Read Online Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up by Pamela Des Barres, Michael Des Barres - Free Book Online
Authors: Pamela Des Barres, Michael Des Barres
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a young loooong-haired, brainiac hipster, Danny Goldberg, who turned out to be a true long-lasting friend and an instant ally for me. Once a full junkie, Danny had reformed, gotten sober, and was attending the same spiritual Hilda meetings in New York where I had found such helpful solace. I now had one more hip straight person to add to that short list that included Frank Zappa and Woody Allen. “Danny doesn’t get high and he’s cool,” I announced with semi-regularity, but even though Michael adored Danny, he kept on going right down that familiar path of disrepute.
One evening Jimmy Page called to say he would like to come by and meet the whole lineup, and while Michael rounded up the madmen, I made impromptu hors d’oeuvres to pass around while they brainstormed about Detective’s future in the limelight. Jimmy was in one of his humble, gallant moods and asked the band to open for Zeppelin on their next U.S. tour. He went so far as to announce his intention to produce the Detective record himself! Many cocktails were consumed and toasts made, laughter and euphoria abounded. Jimmy still called me “Miss P.” and kept giving me warm, memory-laden glances, which made me feel good. It has always been important for me to remain friends with my ex-loves. Why slather so much time, attention, and energy on someone only to have them disappear into the void with bad feelings?
Zeppelin had moved into Malibu Colony planning to rehearse for their tour in Los Angeles and, as usual, the town was buzzing. A big meeting was set up for Detective to sign the Swan Song contracts, but at the last minute it appeared the contracts had been slightly rearranged by Zeppelin’s bizarre lawyer Steve Weiss. The champagnegot warm while my Michael and Michael Monarch had the contracts surreptitiously checked out across town. I sat on the humongous lap of Peter Grant, cajoling, cavorting, and attempting to keep his mind off the fact that the two Michaels were exceedingly late for the major moment. Even Danny Goldberg started getting grim. I was the sole entertainment while time ticked, t-i-c-k-e-d slowly by. Steve Weiss kept drunkenly checking his Rolex, and I was wearing see-through thin when the Michaels finally burst into the room with pens poised. Michael told me later that he would have signed the back of Peter Grant’s bald head to get his green card. “If somebody asks what musical direction Detective is taking,” Michael said ruefully, “I’ll tell them our only direction is straight to the bank. This is green-card rock and roll at its finest.” When it was all over, I was so relieved I almost sobbed when I could alight from the lap of the world’s most gargantuan and influential rock-and-roll manager.
Michele Myer booked the Starwood, the lowdown club of the decade, and Detective decided to put on a show for their enigmatic, soon-to-be-legendary bosses. The guest list was ours, because dear old Mack truck Shelly was in charge, so the place was teeming with rock puppies ready to ravage. I took turns petting Michael backstage and casually lounging in the front corner booth with Jimmy Page, Peter Grant, and road manager Richard Cole, trying to hide my jitters with lots of ha-has and anecdotes about the good ol’ days back in ’69. Jimmy didn’t have much to say and kept slipping off into a little nap. Hmm. All the hipsters downstairs kept peering up at the booth that housed the holy, but a soiled version of Mr. Clean stood guard in front of the red velvet rope, so there was no chance of intruding worshipers. I once saw Richard Cole kick a fan’s teeth right out of his head at the Rainbow Bar and Grill for approaching Robert Plant from behind. The bicuspids and molars flew through the squalid air, but the person removed from the premises was the worshiping intruder, and I am not kidding.
There was some trouble with the soundboard at the Starwood that night, and Peter alternated between nudging Sleeping Beauty and checking
One evening Jimmy Page called to say he would like to come by and meet the whole lineup, and while Michael rounded up the madmen, I made impromptu hors d’oeuvres to pass around while they brainstormed about Detective’s future in the limelight. Jimmy was in one of his humble, gallant moods and asked the band to open for Zeppelin on their next U.S. tour. He went so far as to announce his intention to produce the Detective record himself! Many cocktails were consumed and toasts made, laughter and euphoria abounded. Jimmy still called me “Miss P.” and kept giving me warm, memory-laden glances, which made me feel good. It has always been important for me to remain friends with my ex-loves. Why slather so much time, attention, and energy on someone only to have them disappear into the void with bad feelings?
Zeppelin had moved into Malibu Colony planning to rehearse for their tour in Los Angeles and, as usual, the town was buzzing. A big meeting was set up for Detective to sign the Swan Song contracts, but at the last minute it appeared the contracts had been slightly rearranged by Zeppelin’s bizarre lawyer Steve Weiss. The champagnegot warm while my Michael and Michael Monarch had the contracts surreptitiously checked out across town. I sat on the humongous lap of Peter Grant, cajoling, cavorting, and attempting to keep his mind off the fact that the two Michaels were exceedingly late for the major moment. Even Danny Goldberg started getting grim. I was the sole entertainment while time ticked, t-i-c-k-e-d slowly by. Steve Weiss kept drunkenly checking his Rolex, and I was wearing see-through thin when the Michaels finally burst into the room with pens poised. Michael told me later that he would have signed the back of Peter Grant’s bald head to get his green card. “If somebody asks what musical direction Detective is taking,” Michael said ruefully, “I’ll tell them our only direction is straight to the bank. This is green-card rock and roll at its finest.” When it was all over, I was so relieved I almost sobbed when I could alight from the lap of the world’s most gargantuan and influential rock-and-roll manager.
Michele Myer booked the Starwood, the lowdown club of the decade, and Detective decided to put on a show for their enigmatic, soon-to-be-legendary bosses. The guest list was ours, because dear old Mack truck Shelly was in charge, so the place was teeming with rock puppies ready to ravage. I took turns petting Michael backstage and casually lounging in the front corner booth with Jimmy Page, Peter Grant, and road manager Richard Cole, trying to hide my jitters with lots of ha-has and anecdotes about the good ol’ days back in ’69. Jimmy didn’t have much to say and kept slipping off into a little nap. Hmm. All the hipsters downstairs kept peering up at the booth that housed the holy, but a soiled version of Mr. Clean stood guard in front of the red velvet rope, so there was no chance of intruding worshipers. I once saw Richard Cole kick a fan’s teeth right out of his head at the Rainbow Bar and Grill for approaching Robert Plant from behind. The bicuspids and molars flew through the squalid air, but the person removed from the premises was the worshiping intruder, and I am not kidding.
There was some trouble with the soundboard at the Starwood that night, and Peter alternated between nudging Sleeping Beauty and checking
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