Read Online Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up by Pamela Des Barres, Michael Des Barres - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Pamela Des Barres, Michael Des Barres
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understood that he had to take it out on someone, and I knew that he loved me, so I kept on doting, catering, and smothering him with cupid’s bazookas until the storm was over. His pain was louder than mine, so it always took precedence—but I knew love would prevail, and I could deal with anything as long as I had my heart safely entwined in his.
More than two months passed before Michael was finally summoned to Malibu by Peter Grant. We allowed ourselves to get edgily excited, hoping the ambiguous Mr. Page was ready to produce the Detective record. Michael had arrived home one morning at 3 A.M ., having stayed too long at some drug geek’s house in Laurel Canyon, bombed and complaining that he needed one more song for the album. I had been so relieved to see him but pissed off at the same time, so scrawled out a song called “Recognition” in about ten minutes, just to prove it could be done. Michael loved the lyrics and had them in his pocket when he leapt confidently into the Zeppelin limo.
As I paced around praying the meeting was going well, day turned to night and night to day again. It was the first of uncountable nights I would spend alone while my husband was out rampaging through town. The phone sat mute. He didn’t even call. Was he celebrating without me? Snorting reams of coke? Swallowing handfuls of various multicolored capsules? Swigging Jack straight out of the bottle? The fear inside me was alive. I could see his liver disintegrating, his heart stopping,
ka-bump, ka——bump, ka
— The sun was fully up when he staggered in, and in one instant I knew all was not right with the world. His eyes spun black in their deep sockets, he twitched, he sniffled, he looked crazed-high, but I was afraid to confront himbecause the wacked-out look on his face broadcasted bad news. Before he crashed out for the next day and a half, he told me how a forlorn Peter sat him down, pointed to Jimmy, who was nodding out in a corner, and told him Pagey wasn’t able to produce the record because of his heroin problem. Poor Jimmy, poor Peter, poor Michael. Poor ME!!! When Michael came out of his self-induced stupor twenty hours later, I lured him back to the world with Nutty Orange Marmalade Chicken and a fabulously healthy salad topped with toasted sunflower seeds and golden raisins. He washed it down with half a dozen bottles of Chablis.
IV
With Mr. Page backing out of the picture for heart-cracking personal reasons, Danny finally found a replacement to produce the Detective project. Since the new producer’s first name was also Jimmy, when the album came out everybody thought it was Mr. Pagey being cagey, and Michael let them think what they wanted.
Detective’s sound was big and bold, thunderous and blatant. Michael wrote the lyrics, guitarist Michael Monarch wrote the screaming licks that strained to be melodies. The deafening volume hurt your ears real good, but Michael’s arteries popped halfway out of his throat, smarting to be heard. He woed to me that he felt like a heavy metal puppet in a hellhound lip-sync parade. The greedy bastards. It’s a holy roller miracle he doesn’t have to wear double hearing aids like Pete Townshend.
Detective was on the final edge of megaton metal and had a raucous, loyal following; local gigs were packed full of raving metal dogs and spandex-clad girls with ratted, dyed black hair who gazed up at Michael wantonly, tongues lolling. Half-disrobed tarty babes hit on him as if I were invisible— “What are you doing later, Michael? Want to get together?” He acted as if he had never seen the teased beauties before, brushing them aside like annoying wasps. I was always with my man, hanging on tight, my eyes blazing at those naughty girls with lingering glances. I even elbowed one of the most brazen right in her billowing mammaries, but as far as I could tell, Michael didn’t even notice these rampant females, and I believed he was devoted to me, body and soul, so when
More than two months passed before Michael was finally summoned to Malibu by Peter Grant. We allowed ourselves to get edgily excited, hoping the ambiguous Mr. Page was ready to produce the Detective record. Michael had arrived home one morning at 3 A.M ., having stayed too long at some drug geek’s house in Laurel Canyon, bombed and complaining that he needed one more song for the album. I had been so relieved to see him but pissed off at the same time, so scrawled out a song called “Recognition” in about ten minutes, just to prove it could be done. Michael loved the lyrics and had them in his pocket when he leapt confidently into the Zeppelin limo.
As I paced around praying the meeting was going well, day turned to night and night to day again. It was the first of uncountable nights I would spend alone while my husband was out rampaging through town. The phone sat mute. He didn’t even call. Was he celebrating without me? Snorting reams of coke? Swallowing handfuls of various multicolored capsules? Swigging Jack straight out of the bottle? The fear inside me was alive. I could see his liver disintegrating, his heart stopping,
ka-bump, ka——bump, ka
— The sun was fully up when he staggered in, and in one instant I knew all was not right with the world. His eyes spun black in their deep sockets, he twitched, he sniffled, he looked crazed-high, but I was afraid to confront himbecause the wacked-out look on his face broadcasted bad news. Before he crashed out for the next day and a half, he told me how a forlorn Peter sat him down, pointed to Jimmy, who was nodding out in a corner, and told him Pagey wasn’t able to produce the record because of his heroin problem. Poor Jimmy, poor Peter, poor Michael. Poor ME!!! When Michael came out of his self-induced stupor twenty hours later, I lured him back to the world with Nutty Orange Marmalade Chicken and a fabulously healthy salad topped with toasted sunflower seeds and golden raisins. He washed it down with half a dozen bottles of Chablis.
IV
With Mr. Page backing out of the picture for heart-cracking personal reasons, Danny finally found a replacement to produce the Detective project. Since the new producer’s first name was also Jimmy, when the album came out everybody thought it was Mr. Pagey being cagey, and Michael let them think what they wanted.
Detective’s sound was big and bold, thunderous and blatant. Michael wrote the lyrics, guitarist Michael Monarch wrote the screaming licks that strained to be melodies. The deafening volume hurt your ears real good, but Michael’s arteries popped halfway out of his throat, smarting to be heard. He woed to me that he felt like a heavy metal puppet in a hellhound lip-sync parade. The greedy bastards. It’s a holy roller miracle he doesn’t have to wear double hearing aids like Pete Townshend.
Detective was on the final edge of megaton metal and had a raucous, loyal following; local gigs were packed full of raving metal dogs and spandex-clad girls with ratted, dyed black hair who gazed up at Michael wantonly, tongues lolling. Half-disrobed tarty babes hit on him as if I were invisible— “What are you doing later, Michael? Want to get together?” He acted as if he had never seen the teased beauties before, brushing them aside like annoying wasps. I was always with my man, hanging on tight, my eyes blazing at those naughty girls with lingering glances. I even elbowed one of the most brazen right in her billowing mammaries, but as far as I could tell, Michael didn’t even notice these rampant females, and I believed he was devoted to me, body and soul, so when
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