Let's Spend the Night Together: Backstage Secrets of Rock Muses and Supergroupies (18 page)

Considering that most folks believe Cynthia to be a left-field eccentric, I ask if she thinks of what she does as outsider art. "I've been trying to figure out whether I'm an outsider or not. A lot of people believe a true outsider is insane, unlike me. I know what I do is absurd and funny, and most outsiders don't realize their work is absurd. In fact, the reason I do it is to be as absurd as possible." Cynthia's work has actually become accepted by much of the mainstream, but how does she feel about actually being revered by her fans? "It sure is bizarre, but I'm lovin' it. I just want to have a good time. I've really been burnin' to write my book-and I would love to find the time to draw. I've been doing still lifes of very still dicks and tits. Some people do gardening, some people do still lifer."

In 2002, Cynthia founded the Cynthia P. Caster Foundation, a legally sanctioned not-for-profit institution whose mission is to give cash to cutting-edge musicians and artists in need of financial assistance. The foundation raises money through donations and the selling of Cynthia's magnificent limited-edition art objects, which include her art school sketches of the Beatles, the Byrds, Noel Redding, and Jeff Beck's crotch (you'll have to read her book for that story).

Up for grabs at her Web site for a mere $1,500 is a numbered replica of the Hendrix cast, which Cynthia describes thusly:

The Godfather of Whopper Choppers in my collection! Because this was one of my first shots at plaster casting, the end result came out kind of gnarly. I prematurely cracked the mold open, only to find a still-moist, broken cast inside. So yes, Jimi did in fact, break the mold! But thanks to Elmer's Glue, I managed to reconnect the head to the shaft to the testicles. Very statuesque and antique-looking; like Grecian art. The Canadian underground paper Georgia Straight called it the "Penis de Milo." There's no denying that Jimi towers over most of my collection. His long, thick shaft combined with his disproportionately small head brings a shudder to the spinal cord!

She has had art showings at superchic art galleries in New York and San Francisco and also does hilarious spoken-word show-and-tells at open-minded universities and rock clubs. We did a rave-filled night together not long ago at L.A.'s Viper Room and happily brought the house up.

It's way past bedtime, and as we stand in front of my bathroom mirror, rubbing endless creams into our somehow dewy faces, Cynthia and I discuss the impact the Warden has made on her life. I find it astounding that she still speaks to her aged mother almost every day. No matter where Cynthia happens to be on the planet, the Warden thinks she's safely tucked into her apartment in Chicago. "I'd call what she did to me terrorism," she says ardently. "I feared her more than anything when I was a little girl. I studied psychology in college about how really strong hereditary and emotional disorders were-I was afraid I was gonna turn into her."

Through pioneering artistry and scorching soul-searching, Cynthia has finally come to the conclusion that she is not an extension of her mother; and for almost forty years she has pulled the proverbial wool over her mama's sneaky eyes. Amazingly, the ninety-year-old harridan still has no idea that her infamous daughter is the notorious Cynthia Plaster Caster of Chicago.

For over three years, Cynthia has made ends meet without having to work an insufferably confining nine-to-five job. Her only line of work these days is being Cynthia Plaster Caster. "I feel more me. I feel like I fit into my skin more compactly. I say whatever I want to say and it makes me say even more. I have never felt more me than I do right now."

or & oe & q ~ e P

Hey Little Girl,
You Wanna Come on the Bus?

he auspicious winter of 1965 brought the unruly Rolling Stones live, unkempt, and in person to the Long Beach Arena, and I waited in line all night to get tickets close enough to see Mick Jagger ooze shimmering sweat. Unless you were a rock fan in the mid-'60s, you cannot fathom the raw, blatant sexpower that the Stones unleashed, a ferocious blast that decidedly altered chipper high-school student Pam Miller from Reseda, California, forever and evermore.

Safely sequestered in my seat that November night, I watched agog as several fans seemed to lose all semblance of normalcy. Aroused in spanking new ways, fire-eyed girls hastily unbuttoned their pert cotton blouses, hurling unsullied white Maid- enforms onto the stage where five British ruffians played music that sneered.

Halfway through the short, strutting set, one brave fan had somehow gotten backstage and was rabidly descending the long gold drapes behind the band, scuttling closer to Charlie Watts like a demented spider in a matching pastel sweater set. Landing on stage, the star of her own teen dream, she managed to glom onto Keith Richards's leg before being hauled off by a crew-cut guard. As manic as I was about the Stones, I did not remove my slightly padded bra, nor dare attempt such a high-risk feat, but I envied those who made sure they were precisely in the spinning center of the action.

Years later, in my early groupie prime, I prided myself on being an indispensable Whisky a Go Go girl. I was invited into the all-important club most evenings and didn't have to pay because my unbridled dancing got people out of their seats and onto the floor. And yes, there were many nights I was escorted through the door on the arm of a rock god. Even though I considered myself a vital part of the Hollywood music scene, I secretly revered the sassy girls who worked at the venerable rock club. The ticket takers, waitresses, the girls who ran the office for owners Mario and Elmer-they all seemed to harbor hushed secrets behind their long bangs and heavily made-up eyes. These girls never missed a show or a beat. They were first to know who was coming to town, they were always allowed backstage, they had automatic cachet and respect-and often had first dibs on the most coveted local and visiting rock stars.

One of these intimidating dolls was Dee Dee Lewis, a slim strawberry blonde who won the highly prized job of Whisky office manager after her lovely predecessor, Gail Sloatman, met Frank Zappa and became what we all wanted to be. I vividly remember Dee Dee's thick mod-girl lashes, tomboy stance, and in-crowd allure.

Lucky for me, it's a small rock world we live in, and when she heard I was working on a book about groupie histories, Dee Dee contacted me through my Web site. This is her response to my e-mail asking whom she had "groupied" with: "Here goes: Jeff Beck, Cozy Powell, Chick Churchill, David Cassidy, the entire Hollies band, Ian Paice, Keef Hartley, Johnny Almond, Tony Stevens (traveled with Foghat, Humble Pie), Peter Grant (yes, I went BIG!), Lee from Chicago, many, many roadies (I didn't mind if I got to hang with the bands), Iggy & the Stooges (married the light man; lived with Iggy), Van Halen, Motley Crue, Ratt, married Ron Keel, and toured the world with many famous bands . . ." I called her instantly, and after a few minutes on the phone, I knew she had to have her own chapter.

Dee Dee Keel (nee Lewis) arrived at my door carrying loads of scrapbooks and photo albums. A mother of six, the stillstriking strawberry blonde looks far younger than her fiftysome years, and she is bubbling over, seemingly pent-up with tawdry tales she can't wait to disclose. She makes no apologies for her devil-may-care dalliances with the boys who played Satan's music. Her ribald memories are essential to her, and she joyfully wears them like a coat of many conquests.

To jump into the thick of it, I suggest we begin at the middle. "I think my favorite adventure was with Jeff Beck. He was what I aspired to, followed through with, and ultimately attained. The odd thing about the Whisky was that the girls who worked there had little camps. They'd see an album cover and say, `He's mine,' and I wondered, `How do you know who's gonna like who?' At first, I couldn't figure out how I'd get this one because everybody wanted him. Since I had just started working there, and was low on the totem pole, I coolly said, `I'll take Cozy Powell.' At that time Cozy and Jeff Beck were very close. My devious side knew if I did something spectacular, it would get back to Jeff." So how did she go about meeting Beck's notorious drummer? "I simply left a message for Cozy at the hotel, then found out who he knew in London and the names of a couple obscure places he frequented, so when he returned my call I was ready, `Hey, it's Dee Dee from the so-and-so club!' I named the people I supposedly met him with, and he said, `Wow, what are you doing in L.A.?"'

I am duly impressed, and Dee Dee still seems happily amazed that the ruse worked so well. When the strangers met up at the Whisky that night, Cozy said, "You know, my memory's a bit rusty-come give me a sock in the jaw so I'll remember who you are." Dee Dee giggles, recalling that she hadn't told her Whisky coworkers about her mischievous stunt. "I loved myself! I bought this purple velvet cape and wore skintight jeans and boots. You should have seen the looks on everyone's faces when Cozy walked in. And I thought, 'OK, it's show time. What am I gonna do?" She had nothing to worry about; Cozy acted like Dee Dee was a long lost lover. "I could tell all the girls were wondering, `How did she do that?' I was thinking, `I'm in deep trouble.' So I recruited one of the waitresses, Charlotte, to hang out with us, and we had a great time. At the end of the night he said, `Are you gonna take me home with you?' and I said, `Sure am-with her,' and he said, `Right on!' I figured I had to show him what I got if I expected him to tell Jeff something phenomenal happened-and the three of us played all night long."

Yes, the naughty ploy worked, but Dee Dee didn't go all the way with Cozy Powell, and she made it clear that she had a crush on Jeff Beck. "At that point, I would only do oral thingscuddling and playing. I wasn't gonna do it." Smiling, she adds, "I shed that feeling later and started doing everything to everybody! But I thought if I had sex with Cozy, I wasn't gonna get Jeff. I had an ace in the hole: I knew Jeff was into cars, and I had a killer '69 purple Cougar stick, and I let Cozy drive it back to the hotel. I went to the Whisky early the next night and got a booth. When Jeff came in, he kept trying to get my attention, but I ignored him. Finally he tapped me on the shoulder and said, `Are you the one?' and I said, `Why, whatever do you mean?' `Are you the one Cozy told me about?' When I said, `Yeah,' he said, `All right, when are we leaving?' At this point, Charlotte let me know she really wanted him and moved in as the Alpha canine-Jeff was gonna be hers. She thought I had gotten him for her, and I was OK with that. I was a real follower then; I didn't have my own identity until I was well into my thirties."

Dee Dee sometimes shared an apartment with Charlotte, and at the end of the night, they left the Whisky, heading for their tapestry-covered couch. But was Dee Dee really OK sharing her Top Rock Dog with her cunning canine roommate? As soon as the door closed behind them, jaunty Jeff clambered onto the bed, inviting both girls to join him. "We each go to him, and when I smell him and feel him, I think, `Oh my God, this is a real rock star, this is a real man, this is what I've been waiting for.' When he was kissing me, she started to go after his fly, and he leaned to me and said, `Is there someplace we can be alone?' Charlotte stormed off to her room. We went into my room, but suddenly I felt like shit. He said, `Come on, you can't be upset about her,' and I said, `But I have to live with her tomorrow.' I said, `I know, let's all take a bath together!' So I ran this big bath, lit all the candles, and got us in the tub." Did she wind up sharing her prize after all? "No, because he didn't want Charlotte, and he was gonna have it his way. I had him in her room, on her bed, with her watching. I was a bit nervous, but after a while I thought, `I don't really care. I just wanna be with Jeff.' He really enjoyed it and when he leaned over me, the cross around his neck dangled just above my face. I can still see it. Then he wanted me on top, and it was the best experience I'd ever had in my life. The next day the two of us went cruising. I let him drive my car all around Hollywood, and he gave me tickets to the show, then he had to leave town. That was my first big groupie hurrah. I was hooked."