Somebody to Love? (30 page)
Skip and I continued to live together in a brother-sister configuration for another six years; it was hard for me to let go of a basically good man even if it was obvious we'd eventually separate. And I knew we'd separate as soon as I admitted to myself that the passion had disappeared. I've always been attached to the initial feelings of passion in a relationship. It's an energy that I still find so captivating, I can't imagine living without it. In fact, at the onset of a romance, I think about sex so much, it's surprising I can get my socks on. But as soon as my partner shows too much interest in a hardware store or a computer game, I turn off.
Unfortunately, when I'm without the absolute focus of passion that drives the human spirit, I'm pretty much just a bunch of functioning body parts. Without a particular man to occupy my attention, I can channel romantic energy into other areas, and I
do
channel it—into things as various as drawing, music, sewing, talking, writing, or studying biomedical research.
The idea that a relationship can survive based solely on respect and common interests is still beyond me. I can get respect from a Saint Bernard and common interest from a museum curator, so without passion, I'd rather live alone and be able to come and go whenever I feel like it.
Some people never grow up.
Just when I'm close to believing I'm a determined and focused type, I have to remind myself that most of the direction-shifting events in my life have come about when I was shuffling along without a road map.
I didn't grow up with an intense dream of being a singer; I just happened to see Jefferson Airplane at a night-club and it looked like a good way to make a living and goof off at the same time.
I didn't take political science in college and think, “I'm going to work for liberal agendas.” The liberal view of social organization just
happened
to coincide with my own sensibilities.
I didn't think, “Okay, now is the right time to write an autobiography.” A friend of mine, Brian Rohan, and my agent, Maureen Regan, almost bodily forced me to talk to publishers, and I just
happened
to enjoy the process once I got started.
So many things have seemed to crawl into my lap at the right (and sometimes wrong) time, I get the impression that predetermination and an implacable genetic scorecard are running the puppet show. I'm enjoying the performance, but I often wonder how much control we
do
have over the seemingly open banquet of choices. Sometimes the best strategy seems to be to keep shuffling and hope for the best. Surprises —both bad and good—turn up in the most unlikely places.
An example. Long before the mitral valve prolapse episode—in 1973, to be exact—I had a pain in the chest on the left side, and when I consulted the does they suggested I go to a shrink.
Funny how often that suggestion keeps popping up in my case, isn't it?
Anyway, I went to the head shrink at the University of California. After four sessions that included the standard queries regarding family, emotional stress, sexual habits, etc., he glanced down at the floor where my purse was bulging.
“How much does that weigh?” he asked.
I picked it up and handed it to him.
“About twenty pounds,” he said, hefting it, “and if you're right-handed, you probably wear this hanging off your left shoulder. Right?”
I nodded.
“Try taking some of the stuff out of it, or wear it on your right shoulder for a while. You're not nuts, you're just over-loaded.”
I followed his instructions and the pain stopped immediately. So sometimes, if you have a sore throat, a helpful podiatrist might tell you to take your foot out of your mouth.
The Gamut
A
s I've negotiated the twists and turns of my own life, watching China run the gamut of social and educational extremes has been both fascinating and irritating. But always, she shows a rebounding ability that brings her back to her own center. Apart from being my daughter, she is also one of my favorite characters—animated, self-willed, talented, dramatic, and never boring. I love her, and, fortunately, I also
like
her. Sometimes, those feelings are not necessarily in sync, but on the whole, I couldn't have dreamed up a better child or a better friend. When we fight, it's an even match, and when we're close, it's an even love. Our styles may be different, but the absolute focus is the same. We can each be aggressively obnoxious or persistently entertaining. When China jumps into a “role” with both feet, its the same steamroller that Mama drives—rampant.
While she was attending Marin County Day School, China conducted herself in the proper beige manner expected of private-school girls. When I arrived to pick her up after school in my gullwing DeLorean, it seemed that between the outrageous car with doors that swung out and upward, my black knee-high leather boots, and my short skirts, I stuck out as true rock-and-roll sleaze next to the other moms who drove up in their BMWs in tastefully blended afternoon matron attire. Result: China was embarrassed—her mom was a freak.
Then a shift occurred.
When China's hormones and the boom box took her in the opposite direction, Mom's unusual employment and deportment were suddenly okay. Thirteen-year-old China no longer wanted to hide the fact that her mother might have sprung, claws bared, out of a boiling counterculture. She was now proud of her musician parents, and had even gone a few steps ahead of us by sporting the new punk look—asymmetrical short spiky multicolored hair, a line of pierced rings all the way up one ear, four inches of silver bracelets, and ripped shirts, jeans, genes, and friends.
Then the balance.
At age fifteen, the two extremes blended into a Duran Duran-loving, long-blonde-haired California girl appearance. Her summer job as MTV's youngest VJ was a high school kid's dream—she got to hang out in New York, meet and interview the bands, get her face on TV, and put some money in her pocket. During the punk stage, China's grades had been predictably rotten, but when she graduated from high school, her report cards contained primarily A's and B's. She'd tried on the polarities and settled into a balance that fell in line with her own disposition. Always quicker than Mom to recognize potentially destructive patterns of behavior (either right or left), she now alternates between being
my
parent and friend and being part of her
own
somewhat disenchanted generation.
Grace and China,
Evening Star
premiere: different styles, same focus. (Fred Prouser/Reuters/Archive Photos)
Not that she's turned into a doormat. Sometimes more of a pit bull than I
ever
was, she's able to do what I generally couldn't: express
sober
rage. Skip's ex-mistress (remember the AA prom queen?) was still carrying a torch after some length of time, and China, more of a mail ferret than I, sniffed some perfume on a letter addressed to him. Matching up the envelope to previous pieces of Miss X, seventeen-year-old China telephoned her and left this little reminder on her answering machine:
“If you ever interfere with my family again, I'm going to send Mafia wise guys over to break your whoring ass.”
So much for becoming friends with all my boyfriends' lovers.
On the Road Again
I know it's holy rock and roll, but I spike it.
—
ANONYMOUS
I
n 1988, Paul called together all the original members of Jefferson Airplane and suggested a short (one album, one tour) reunion. After some brief discussion about logistics, we all agreed to the adventure.
Fantastic, I thought. This time Airplane will be assisted by one of those professional management teams in L.A. (as opposed to well-meaning hippies from San Francisco) who really know how to put a rock-and-roll package together. Now that we're all old enough to prefer seamless negotiations, it'll be a snap.
Sure, Grace, and polar bears use toilets.
The old Grace and Paul versus Jack and Jorma game resumed immediately. Skip, in alignment with my tight organizational vision, recommended Trudy Green from H.K. Management. After meeting her, I was delighted with both her easy manner and sharklike business sensitivities. She was my unequivocal choice—a smart blonde Jew from L.A. who knew how to laugh and bark at the same time.
But Jack and Jorma wanted to have a fan/friend/lawyer type call the shots. This man was already managing their blues band, Hot Tuna, and he was afraid that if the West Coast (e.g., Trudy Green from H.K. Management) ran things, his two meal tickets would split for sunnier pastures. He didn't know Jack and Jorma well enough; they'd always chosen the more intimate club scene, and that wasn't about to change. The Airplane tour would only magnify their visibility, and when they returned to their smaller, more down-home jobs, which they actually preferred, they'd have benefited from the high-profile management coming out of Trudy's office.
The lawyer's reservations may not have been the only factor, however. The truth is, the unfamiliar, high-profile L.A. business scene probably made Jack and Jorma nervous.
There was no way, though, that I was letting Trudy Green disappear because of the other guys' fears of the West Coast entertainment monolith. Skip acted as arbiter, Paul was satisfied with Trudy's competence, Marty didn't care, and the guys eventually agreed; we signed with Sony for the record and gave responsibility for the tour to Trudy at H.K. The only deviation from the original group was the absence of Spencer Dryden due to an illness. He was replaced by Kenny Aronoff on drums, but the rest of the original line-up, including a yoga-healthy, blond Marty Balin, was finally ready to hit the boards.
We rented a bus, Jorma brought his wonderful dog, Marlow, and we got back into the old rock-and-roll tour mode—minus the narcotics and alcohol. I can't ever remember enjoying singing with Marty as much as I did on that tour. We'd both grown up, and in the process, we'd lost whatever competitiveness had been present in the earlier phases of Airplane.
Did we have groupies or group gropes? No. Everybody was married and temporarily or permanently faithful.
Did we get ripped to the tits on large amounts of “medication”? Nope. Too old. The livers would explode and the AAs would converge. Besides some pot for the native San Francisco boy, Paul, it was a fairly clearheaded journey.
Did we tell cops to eat shit and die? Not at all. Several “lawmen” were in the paying audience, and they were half our age.
Did we scream about government stupidity? No. Too lazy? Too old? Too numb? Or just defeated? Who knows? We were a nifty little rehash that reminded boomers of how it sounded when they didn't have to take Metamucil to get it out and get it on.
Depressing? Sure, if you're looking at it through the imposed radical chic of rock-and-roll parameters. But when a group of people come together to enjoy music, it can be a polka or a slam dance. When it's viewed from a nontrendy position, it really doesn't matter.
So apart from ten extra pounds on each of our middle-aged bodies, the quality of life enjoyed by members of the 1989 Jefferson Airplane was far tighter than the 1969 version. We were treated to higher-tech equipment, better venues, relatively sober audiences, good management, no incidents with law enforcement, egos tempered by age, and a tour's worth of relatively successful concerts. And because there was no lifelong commitment among the group members, we were more like a caravan of old friends who happened to be musicians than musicians involved in a “business deal.”
Album sales? I don't know the figures, but nobody went out and bought a Lear jet. Maybe some of us paid off tuition for offspring or Jorma got another goat for his farm—simple acquisitions for a graying crowd of musical gypsies. Did we care? If I said it didn't matter, you'd know right away that I was so cool, I was beyond social pressure. We've all read the Buddhist books, telling us that attachment leads to suffering, and we berate ourselves for our attachments to material things. But that's not what the wise men intend for us. Be more gentle with and tolerant of your humanity.
Following that line of thought, I can say that, although the tour was not a financial gold mine, it was a good thing. By the time it was over, we'd traded a lot of energy, renewed our friendships, and had closed some uncompleted circles.
Nice.
Rising with the Sun
I
t was 1990, the Airplane tour was over, and I felt a mixture of peace and resignation. I was relieved that I could look, act, and think like a “real” person. I eliminated the goofy outfits—just took a shower in the mornings and put on some sweats. Like a “normal” human being, I went to the grocery store, did the laundry, fed the raccoons, and hung out with my equally casual friend, Pat Monahan. A small, determined Native American/Irish woman, Pat was both courageous and shy, blunt but self-effacing, spiritual and profane, funny and serious—the “five of one, half a dozen of the other” qualities that demonstrate the fascinating yin and yang of human behavior.
