Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway (17 page)

 

I didn’t answer. Marie stuck the key in the ignition and started back for the house.

 

Call my mother? Explain to HER? The thought brought a horrendous, rancid taste into my throat. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to speak to my mother again after this. I cried again, I cried all the way home. Not just because of what had happened, but because I knew that after today I would never be the same. Something turned off inside of me that day. Something inside of me snapped, and I stopped caring. I never wanted to feel like that again, and so I began to learn how to shove those feeling deep, deep down inside of myself to a place where they could not hurt me anymore.

 

The pain of realizing that my own mother was afraid of me was too much for me to deal with. So I had to force myself to stop caring. To stop feeling. It would be two years before I saw my mom again.

 

Lita’s take on it was simple.“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Parents can be weird. It’s their job to be weird.”

 

We were in a tiny, decrepit dressing room following our first official performance as Mercury Records recording artists. It was at a tiny club called Wildman Sam’s. When I say tiny, I mean it: this place might as well have been someone’s living room. The show was wild that night. After the crazy rehearsal schedule, and the constant running through of the songs, we were on fire. We played so loud, and the tiny place was packed with two hundred kids who danced so hard that I expected the plaster to start falling from the ceiling in great powdery chunks. I guess that’s what they call bringing down the house.

 

“Yeah, I guess. It just sucks, though . . .” I said back to Lita.

 

Outside of the dressing room, people were trying to get in to meet us. You could hear them yelling, and begging to be let in. Kim was acting as security.

 

“Look at what we have going on right now, Cherie,” Lita said. “People are going crazy for us. This will all work out. Don’t let it bum you out . . .”

 

I looked over at Joan. She caught my eye and smiled at me. It was one of those special smiles that she would give me from time to time, like there was some secret between us. Some unspoken understanding. I smiled back at her, and she looked away, leaving me feeling a little light-headed. The pounding on the door, the pleading to come backstage to meet us, and Kim’s yells reverberated from somewhere out in the hallway. Somehow I felt that so long as I had the girls—Joan and Sandy in particular—then maybe I really would be able to deal with all of this.

 

After all—what other choice did I have?

 

 

 

 

 

Chapter 10

 

Highs and Lows

 

 

 

 

With the album recorded, pressed, and in shops in record time, things started moving quickly. There was one last hometown show to do, and then we would set off on our first U.S. tour. We were in Stinky’s van, heading toward the venue. I shifted around uncomfortably, trying to ignore the incessant cramping in the pit of my stomach. What a day to get my period! And I didn’t even have any aspirin . . . However, not even the cramps or the toxic odor of Stinky’s van could ruin my mood. I looked over to Joan and Jackie, and I could see a similar excitement building on their faces. Everybody’s nerves were on edge about tonight’s show, and why not? This one was going to be special.

 

Tonight we were playing the Starwood, one of the hottest clubs in West Hollywood. The Starwood was a really cool (although kind of skuzzy) club run by the infamous Eddie Nash. All of the hottest bands had passed through the place, and the audience was an exciting mix of musicians, movie stars, rock legends, and shadowy underworld figures. According to Kim, “everyone” would be there tonight. We had been pressing him excitedly about just who “everyone” was, but he was keeping unusually tight-lipped about the details.

 

We had played the Starwood once before; it was one of our first “big” shows. That time Kim grabbed hold of me backstage and said, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet!” I turned, and there, standing in front of me, were none other than Robert Plant—who was wearing a Runaways “Robert Loves Kim” T-shirt—and Jimmy Page. I did everything I could to keep my composure, so just shook their hands politely and told them it was nice to meet them. Then Kim led us all into the dressing room, and Lita just about fainted when she saw them. A rock guitarist having the opportunity to hang out with Jimmy Page was like a devout Catholic getting an audience with the pope.

 

Meeting celebrities was not the only reason I was excited about tonight. The band had outgrown the matching T-shirts, and Kim had brought on a designer called Ciri, who had helped design some cool stage outfits for us: a silver lamé jumpsuit for me, red and black for Joan . . . all of this in preparation for the upcoming U.S. tour. Also, for the first time, I would perform “Cherry Bomb” dressed in a white satin and black lace corset bought from a lingerie store right across the street from the venue. I had seen it there the day before, and something made me stop and look again. As I pressed my nose to the glass, that corset set my brain on fire. Man, how cool would it be if I wore that onstage?

 

Kim was always screaming that I lacked “rock-and-roll authority.” I imagined standing in front of the audience, dressed in that getup. That would really blow people’s minds. I ran to get Scott Anderson, our new personal manager, and we gawked at the corset together before going inside so I could try it on. When I walked out of the dressing room wearing it, Scott immediately smiled and said “Sold!” and put down the sixty bucks. I don’t know what the saleslady thought of some older guy buying sexy lingerie for a sixteen-year-old, but it probably didn’t look good. I noticed the way Scott looked at me when I stepped out of the dressing room, and wondered—not for the first time—if he liked me. I had been noticing him giving me long, sideways glances. He was kind of a geeky guy, but then again, I seem to have a thing for oddballs.

 

Back at the venue, Kim was sold on the whole idea, and he even had me try on the outfit so he could see for himself.

 

“I want to wear it when I sing ‘Cherry Bomb,’ ” I told him as I emerged from the dressing room. Kim just nodded.

 

“Turn around. Slowly.”

 

I did, and Kim stared at me, looking thoughtful.

 

“Before you perform ‘Cherry Bomb,’ Joan sings ‘You Drive Me Wild.’ That should be enough time to change.”

 

Kim really saw the potential and ordered, “We’ll build you a changing room, right onstage. You will disappear behind the black curtain, and then with a little sleight of hand, Cherie Currie will reemerge transformed. You won’t just sing ‘Cherry Bomb’—you will BE the Cherry Bomb!”

 

When Kim announced this to the rest of the band, Lita looked pissed. As the shows had gotten bigger and bigger, I’d noticed a dark shift in Lita’s attitude toward me. As I grew more confident in front of audiences, I sensed a growing resentment about how much attention I was getting. Lita seemed threatened by it. Every so often she would make bitchy comments about how skinny I was, and it was obvious this was because she was starting to have some weight issues of her own. Weight issues as in she was getting a fat ass. When you live on a diet of cheeseburgers and beer, keeping in shape ain’t easy. That’s why I’d only eat fish and vegetables—that drove Lita fucking nuts. So when Kim told everybody about my costume change, Lita just went off, as if the whole corset idea was a personal ploy to take attention away from her guitar playing.

 

I didn’t take it too badly, though. I was beginning to learn that the best way to deal with Lita Ford’s tantrums was to ignore them completely.

 

As the van pulled up to the venue, we noticed that kids had already started to line up outside. “Man,” I said as the van came to a stop, “people are already waiting to get in?”

 

As soon as we got out, the fans rushed over to us to ask for autographs. The first time this happened, it was a surreal experience. I felt a little weird and unworthy. But as it happened more and more, I was learning to adjust to it. With each successive show, things got bigger and better. Having a record out changed everything. The audiences screamed for us, they knew our names; they’d line up for hours to see our shows. There was a big buzz about the Runaways in the L.A. scene. We all could feel that something was definitely about to happen, and all of the hard work was going to pay off.

 

As I exited the van, a girl with long, dark hair and a battered-looking leather jacket approached me shyly. “Hey, Cherie,” she said. “Man . . . we think you guys are so cool. Would you, uh . . . would you sign this for me?”

 

Without making eye contact, she shoved a copy of Bomp magazine in my hands. I remembered some journalist hanging out with us a few weeks ago to do an interview, but I hadn’t seen the magazine until now. My picture was on the cover. I wanted to be happy but wondered if the others had seen this yet. Ugh, Lita was going to throw a shit fit when she saw that they didn’t use a group shot. It gave me a sinking feeling inside.

 

I smiled at the kid and said, “Sure I will.”

 

She handed me a pen, and I scrawled my name on the cover. Then the kid grabbed me, and she planted a kiss right on my cheek before running off. I started to laugh. Man, I could really get used to this.

 

“C’mon!” Stinky grabbed me by the arm and led me into the club. Walking into the Starwood, I got a rush of adrenaline when I saw the stage. Sandy and Lita had traveled separately and were there already—Lita thrashing out big heavy power chords, and Sandy grinning and twirling her drumsticks. People were running around like crazy, barking instructions, setting up for tonight, and the colored lights were bouncing off the drum kit, dazzling me. Sandy saw us watching, and jumped out from behind her kit, running over to give each of us a hug. Lita kept on thrashing away on her guitar like she was trying to draw blood.

 

Joan and Jackie got onstage and plugged in, and then we started to run through a few songs. As the last note of “California Paradise” rang out through the empty, cavernous room, I walked over to check out the “dressing room.” It was a shoddy, makeshift wooden box with a black curtain stapled to it. My friend Vickie would help me change into the corset, and with both of us in there, it was going to be a tight squeeze, like trying to change in a rickety, upright coffin. It was going to be a hell of a night, that’s for sure.

 

Even Kim was in a good mood. After sound check, he took us to Hamburger Hamlet on Sunset, which made us think that maybe the world was coming to an end. By the time we made it back to the club an hour and a half later, the line to get into the Starwood stretched around the block and halfway up Crescent Heights. Lita pressed her face against the VW’s filthy window and then said, “Fuck, man! Look at all those people! They’re all here to fucking see US!”

 

Joan just stared and said, “Wow . . .”

 

“Kim,” Jackie said, “you are going to make sure security takes us into the dressing room, aren’t you?”

 

Kim sighed, rolled his eyes, and ordered Stinky to keep us in the van while he went to look for security. . .

 

Slipping in the back door of the club, you could feel the energy already. The air inside was hot, and wet. The place was full to capacity and the crowd was already screaming “RUN-A-WAYS! RUN-A-WAYS!” They yelled it over the opening band as they finished a song and rushed into their next number. There was a bunch of people as we were rushed through the back corridors and toward the dressing room. Kim was walking next to me, and my cramps were starting to bother me again.

 

“Uh, Kim . . . Do you have any aspirin?” I asked, through gritted teeth.

 

“Why?” Kim said. “Are you sick?” He grinned, as if the idea that I might be sick was amusing to him, the bastard.

 

“No. I’ve got my period, okay? I have cramps.”

 

“Ugh!” Kim said, looking thoroughly disgusted. “One of my dogs is on the rag, is she? Well, no. I don’t have aspirin! I’m your manager, not your mother . . .”

 

“I do,” Lita said, handing me a couple from her gig bag.

 

“Thanks.”

 

Backstage, family and friends were hanging out, drinking beers, and laughing. Vickie was there with Marie, and Marie gave me a big hug when she saw me. “You’re gonna knock ’em dead,” she whispered in my ear. I squeezed her tight for a moment.

 

“TEN MINUTES!”

 

As Marie started to pull away from me, she said, “Oh my God—is that Shaun Cassidy?”

 

I turned around, and Marie was right: there he was looking like he just stepped off of the cover of Tiger Beat magazine. He was wearing sunglasses and one of those funny tam o’shanter hats, trying to look incognito. The thing is, he actually looked comically conspicuous in that getup. Maybe that was the point. Kim grabbed him by the arm and introduced me. “Nice to meet you, Cherie,” Shaun mumbled. He seemed kind of shy, and up close his skin wasn’t good. Maybe it was all of that makeup he wore on those teenybopper photo shoots. He was only a year older than me, and we stood there not saying much to each other, like two awkward kids at a high school dance, before Kim whisked him off to meet the rest of the band. I watched him go. Zits or no zits, he was cute.

 

Jesus, my cramps were getting worse. I considered asking our manager, Scott, for some stronger painkillers. I knew that he carried a mason jar of Placidyls, as well as cocaine, pot, speed, or quaaludes around with him. Everybody partied except for Jackie, who was so straitlaced that it made us all sick. Early on, I made a rule that I never got loaded before a show. Afterward—now, that was a different story.