Take Another Little Piece of My Heart: A Groupie Grows Up (2 page)

There have also been times when I felt really out of my element, when the people in the room loomed out of reach, floating sky-high while I remained with my spike heels Crazy Glued to the floor. I
was so wrapped up in trying to maintain my cool in certain startling situations that the glowing reality escaped me until much later. All because I was afraid to let go of my tormented, twitching ego long enough to notice that every one of us is going through the exact same thing. Everybody is a part of everything anyway. I think Donovan said that. (An incredibly long time ago when he wore flowing white robes.)

Like the time I was sitting around in a pent-up hotel room with the Rolling Stones after that poor soul had been knifed to death in front of the band at Altamont. I was concentrating on my composure instead of attempting to console Mick Jagger. He had invited me back to the hotel after the show which had been full of historically bad vibes from assorted Hell’s Angels and too many too-high people. I hadn’t heard about the killing until I had Mick on the phone and he told me to “come right over.” I sat in that dismal, quaking room with the entire band, plus Gram Parsons and Michelle Phillips, while the Stones tried to figure out how the hideous thing could have happened. I was only twenty years old but wished so hard that I could slip a drop of insight into the conversation. I sat mute, counting the seconds as they slowly slid by. Each one of them hurt. I ached to offer condolence and actually did put together a humble sentence of sympathy, but it wasn’t enough. Mick said he was thinking of quitting rock and roll. I didn’t protest even though my thighs cramped at the thought. I looked over at Michelle Phillips curled into a big chair. The corroded old line, “A woman’s place is in the home” popped to mind. MY mom’s place was in the home. I could even picture her in her seersucker pedal pushers, pulling weeds in our chain-link-encased backyard, so what was
I
doing with the world’s raunchiest rock-and-roll band as they discussed murder and mayhem?

How about the time my new photographer friend called to ask if I would like to be in a small film he was directing for this new trio from England, the Jimi Hendrix Experience? I danced in one of the very first rock videos, “Foxy Lady,” wriggling around in skimpy blue velvet to the nihilistic sound oozing from this wild man’s guitar. From my vantage point behind the stage I watched the eyeball on his hand painted jacket contort and wink, but when he wanted my phone number, I just couldn’t bring myself to give it to him. “Pam, dear, there’s someone on the phone for you. It’s Jimi Hendrix.” “Thanks, Mom.” I tried to melt into the psychedelic walls when I wasn’t perched on top of the plaster Greek column go-go-ing hard and fast. . . . “Here I come baby, I’m comin’ to GETCHA”. . . . How did
I
get there? Me, Pam Miller from Reseda, California? I had obviously
wanted
to be in these exalted places, in fact I worked extra hard at being in the grooviest place at the grooviest time, only to go cross-eyed with angst when the dream came true. But I have to give myself credit, because even though I palpitated from head to toe during these excruciatingly magnificent moments, at least I
got
myself there. Determination overpowered my heebie-jeebies every time, praise the Lord.

I was
so
intimidated when I finally met John Lennon, but since I was functioning pretty well within my top-flight insecurity, the famous and infamous never knew how hard my guts trembled. He had been on a rampage around L.A. for a few weeks, and word of his
loco,
angry escapades was out all over town. He had just been tossed out of the Troubador for heckling some poor comedian and wearing a Kotex on his head. What kind of statement was he trying to make, I wonder? Not only women bleed? I met my ex-love Keith Moon at the Record Plant, where he was visiting a Nilsson-Starr-Lennon session. It was a rough night for me anyway: I had to tell the loony tune Mr. Moon that I had fallen in love with Michael Des Barres and could no longer wipe his wacky brow at the crash of dawn. When Keith introduced me to the intelligent Beatle, I saw a gleaming warning signal flash across his wildly famous face and waited for the tornado. He stared at me with daggers, repeating my name over and over and over again until all the letters turned into rancid alphabet soup. How do you respond to that kind of onslaught? Gee, it’s nice to meet you too?

It slowly got better as I became accustomed to hanging out with the hierarchy. Being the governess for Moon and Dweezil and living at the Zappa household really helped me to graduate from novice to know-it-all. I came to appreciate those incandescent moments even more because I was a true participant instead of a stressed-out observer. All the aspiring rock gods, especially the boys from England, couldn’t wait to meet Mr. Z., so the house was always full of velvet trousers and British accents. I no longer had to peer through imaginary binoculars into the land of aahs. Forever-memories were created every day. The hills were on fire with the sound of music.

I never wanted to grow up, I figured, Why should I? Growing up represented giving up, becoming a faceless everywoman with boring superficial responsibilities. By staying young at heart, I would never have to think about “taking charge” of my life. I could meander
through the daisy patch, hand-in-hand with a gorgeous, messy, free-spirited rock dude that I could worship-adore and do things for. But now at age forty-three, I ask myself, Why did I always feel like these precious jerks were doing
me
a favor? I kept counting my lucky stars while I ironed shirts, made copious cups of tea, and pandered to their every whim. And I can’t really blame them for my Miss Conduct! What about the concept that
behind
every great man stands a woman? Which macho dog came up with that gem? I bought into that idea totally and went around making sure my man walked several paces in front of me, so if he happened to drop something, I could pick it up and he just might feel a gallant sense of obligation to me. In the early heart of the nineties that sounds pretty fucking twisted, I know, but at the time it just felt natural. Many years would pass before I realized I was giving myself the itsy bitsy end of the stick. I’ve come a long way since then, baby, and it hasn’t been a piece of cake.

I eventually found my own personal free-spirited rock dude, my darling Michael Des Barres, and was married for a truly long time. And I certainly thought it was going to last forever, believe me. I watched my precious mom hold her marriage together against all odds and studied her example without even trying. I also got to witness Gail Zappa tending, mending, and fending for Frank twenty-four hours a day—taking umpteen tips from the high priestess of rock wives. I have always been a devoted slave to my men but never considered it a fiasco until I was struck by 3-D lightning not too long ago. I was in therapy with my Jungian analyst, complaining about my errant ex and his reckless sexual adventures that had hijacked our marriage, when I was struck dumb by the realization that
I
had been half the problem! I had become a classic codependent way before some now-filthy-rich soul had coined the term. Of course I have always been ahead of my time. Ha! The word
codependent,
like any other label, pissed me off at first, but I had to face facts, dolls. If the term fits, slide into it like a skin-tight cat suit. I now prefer “cocreator” because it’s always a fifty-fifty deal. By catering to Michael, doing everything for him, kissing his royal ass, and attempting to alter him
for his own sake,
I had helped to create a man who had no choice but to rebel. I thought if I ripped out my heart every once in a while and offered him another piece, he would feel totally loved—totally beholden. I stood in front of him screaming, “Take it! Take another little piece of my heart, now baby. You know you’ve got it if it makes YOU feel good.”

So many women my age are either adoring, diminished do-gooders, slavishly devoted to the men and children in their lives, putting themselves at the very end of the list, and rotting with boiling resentment or hard-bitten gals determined to wear the slacks and hold the reins. Their lips become slits of fierce, hard-won independence, and it’s not very cute. I’ve always avoided the grown-up middle ground, but for the last couple of years I’ve been on a big search for this elusive pathway: take care of my man by taking care of myself. The goal sounds simple enough, but I’ve had to wade through reams of conditioning and blind rebellion, trying not to lose sight of the joyous, exciting day-to-day gift of life. I’m working on being independent—on trusting and respecting my wacky self—but not to get so serious that I get wrinkles on my forehead and trample on the things that thrill and delight me. It’s definitely an adventure, and I’ll always expect illuminating, mesmerizing moments to come along and clog up my day.

And thank God they do. I had a heart-stopping split second not too very long ago. Bob Dylan was playing the Greek Theatre, one of my fave venues in L.A., and I had backstage passes. What else is new? There are very few concerts I go to anymore without some sort of badge or sticker. Call me a snot, but I’ve been doing this shit for so long, I deserve an award, much less some sort of stupid innersanctum sticker. I have to say, though, that a pass for Bob Dylan thrilled and delighted me. Oh yes. I went rolling back in time, when I spent hours and ages in my rock-and-roll room in Reseda, listening to Bob break and enter. He busted into my confused-teen bouffant with an atomic wand and made me question
every single thing
in the universe. I wanted to yell “Chaaaaarge!!” and tackle all the hypocrisy and bullshit on the planet
all by myself!
So, twenty-five years later, when I pushed that backstage door open and Bob spread out his arms and said, “Pamela!! There you are! I just finished reading your book, cover to cover, and you’re a really good writer,” not only did time stand still for me, but I felt like popping open with pride. When I get inspired, I feel it right down into my fingertips, my pumping arteries, marrow, flushed cheeks, tear ducts, clitoris. I felt truly excited and awe inspired that night. People were all around, buzzing, humming like bees, congratulating Bob on his mighty performance. Hearty congratulations for the mysterious man with too many answers. He held a tumbler full of some bourbon-colored booze; grizzled, frizzy, black leather vest; smiling, mumbling thank-yous, shaking hands. His guitars in the corner, gleaming, his girlfriend
Carole and her dressy friends melding into the team of onlookers. Jack Nicholson, Anjelica Huston, Harry Dean Stanton, David Crosby. I had had my sparkling moment. Another backstage scene in which I revolved around the star player like a fringe planet around the sun. But it’s okay. I’m one of those people who adore. It feels so good to be able to
adore
someone, doesn’t it? That brief moment seemed the same as those sparkling drops in the ancient days of groupie yore, but this time I was getting back some of the outrageous output of adoration, appreciation energy. One of my main heroes appreciated my work. What a fucking thrill.

Yet another killer drop in the bucket of life took place at a dinner party held by my main doll-girl, Patti D’Arbanville, where the elusive Mr. Dylan put in an unexpected appearance. I arrived late, and he was the first person to greet me. “Pam, I missed you on
Oprah,”
he called out, and I stopped dead in my tracks. Now, I don’t let just anybody call me Pam, except for my aunties, who just refuse to admit I grew out of “Pam” when I bought my first package of tampons at Thrifty drugstore, but I just couldn’t correct Bob Dylan.

Pam, I missed you on
Oprah
.

I hope that life will continue to thrill me until I cease to be. If I ever feel myself sliding into that woe-is-me shit, it doesn’t take much to jolt me back out of the pit. I rush off to a Salvation Army thrift store and poke through a bunch of old crap in hopes of finding an overlooked treasure. Some fabulous old brocaded jacket with peace-sign pendant attached, maybe. It’s always a possibility. I can cruise the bookstores for a signed Kerouac or the latest in codependence literature to keep myself from falling under some sexy snake charmer’s spell, or I can grab my kid and go down to Little Tokyo and rent some unruly Japanese animation that Nick can translate for me while we sip cans of that amazing sweet, creamy “milky-tea.” While I’m at it, I can also purchase some of those screwy, contorted, nameless Oriental vegetables with roots coming out of both ends and figure out how to eat them. I can pull out some Gram Parsons records and melt into yesterday’s thick promises, or listen to an outrageous new band trying to knock back some walls. That usually straightens me right out. I can also whip up a cool dish for my boyfriend that tastes better than a billion-dollar meal served on the roof of some fancy revolving restaurant, or take a few deep breaths, spin inward, merge
with the cosmos, and see that radiant silver cord that hooks us all together. The possibilities for avoiding that pity pit are endless.

I truly believe every one of us has a story to tell. We all rage and weep, laugh and mourn, have a lot of sex or not enough, fall in and out of love. We work hard, struggle, beg, plead, and play, and it’s all very important. We’re the stuff that dreams and nightmares are made of. It’s all in the telling, dolls, and I’m going to tell you about the last fifteen years of my life, most of which were spent with the man I thought I would be with forever. But that fuddy-duddy fossilized cliche “Life is full of surprises” is one of those big, fat inescapable truths. It can work for you, or it can creep up and kick you in the ass. I think the trick is to have eyes in the back of your head. Expect the worst. Expect the best. Expect a fucking miracle. It’s always Anything Can Happen Day.

When
I’m with the Band
came out, my husband of twelve and a half years, Michael, and I were on the verge of separating. I had such mixed-up, sad, and final feelings. I had accomplished so much by writing reams of cathartic madness, clearing away so many pentup questions that still lurked in my heart like lonely apparitions. Writing about my loony, beloved past was like cleansing my soul with a heart-shaped metal scrub brush. Painful, bittersweet good-byes. I could finally let go of the magical Fab Four and Paul McCartney’s dreamy thighs, Jimmy Page’s ebony, velvet curls, Gram Parson’s haunting anguished sob, Mick Jagger’s haughty, prancing majesty, the wild and free utopian love-ins, the Sunset Strip, shredding crushed velvet and rotting silk flowers, my rose-colored, Mr. Tambourine Man sunglasses, hazy, stoned-out moments with people long gone: Keith Moon, John Bonham, Gram, Brandon De Wilde, Jim Morrison, Miss Christine . . . and now I had to let go of my forever-darling, Michael.