Let's Spend the Night Together: Backstage Secrets of Rock Muses and Supergroupies (3 page)

What makes a fan take that precarious leap into the center of the regaled and reviled G word? For me, it was always the music. The seductive howl of the electric guitar, the throb of the bass, and the sensually moaned promises made my heart beat below my waist. The lyrics! How did they know what was whirling around in my head and pulsing through my veins? Where did it come from? How did they write that song that made me feel so wildly alive? I wanted to be in on the cosmic secret. I wanted to get so close to the music that I could taste it-and nothing was going to stop me.

Now it's 2007 and the groupie mentality hasn't changed. Yes, it's more difficult for music devotees to get close to their heroes, but they will always find a way.

While Googling around on the Internet, I came across a perceptive piece by Robert J. Lewis from www.artsand opinion.com. I got in touch with him, and he gave me permission to quote from his "Guitars, Gonads & Groupies Are Wild."

We mock and deride them, dismiss them as tramps and tarts, in order to disassociate ourselves from the ethos that compels them to give themselves away to total strangers ... When we find ourselves inexplicably drawn to the gods who created the B Minor Mass and Abbey Road it is because we are drawn to and want to participate in the very mystery of creation itself.... For when all is said and done, the groupie, without apology, is simply and frankly expressing his/her devotion to the principle of creation. That young women will continue to give themselves away to lead guitarists in tight pants, total strangers known only through their music, confirms the exceptional status of the artist, who by making exceptional demands on himself, commands the means (the groupie) to genetically preserve and transmit his gift.... There should be no shame in this; the only shame is to deny the longing.

In 2003, Virginia Scharff, a professor of history at the University of New Mexico, wrote the book Twenty Thousand Roads: Women, Movement, and the West with a chapter entitled "The Long Strange Trip of Pamela Des Barres." It felt a little weird being analyzed in a scholarly text along with an Indian squaw and a civil rights activist, but at least I was in fascinating company. "To find the story of a woman traversing and remaking the landscape of the counterculture in a more or less skilled and knowledgeable fashion," she writes, "we need search no further than the comic and troubling odyssey of self-proclaimed groupie Pamela Miller Des Barres.... It was the music that first called Pamela, and literally millions of other girls, out of themselves in quest of a bigger, wider, higher reality." Later in the chapter, Professor Scharff states, "Pamela Des Barres is the Lewis and Clark of wanton women, who prowled the land anew, from sea to shining sea." Yikes.

There are actually professors who teach entire courses on the topic. During the last few years, I've heard from several college students writing term papers on the groupie phenomenon. Here's a paragraph from Jessica Waks's 2005 thesis, "Groupie Slut or Groupie Goddess? The Paradoxical Nature of Groupies and Rock Culture": "Groupies were some of the first sexual warriors, fighting to bag the men they wanted and to fulfill their wildest fantasies. As young women struggling to find their own identities in rock culture, they chose to be with the band rather than stuck under Mick's thumb."

The rabid curiosity about our mythological rock gods, past and present, hasn't abated a smidgen. I hear daily from dolls that desperately want to know how I did it, and how can they meet the rock god of their dreams? I've also heard from women who managed to discover for themselves the heady high of being romantically linked, even for a night, with their favorite unruly rocker.

From Elvis's penchant for girls frolicking together in white cotton panties and "Top Forty Flickers" landing'60s pop idols to the Rolling Stones' array of infamous supergroupies and Winona Ryder's long list of rock conquests (Soul Asylum's Dave Pirner, Paul Westerberg, Beck, Collor Oberst, Pete Yorn, Ryan Adams), the beat goes on. With so many musicians snapped up by models, porn stars, and actresses (Gwyneth and Chris Martin, Drew Barrymore and Fab Moretti, Denise Richards and Richie Sambora, Nicole Kidman and Keith Urban, Pamela Anderson and ...), the groupie's quest is even more difficult.

Only a handful of girls are fearless enough to cross the precarious line into the rock and roll danger zone. What does it take to make it past the endless barricades, grim-faced roadies, officious publicists, and stern record company execs? What kind of girl makes it her life's passion to meet the rocker of her dreams, consequences be damned?

Some of the dolls I interviewed shared one or two naughty, unforgettable nights with their dreamboats. Others had delicious, long-term flings and ooh-la-la romances with coveted rock gods, becoming the envy of millions of envious fans. Many had their hearts shattered-but not one of them would take back a single glorious, mad night.

The music takes on new meaning for the rock muse. She was with the band and nobody can take it away from her. Once she's shared those special moments with the man who rocks her world, her favorite song will never sound the same to her again.

According to Rolling Stone, Frank Zappa saw groupies as "freedom fighters at the avant garde of the sexual revolution."

You don't hear the term "movie gods" very often. There aren't many football gods or political gods either. And television stars are never referred to as "TV gods." But there are rock gods roaming the earth. Perhaps by embracing their cherished rock gods, groupies tap into their own divinity.

"The altar was rock 'n' roll," Gail Zappa once said, "the guys were the gods, and the women were the high priestesses."

They still are.

Miss Japan Beautiful and the King

hen I was barely old enough to discern the dusky difference between the sexes, I dreamed about Elvis. His perfect greasy quiff, smoky cheekbones, and rebellious insouciance defined a generation's desire and made a certain skinny, preteen Valley girl thrill with delight. Years before puberty caught me between the legs, Elvis's unfettered carnal purity gave me a spine-shiver of my destiny. The unsullied wickedness of his wail roused lurking, tamped-down wantonness and created a slippery peephole in immaculate '50s squaredom all over the world. He loosened the screws on the earth's axis, and then greased it up good with pomade.

And the way he danced! Who knew human hips could gyrate like that? I have one of those old-fashioned flip books that shows Elvis revolving across the stage in his gold jacket, his knees at odd angles, his pelvis thrusting forward, arms outstretched, eyes half-closed, sweat glistening danger. Did moving that way just come naturally to the country boy truck driver? I always assumed Elvis came out of the womb with a brand new kind of rhythm. But that was before I met the astonishing Tura Satana-the doll who taught Elvis to dance, onstage and between the sheets.

Back in the '50s when Elvis came into power, the media kept its collective nose out of celeb bedrooms, so we could only imagine what the King got up to under the covers. Years later when word leaked out that he liked to watch two lovelies go at it wearing nothing but white cotton panties, the titillation factor went into high glee. Even at his polyester sideshow Vegas peak, Elvis continued to entrance the masses (and misses), and rumor had it that he dallied with many a fortunate showgirl.

When I decided it was about time music muses got their due and began the search for the formidable damsels featured in this tome, my dream was to begin with Elvis. It did begin with Elvis, after all .. .

Ask and ye shall receive, sayeth the Lord. Before I even got the word out that I wanted to meet a babe who had bedded the King, my good pal artist/songwriter Allee Willis invited me to a poolside bash for the cast of Russ Meyer's 1970 cult classic Beyond the Valley of the Dolls. Allee always attracts an avant eclectic crew. She's sold millions of records (the Pointer Sisters' "Neutron Dance," and "Boogie Wonderland" by Earth, Wind & Fire), and her uncommon paintings grace the walls of the grooviest L.A. homes. Among the middle-aged campy darlings gathered around the pool in Allee's superbly '50s backyard was the buxom, ravenhaired bombshell Tura Satana-the star of another Meyer film, the riotous feminist opus Faster, Pussycat! Kill! Kill!

I was enjoying a boisterous chat with the absurdly ample Kitten Natividad when I noticed my ex, Michael, deep in conversation with Tura. He caught my eye, giving me a look that said, "Get your ass over here NOW!" Michael introduced us, announcing that Tura once held the title of "Miss Japan Beautiful" and had been voted by those in the know as "one of America's Ten Best Undressed" along with burlesque legends Lill St. Cyr and Tempest Storm. How could I not be impressed? I figured the lady must be somewhere in her mid-sixties, and I was inspired instantly by her saucy, free-spirited attitude. Slightly more zaftig than in her Kill days, she wore her weight well, decked out in a low-cut black ensemble with shiny hair down to her ass. Loads of black eyeliner, glossed frosty lips.

"There's something else you should know about the lovely Ms. Satana," Michael said with a gleam in his baby blues, but just then Allee beckoned us to join the fun at the yum-laden buffet table. Several Beyond Dolls were gleefully comparing notes about the size of various actors' members. A showbiz wingding was described in which three Hollywood heroes unzipped and displayed their merchandise on the table for measurement. Since I had often heard one of that evening's participants, Milton Berle, was loaded in that department, I was surprised to discover that a certain A-list film actor came up the winner that night. The Dolls began a rousing competition of their own, shouting out names of the lucky dogs that had shared their various boudoirs. I got into the spirit of things and blurted a couple of my own pertinent headliners. But when Tura slowly licked her lips and growled "Elvis Presley," everybody at the table knew they were licked as well. I looked heavenward through the velvety Valley smog and said a silent thank you, Jesus.

Tura was intrigued by my latest project and warmly welcomed my proposed interview. Since she had dallied with the King, I told her she'd have chapter one all to herself. I had thought about finding a gal who'd romanced Sinatra, but even though he was a master crooner, he wasn't a rock star. At this news, Tura grinned wickedly. "Too bad. I could have been chapters one and two!" Be still my eternal groupie heart!