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Authors: Christopher Ciccone

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BOOK: Life with My Sister Madonna
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Initially, the movie is projected to be a star vehicle for Rosanna Arquette, but, of course, Madonna will walk off with the entire movie—primarily because she is playing herself in every single frame and, as always, plays it to perfection.

Along the way, Erika, Marty, and I are informed by one of Freddy's assistants that Madonna is dispensing with our services. Madonna, of course, assiduously avoids giving us the news herself. I feel a little betrayed. By now, I have cottoned on at last that if I want to continue working with my sister—and I do—I must be prepared for a modicum of betrayal on her part to be woven into the highly colored fabric of both our filial and professional relationships. For now, though, I reason that working with her has been like working on a movie. It feels as if you were a little family, but then filming ends, and the family splits up. I still feel slightly abandoned, another emotion I am starting to associate with my sister, but it isn't a big thing.

Besides, I am a little relieved. The act was getting boring—doing the same steps over and over—and the songs repetitious. I go back to work at Fiorucci. I work in jeans, and Danny in corduroys. I tell him I'm not dancing anymore and won't be away from him night after night. He is clearly delighted. Looking back, I see that warning bells should have rung regarding his possessiveness, but they didn't. Our relationship seems so perfect. I am too happy with him, and happy in particular that he's gone out and surprised me by buying me some paints.

I haven't painted since high school, but thanks to Danny, I start again and rediscover my love of painting. During this period in the West Village, the prewar tenement buildings are being remodeled—the wood-frame windows replaced with new aluminum ones. Piles of old windows are always on the street corners. Danny has collected some of them, and with his approval I use them as canvases. At this stage, following in my sister's footsteps, although not deliberately, I, too, go through a religious phase. I paint religious scenes on the windows. I have no idea whether I am a good painter, just that I am passionate about painting, about being creative.

Meanwhile,
Madonna
the album has sold 1 million copies and is certified platinum, and she follows up with
Like a Virgin
. Madonna has now far transcended the Manhattan downtown scene, and the entire country is starting to sit up and take notice of her. Half the world does, in fact, except, perhaps, me. Danny and I are building our life together, I am immersed in my painting, and I pay little attention to the public adulation Madonna is now receiving and its possible effect on my life. That changes one morning when I drop into my local Korean vegetable store, run into a friend of mine, tell him I'm back working at Fiorucci, and there is a stunned silence.

“Why the hell are you working when your sister is so rich?” he asks.

I tell him that I am not sure what he means. He explains that she has a record deal and must be making mountains of cash. I tell him, “Just because I'm her brother doesn't mean I get a monthly allowance. I have to work just like everyone else!”

Until then, I haven't given Madonna's financial status any thought. To me, she isn't a big star, just my sister, and just a few months before I was doing track dates with her. I walk back to my little apartment (I haven't yet moved in with Danny) past drug dealers on one side of the street, and flaming garbage cans on the other, and don't give Madonna another thought.

 

F
OUR MONTHS AFTER
we get back from L.A., just when I am settling back into life at Fiorucci, she calls again and asks me to join her and Erika and Marty on another European trip, set up by Freddy. But this time, we are also going to Morocco. Of course, Danny doesn't want me to go, but I have an adventurous spirit and am loathe to contain it just to make my boyfriend happy, so in June 1984 I fly to France.

First we perform at a party in Paris for Fiorucci's founder. Then we fly to Munich and do a show there. Afterward, we go to the Hofbräu House and are amazed at how much food—meat and radishes and sauerkraut—is on offer. Then we take the overnight train to Bremen. We've never before been on a train like this—beautiful, with dark wood panels and comfortable beds with cool, starched yellow cotton sheets.

We all love the sheets so much that we pull them off the beds and wrap them round us as if they are togas or royal robes of some sort.

“Traveling on this train is like being in an old Marlene movie or in
The Lady Vanishes
,” Madonna says.

“Hopefully you won't disappear tonight,” I say, harking back to the plot of Hitchcock's movie.

“Well, if I do, I'm sure you'll come and find me.”

“Damn right,” I say.

As the train takes us through Germany, we all become giddy with a sense of adventure, the rush of our new experiences, and can't sleep. So we take the divider down between Madonna's compartment and Erika's and sit up all night long, talking. Erika and I understand that our euphoria is temporary, because although Madonna's career is escalating, ours with her is practically over. But for that night, at least, the three of us are caught up in the excitement swirling around her and the romance of roaring across Germany in this elegant train.

From Bremen, we fly back to Paris, and from there, to Marrakech, to make a video for a French TV show. The moment we land there, I feel as if we are on another planet. Being in Marrakech feels like taking a step back into the fifteenth century. Turbaned men ride camels through the city square where snake charmers charm, dervishes whirl, and not a woman is in sight.

Once out of the confines of the Club Med, where we are staying, I am immediately surrounded by young boys offering their services as guides through the souk (market)—a maze of tiny, winding alleys in which it is easy to lose your way. I hire one of the guides, tip him, and he not only leads me safely through the streets, but also keeps the other guides from bothering me. An efficient system.

Marty stays at the market on his own. A couple of hours later, he turns up at our hotel wearing just his boxers and brandishing a set of false teeth.

“Really cool,” he says. “Traded them for my jeans.”

In the morning, we pile into a bus for the four-hour drive to Ouarzazate in south-central Morocco, in the Saharan desert, where we'll be shooting the video.
Lawrence of Arabia
and, later,
Gladiator
were shot in Ouarzazate, but it seems to me a long way to go just to make a short video.

Freddy, who has gone ahead by plane, is meeting us there. By now, Madonna has acquired another traveling companion, a personal trainer. She is American, with short, curly hair and far too much energy, and she irritates all of us.

Once we leave Marrakech and drive toward the Atlas Mountains, the landscape changes dramatically. No trees, just bare mountains with tiny specks of sheep climbing around. After two hours, we realize we are hungry and ask the driver where we can stop and eat. The answer is nowhere. It's Ramadan and Muslims aren't permitted to eat or drink until sundown. We are about to protest when there is an almighty bang. The bus has broken down.

We are on a deserted mountain road. There are no cell phones, no restrooms. Our driver can't start the bus. He tries radioing for help, but discovers that we are out of range. So he gets out and starts messing with the engine. By now, it's one in the afternoon. We are all hot and sweaty, and it looks as if we're going to be stuck here for hours.

Madonna has a major meltdown. “We're in the middle of the fucking desert. Where the fuck is Freddy? What the fuck are we doing here? I can't believe he did this to me. I'm going to kill him. Christopher, do something!”

I ignore her because I know that if I don't, she'll start yelling at me as well. And if she does, I know it will be impossible for me to stop myself from cracking, “Wonder if Freddy ever sent Michael Jackson through the desert in a bus?”

More bitching and screaming. Her trainer, a touchy-feely girl, strokes her arm. “Stay cool, Madonna. Everything is going to be fine. Let's meditate,” she croons.

Madonna slams her hand away. “Get the fuck away from me, it's too hot!”

Madonna may be big in the States and in Europe, but here in Africa she is a complete unknown. So to any outsiders, we are just a bedraggled little group of stranded American tourists, dumb enough to take a bus across the desert.

Finally a tiny, putt-putt three-wheel truck appears. We flag it down. Our driver talks to the truck driver and his friend, and although they speak little English, in a stroke of luck they are driving in the right direction. Money changes hands, and we all get into the truck and discover that it doesn't have any seats. Undeterred, we pile the luggage into the back, along with Marty, Erika, and the trainer. Madonna and I squeeze between the two men in front and sit on the floor with the hot, rusty, and dirty stick shift digging into us. It's now extremely hot and our drivers smell.

We drive for thirty minutes, and as the sun sets, we arrive at a little town just perched at the end of a hill. The town consists only of a café, a gas station, and two small houses. The truck grinds to a halt.

“What the fuck are you doing?” Madonna screeches.

The drivers ignore her. They just get out of the truck and go into the café. As an afterthought, they tell us, “At sunset, we eat.”

We end up joining them in the café and have some soup, no doubt made out of one of the goats' heads hanging nearby. Madonna is so hungry that she jettisons her vegetarian principles and eats some goat soup as well. The drivers also just keep on eating. When they've finished, we all pile into the truck again and drive on.

It's nighttime and cold now. One of the drivers turns on the radio, and a pop song blares through the speakers.

He smiles at Madonna and says, “You heard of Michael Jackson?”

“Just shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up,” she shrieks.

I put my hand over her mouth. “Madonna, just be quiet. We need them to drive us to our destination.”

For once, she listens to me and shuts up.

We are out of the mountains now and in the heart of the desert. The sky is pitch-black and a multitude of stars twinkle brightly above us. Just as I begin to enjoy the journey, the truck stops dead.

Somehow, our drivers make us understand that they can't drive any farther, as their license doesn't allow them to drive into the next province. Luckily, a second truck pulls up, and the driver agrees to take us to Ouarzazate.

An hour later, we arrive at Club Med. Freddy is standing outside waiting for us.

Madonna flips out completely. “What the fuck do you think you're doing, Freddy? How can you do this to me? I'm not performing for any fucking French television, fuck this shit. I want to be on a plane right now. I want to go back to New York.”

Freddy remains calm. “You're here now; just do the TV thing tomorrow. In any case, there aren't any planes flying out of here tonight.”

Madonna stamps her feet. “I'm not doing it, I'm not doing it, and that's fucking that.”

She goes on for a good three hours, while Freddy all but turns cartwheels trying to persuade her to give in and do the show anyway.

During Madonna's tantrum, Erika, Marty, the trainer, and I just sit in the lobby, drinking bottled water. Erika, Marty, and the trainer all marvel at Madonna's high-decibel diva performance. I don't. I grew up with her. Finally, Freddy calms her down, and we all go to bed.

The French TV company is expecting us to film in the desert, but Madonna flatly refuses. Instead, she insists that we shoot here on the pool deck at Club Med. We could be absolutely anywhere on the entire planet.

Madonna declares, “I'm not talking to you, Freddy. I don't want to talk to you for the next five days,” but we make the video anyway.

The following day, we get driven back to Marrakech in a broken-down station wagon, with no delays or mishaps. At the Club Med there, we each check into rooms that are sort of tucked in underneath one another. So even though you are in your own room, you are still sleeping above somebody in the room below you, and you can hear everything.

Later that night, everyone but Madonna and me is suffering aftereffects from the goat soup, and all we can hear is people moaning and then throwing up.

By the next morning, the charm of Morocco has worn off.

We fly back to Paris. As soon as we arrive back at the Meurice, Madonna and I get really sick. We drag ourselves to the airport, anxious to get home to America and recover there from our bizarre African adventure.

 

B
ACK IN THE
USA, Simon Fields, who produced the “Lucky Star” video, offers me a job as a production assistant in his company. I fly out to L.A., stay with Danny's brother, and work for Simon fifteen hours a day, leaving me little time for partying or for hanging out with my sister, whose career is going great guns.

I get my first taste of music videos from the production side. It is by far the worst job I have ever had. Up at dawn, in bed after midnight. Days filled with running errands, delivering props, cleaning up after people, and generally being everyone's gofer. I can't wait for the job to end. While I grow to like the medium, I vow that from now on I will either direct a video or have nothing else to do with it.

BOOK: Life with My Sister Madonna
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