed a high-budget pilot for Aaron Spelling and had a pot of dough—and a month or two before, he had admitted having “very strong feelings” for the model (could this be love? Aaaaaaggghh!), yet seemed to lack the energy to take the next step. But now he was moving out. This was it.

  Weren’t there supposed to be sirens? Somber bells chiming? An announcement on the loudspeaker? A silent alarm, maybe? The next morning before dawn cracked I grabbed Nick and went to a high hilltop in Malibu, along with a thousand other seekers, attempting to still the frizzled cacophony in my head by meditating as thirteen heavens converged with nine hells. While Nick let his tortured spirit float out on that silver chord, like a beseeching kite of light, pictures of my marriage were illuminated on a magic screen behind my jittery eyes: Waiting triumphantly at the airport when Michael left England for me, our engagement announcement over the loudspeakers at Rodney’s English Disco—and the envious teenage glances it caused—twenty dollars to an Elvis employee for a better seat, the first kick at The Last Waltz, the look on his face before he left for his first AA meeting, the broken wrench in his eyes when I asked if he still loved me. Oh, my dear Michael.

  How to tell Nick? Sit him down over a nice dinner at the King’s Head, fish and chips . . . Nick, don’t just eat the crunchy parts, you know the actual fish has the protein. Why don’t you at least try some ketchup on the chips? No, I don’t know why they’re called chips in England and fries in America, honey. Umm, you know how Daddy and I haven’t been getting along that good? Sure, you can have a Coke. Excuse me, waitress, can we have a Coke? Michael, can you help me a little here? Thanks, Mikie. Nick, you know how Mommy and I have been arguing a lot lately? Well, Daddy has gotten his own place in Hollywood. I need to spend some time on my own. Oh, you’ll see me all the time, honey. In fact, I want you to help me pick out some furniture, I want you to make me an art piece for the place of honor. Right, Mommy? Nicky, Daddy and I will always love each other. In fact, the main reason we aren’t going to live together anymore is because we’ll get along lots better living apart. We want to stay good friends. Oh, honey, don’t cry. No, it’s not your fault. We love you more than life, and always will. Would you like another Coke? Eat some dinner, sweetie. Pamela, I don’t think he’s all that hungry right now.

  I know Nick, being so plaintively sensitive, had been picking up the hard-core hell of the situation anyway. And I believed real strongly that you shouldn’t stay together for the sake of the kids, like couples did in the fifties, but it was HARD going. All kinds of guilt raged within me about not supplying the beloved offspring with a solid foundation, holding the family together against all odds. It was an agonizing, slow-moving realization that perfect romantic idealism is just so much cotton candy—smoky, sweet-spun wisps in the wind. Take Mommy away from Daddy and what have you got? Fifty percent of America. Maybe more.

  September 4—Well, my darling husband has found an apartment in Hollywood, and is moving on October one. Many mixed emotions, and I’m sure I don’t yet realize the full extent. I believe I have already done a lot of the grieving and severing during the last five months. My book enabled me to get back some of who I used to be and also to gain a ton of new courage and self-worth. Even though Michael is the one who did all the deeds, I instigated the separation. I’m proud of Michael for going through with it. We shall see what we shall see. Is there another fella for me?

  The day Michael moved out, as he loaded his clothes, aftershave, and cassettes into a pickup provided by good old Stevie, there was a decent-sized earthquake that shook the foundation of the house, sending ceramic figurines and pouting African masks clattering to the floor in great disarray. It was perfect, except there should have been a few lightning bolts thrown in to add a little more drama. Actually, we tried to downplay the dramatics for the sake of Nick, who was less agitated than I would have imagined, getting ready to help Daddy set up his new place. Michael had already taken Nick on shopping excursions, and even I had accompanied them a couple of times to add my feminine-touch two cents’ worth to his bachelor pad. Michael left me just about everything, taking only one piece of furniture, a leather swivel chair that he liked to relax in while watching 60 Minutes, CNN, or himself on TV.

  When all the boxes had been carted out, I waved good-bye and they drove off, Nick sitting on his dad’s lap, plaintive and jazzed all at once. And there I was, alone in the house. Separated from my husband. The big bedroom closet was empty and I stared at it for about half an hour, not even realizing I was bawling my head off. I felt like a teakettle after all the water had boiled away but the flame was still burning my ass. Dry heat. Energy dripped out of my fingertips, what to do? My arms felt like dead stumps as I slowly gathered party dresses, velvet jackets, and Betsey Johnson specials out of the hall closets and into the master bedroom. Oops. Mistress bedroom. I hung the garments one by one, inhaling Michael’s familiar scent. Ghost suits and silk shirts danced with my fancy frocks. I was losing my mind.

  II

  October 12—So, Michael moved almost two weeks ago—the first few days were solemn and weird. The day before he moved, the fateful day itself, and the day after were horrors, but the vibe around here is calming down; it’s actually starting to feel good. I’ve “spring cleaned.” Patti and I had a yard sale and I made six hundred. My clothes have space in the closet and it feels very strange. Michael seems pleased in his new pad and proud of himself for getting it together. I know it’s tres important to him as a human no matter what else happens. Nick seems okay about it. He’s a bit pissed off, as he doesn’t know the real reasons behind the breakup. He sees his dad a lot; we’ve all had dinner a couple of times.

  The dinners were stilted and forced happy. Trying so hard to prove it was all going to be okay. Nick didn’t look in our faces too closely; I think he was afraid we would crack and fall into little pieces right in front of him. He continued to see his burly, bearded therapist, and I prayed he was confiding in him. Every week I dutifully sat in the waiting room, reading ancient Redbooks while the well-meaning psychologist tried to crack Nick’s ever-thickening shell. He had gone to Montessori summer school; Michael and I thought he would thrive in the creative nonjudgmental atmosphere, but he hated it and was kindly asked not to re
turn. A phantom back at Roosevelt again, he was alienated from kid-kind, except for T.J., who, thank God, came over on the weekends. They discussed Atropos and Lachesis, how they wove the threads of life, and studied Japanese comic books because Nick had decided he was going to be a Japanese animator when he grew up. At least he had a goal for the future, no matter how seemingly far-out-fetched.

  I felt like a tender sponge after Michael moved out. If somebody touched me too hard it felt like a bruise was being called up out of my brooding bloodstream, mottled and blue, physical proof of the heartsmash inside. At the same time a goose-bump sense of euphoria was blooming, and part of it was freedom from my own addiction to making sure Michael was happy. Putting his feelings before my own had contributed to so much spleenful discontent on both sides. Somewhere down deep I felt he owed me for making me hurt so bad. On top of all the sticky guilt I made sure he suffered, he must have felt I owed him for taking him on his own private trip through Walt Disney’s Fantasyland one too many times. On a cosmic level, however, I now realize that our loved ones are our teachers, and sometimes the private lessons almost do you in.

  As I had many times before, I started to write down my dreams every morning, trying to be my own analyst piecing together the subconscious puzzle, poking around for the answer when I hadn’t even had the balls to ask the question yet.