Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit

by Catherine James

  The elevated drama certainly kept the sex at a fevered pitch, but crazy drama was what I’d run away from in the first place. His jealousy was so out of control, he once chased a passing bus halfway down the block when a guy whistled at me from the platform. I began walking with my head down just to keep the peace. To make matters worse, Denny decided it was a good time to quit the Moody Blues. With no work and too much time for nothing, he fell into a dark depression that I couldn’t penetrate.

  Living with him became like trying to avoid an approaching wreck. It seemed no matter what I did or said, I couldn’t make Denny believe I loved him. I was in a tangle of mixed-up feelings; was love supposed to hurt? Denny was my first real home, and the only security I’d ever known. I didn’t want to leave, but I knew I couldn’t stay. I tearfully abandoned my raging bull and headed back to New York City.

  I moved back in with my friend, Eileen Rubinstein, and we picked up right where we left off, haunting the discos and dancing till dawn. I still missed Denny, and had mixed feelings about leaving him. I think it was more the dreamy idea of being in love, or the fact that somebody loved me. I had my hard-fought freedom, but I was pretty much alone in the world.

  In the meantime the infamous DJ Murray the K was promoting a ten-day rock show at the Academy of Music on 58th Street. The headliners were Mitch Ryder & the Detroit Wheels, Smokey Robinson & the Miracles, Wilson Pickett, and the Blues Project. Smokey begged out at the last minute, but the big hoopla was about two new debuting bands from England, The Who and Cream. My pretty black girlfriend Emeretta, who could charm her way into Fort Knox, suggested we go check it out. Maybe we could see some of the acts. We slipped in the backstage door just in time to see the first rehearsal. It was the gorgeous, blond Roger Daltrey singing the incendiary “My Generation.” We lucked out; there wasn’t a sign of security, and besides the bands, there was not a soul in the auditorium. We made a dash for the back-row seats and watched musical history explode.

  As Pete Townshend wielded his guitar, shattering it against a wall of speakers, Eric Clapton came in and took the seat right next to me. Keith Moon was smashing his drums all over the stage like a bar brawl, then lit the whole lot on fire—and this was just the rehearsal. It was The Who’s and Cream’s inaugural appearance, and Emeretta and I were their first and only audience.

  Eric Clapton was beyond cool in his British, purple-velvet trousers and snakeskin boots; you couldn’t get that kind of finery in America, which made him seem all the more mysterious. Eric asked if I was going to stay to see his band, and invited Emeretta and me backstage after the rehearsal. We became fast friends with the English invaders, and attended every performance. There were five separate shows a day, starting at an unbelievable 10:30 A.M. Cream only had enough time to do “I Feel Free” and “I’m So Glad,” and the Who ended the show with “My Generation.” I was having great fun hanging with the British rockers. Little did I know that in the not so distant future I’d be moving in with Eric Clapton, singing onstage with Ginger Baker, and that Roger Daltrey would become one of my dearest, lifelong friends.

  Since I’d returned from England, something didn’t feel right. I felt dizzy and listless, and the slightest scent of perfume made me feel oddly nauseated. As the weeks went by the smell of food, or even the sound of someone’s breath, sent me retching to the toilet. I thought it was just a stubborn strain of Asian flu, and vomited ten pounds off before consulting with a doctor. It hadn’t even occurred to me that I might be pregnant, but the doctor surprised me with the stunning confirmation. I was going to have a baby. I’d been wanting a child of my own since I was old enough to remember, but my current circumstances didn’t feel like the best situation to bring a new soul into the world. When I called Denny he couldn’t have been happier. He said to come back, that things would be better now.

  I felt as if I’d been scooped up by a cresting wave that I had to ride out, but the truth was that I loved Denny when he was rational. Perhaps a baby would make things better.

  Denny had formed the Electric String Band, a classical-meets-rock ensemble, with a string quartet from the London Royal Academy. His new band was gaining notoriety with the critics, and we were getting on so well that we decided to tie the knot. We dressed up in our finest clothes, Denny in his svelte tailored suit and psychedelic shimmer shirt, and I, seven months pregnant, in a pale pink satin mini dress and silver knee-high platform boots. We strolled hand in hand down King’s Road to the registrar’s office, but it had closed early that day.

  After another show of rage, Denny wrote me a love song called “Say You Don’t Mind.” I think it was his way of saying he was sorry. The sad little ditty, “I’ve been doing some growing, now I’m scared that you’re going,” captured my mixed-up teenage heart again—and also made it to the English Hit Parade. Next came “Catherine’s Wheel.” Did all the sad love songs come from real-life anguish?

  I was distraught and now too pregnant to go anywhere; my baby would soon be born in Kensington at Saint Mary Abbot’s hospital.

  My young friend Heather Taylor, a red-haired model who I used to go dancing with at Ondine in New York, had come to London to rendezvous with the guitar virtuoso form the Yardbirds, Jimmy Paige. Heather was a statuesque six-foot beauty with exquisite style and a healthy appreciation for bad boys. Jimmy, with his ethereal, almost frail manner and soft black ringlets falling around his pale skin, was the ultimate in heartache.

  Sadly, after just three dreamy dates with her he expressed, in his sweetest tone, that perhaps they were seeing too much of each other. Besides being devastated, Heather was stuck miles away from London, living with her gran in the English countryside. I still had Roger Daltrey’s London phone number from New York, and knowing his kind heart and adoration of beautiful women I had an idea.

  “Why don’t you call Roger? I’ll bet you could stay with him.”

  Heather took my advice, and five years later they were married.

  My relationship with Denny was disintegrating quickly. We were getting along like a pair of Japanese fighting fish. In my last month of pregnancy, he’d often smoke hash into oblivion, then sleep it off on the sofa. One frosty November morning, as I was getting ready for my prenatal appointment at Saint Mary’s, I stood a little too close to the fireplace. With a frightening swoosh, my flowing Victorian nightgown burst into blazes. I could hear my long locks sizzling up my back as I tried to get the fragile, flaming gown off over my head. Denny was out cold on the sofa while I ran around in circles like a lit torch, trying to pat out the flames. I finally screamed, “Denny, help, I’m on fire!”

  He was up like a shot, wrapping me in his blanket, patting me down, and professing his love for me. As soon as the flames were snuffed, he reproached me for his blistered hands and went back to his sleep. I felt the baby kicking around in my belly and questioned myself. “What was I thinking when I made the decision to have a child with this man?”

  I’d read every book I could find on childbirth, and knitted, crocheted, and embroidered enough booties and bonnets to outfit an entire maternity ward. When the labor pains began at 7:00 A.M., I must have read the childbirth chapter twenty times over. I called the hospital, but they said it wasn’t time yet. How would I know when it’s time? By midnight I was restless, and the pains were hard to ignore. Oddly, Denny seemed oblivious to what was about to happen.

  I called Heather and Roger for some words of comfort, but there was no answer, so I dialed an ambulance to take me to Saint Mary’s. By now the labor pains were so intense I was in a state of delirium. Denny followed the ambulance to the hospital, but a nun told him it would be awhile, that he should go home and get some sleep. Saint Mary Abbots was an old Victorian hospital, almost Dickensian. In some of the corridors original gaslight fixtures still hung from the walls. The nurses were nuns and dressed in traditional long black habits. Some wore wide, crisp white wimples that tipped up on the sides. Two sisters wheeled me on a gurney into a small, dimly lit room, and then disappeared for
what felt like eternity. I could hear the other expectant mothers laboring in the ward. Their woeful, resonant howls echoed throughout the early morning halls. That wasn’t going to be me. I would be brave.

  I remember calmly calling out in vain, “Hello, Doctor? Sister? Can anyone hear me? I think the baby’s coming.”

  I hadn’t a clue where I was or if anyone was even out there. Every few hours a hasty nun would enter my room and briskly force my legs apart. She’d prod around my insides, tell me I wasn’t ready yet, and then disappear back into the shadows. Later I was startled by a close, plaintive scream, then recognized that it was coming from me. I’d finally succumbed. It felt as if hungry beasts were feasting on my insides, ripping and gnawing deep down, from the inside out. The shattering torture went on well into the late morning. I don’t know if painkillers were even an option, but no one was offering.

  I don’t recall being wheeled to the operating room, but in my hazy, half-crazed state I heard a male voice telling me to “push.” With his shoulder-length blond hair he looked way too young to be the physician. He sat perched between my legs, shouting, “Push, push harder,” as an unfamiliar midwife held onto my teenage hand. After thirty sleepless, nonstop hours of writhing agony, on November 27, 1967, the mystery doctor help my baby high, and exclaimed, “You have a son.” That was just what I wanted. He rested the baby in my arms, and I wept with joyous bliss. Denny arrived on the dot of visiting hours, bearing a bouquet of fresh-cut pink roses, and for that moment life appeared to be perfect.

  Heather was my second visitor, and she made a splash in the drab, prewar maternity ward, gliding in wearing full Edwardian regalia. Her floor-length orange velvet cloak shimmered and billowed along with her elegant gait. She wore an antique jeweled band around her sumptuous flowing red hair. Victorian lace and tiny embroidered red roses peeked up through the ruched collar of her cape. Heather always looked like a John Waterhouse pre-Raphaelite princess. She said she was off to a party, but she always dressed that way. In honor of the new little life, she brought me a delicate, amethyst necklace from the Chelsea Antique Market, then she was off to the ball.

  At this time in England it was required for a new mother to remain in the hospital for a full ten days after giving birth. Denny never missed a visiting day, but two days before I was released, the Electric String Band was scheduled to play a show in Scotland. Denny wouldn’t be back till the next night, so I had to take a taxi with my new baby back to our flat. It felt surreal walking out of the hospital with this tiny infant all on my own. I was just seventeen, and now someone’s mother. I managed to make it back to Chelsea safely and set the baby in his waiting cot. When he began to fuss I thought he must be hungry so I put him to my breast like the sister had showed me at Saint Mary’s, and it worked like a charm. I gave him a warm bath, brushed the feathery wisps on his delicate head, then swaddled him in the pale blue angora blanket I’d crocheted for him. I spent the rest of the night staring in wonderment at this fragile new life. What an adventure we would have.

  • • •

  As unique and original as the Electric String Band’s music was, they never really took off. Denny was still struggling, and we were as poor as church mice. We were getting along somewhat better, but his dark, dismal moods still lurked and loomed. He often sat silently in despair with his head in his hands for hours. When Heather, my sole friend, would come for a visit, he’d go in the bedroom and fling the door shut behind him. I was a happy-natured girl with an angelic new baby. I loved Denny and I knew he loved me, but his depression was bewildering. It was like living in a dense fog that smothered any sense of joy. It wasn’t a flip or easy decision, but I didn’t see any happiness in our future. I decided to pack up baby Damian and went to stay with Roger and Heather at St. John’s Wood. Roger gave us the top floor in his homey brownstone, and fashioned a cozy bed for baby Damian out of an antique dresser drawer. The four of us were a happy house, but I knew I couldn’t stay on with them forever. It was time to make a life myself. Denny sent me letters and called, appealing for me to come home. He wanted to get married, for real this time, and make it legitimate. Whenever I’d try to leave, Denny had a way of turning back into the man I had fallen in love with. Seeing him sweet and vulnerable had always made me forget, but not this time. I was taking my six-month-old Damian Christian and going home, back to California.

  9

  I had written to my grandmother but hadn’t seen Mimi since I was fourteen, the night I’d kissed her sweet cheek good-bye at the institution. What an adventure I’d had since then! It was already 1967. In three short years, I’d lived in San Francisco, Boston, New York and London. I’d even been to Puerto Rico with Denny! I’d hung out with Andy Warhol, and now had a child of my own. I could see that coming home with a baby was somewhat bittersweet. Actually, I think she was mortified. I knew she’d wanted more for me, like a proper education or at least an adoring husband, but in grand Mimi style she only scolded: “I was worried, love; I missed you.”

  It didn’t take long for her to fall in love with her new great-grandson, and as always she was there like an angel to simplify and bolster my seemingly impractical lifestyle.

  With Mimi’s help I rented the bottom half of a Craftsman house on Bronson Avenue by the Hollywood sign. We combed the thrift shops for mismatched furniture and bits of curtain lace. For the first time I held a key to my very own place.

  The woman upstairs had lived there since the house was built, and for five dollars a night she became my trusted babysitter. I got a job selling tickets in the admittance booth at a riotous little nightclub called the Experience on the Sunset Strip. I’d hitchhike five miles to work, and then get a late-night ride home from Marshall Brevets, the frenzied owner of the club.

  The Experience was the perfect name for this little beehive of incredible music. For two dollars you could see anyone from Chuck Berry to Jimi Hendrix. There was B.B.King, T.Rex, and even a young Alice Cooper gracing the stage. One summer night Bo Diddley walked his whole band off the set and finished his show on the sidewalk on Sunset Boulevard. A bearded and bloated Jim Morrison often stumbled onto the intimate stage and harassed other bands. In his drunkenness he’d take over the microphone, wailing obscenities till he was gently removed from the premises. The English bands reigned supreme, and wreaked wild havoc with loose young women in the shadows. It was so dark in there, you never knew what was going on.

  When I was a child, my grandfather had teased me, “When you grow up, the boys are going to be lining up at your door with mattresses on their backs.”

  I had envisioned a queue of men lugging cumbersome beds to my front door, but I didn’t get the joke. As it turned out, he was right. I certainly had my share of admirers. Love notes sailed through my windows in the form of paper airplanes, and I received so many bouquets and baskets of flowers my house looked like I was hosting a wake. With all my young suitors, there was only one who just about charmed the panties off me. I met Roman Polanski at a dinner party in Malibu, and there was instant attraction. At the end of the evening he asked for my phone number, and called the next afternoon. Roman didn’t actually call himself; he summoned his secretary to ask if I was free to have dinner. I thought it odd that he’d have his secretary telephone.

  “Why doesn’t he call for himself?”

  Five minutes later the phone rang again, and I made plans to dine with the engaging Mr. Polanski. He swooped me up in a black Rolls-Royce, and we went to a cozy little bistro, The Black Rabbit on Robertson. Although Roman was twice my age, he didn’t look much older than the other boys I dated. He was elegant, cultivated and comfortable to be with. Over a softly lit dinner, I spoke a little of my young life, and then Roman went on to tell me how he had survived growing up in Poland during the war, and how his mother died in a concentration camp. My eyes started to well with tears; he was the real deal. My tales of woe were trivial in comparison. On our next date he took me to Malibu, where he was staying. We had an early dinner, then went to the m
ovies to see Arlo Guthrie in Alice’s Restaurant. It was late when the film let out.

  “Why don’t you just spend the night,” he suggested.

  He said he had to be at Paramount in the morning, so it would be easier to drop me off then. Nope, I insisted, I had to get home and pick up my baby son.

  “Well, then,” he said, “if you don’t want to stay over, why don’t you take my car back to town; I can pick it up tomorrow.”

  Little did Mr. Polanski know, I hadn’t a clue how to drive a car. The only thing I’d ever driven were the kiddie cars in the safe confines of the Autopia ride at Disneyland. Still, I took him up on his brave offer.

  “Let’s take a little drive around the parking lot, see how you go.” Right away, my inexperience was apparent.

  “That’s unusual, you use separate feet for the gas and brakes?”

  “Oh, yeah, I always do,” I giggled.

  Fortunately the car was an automatic, and I managed to lunge and lurch myself all the way back to Hollywood.

  My little house on Bronson was becoming quite the rock-and-roll hangout, and it rang with unique music well into the Hollywood nights. Eric Clapton gave me a Guild guitar for my eighteenth birthday and taught me the chords to “Badge.” Jimi Hendrix would call asking, in his reticent manner, “This is Jimi … would you mind … would it be okay if I stopped by for a while?”

  I think he needed some solitude, a place to hide from the women who brazenly hunted him. He always had a guitar in hand, and I’d ask, “Would you play “Little Wing,” and show me the chords?”

  I had plenty of handsome suitors, but no one really had my heart until I encountered the ethereal Jimmy Page. Heather had given me a pretty accurate description, but there were no real words to describe his seductive allure and painful charm. It wasn’t just his lithe, elegant, rock-and-roll mien, or his pre-Raphaelite angelic face and soft long curls. He had an indescribable smoldering look in his eyes, like he had a secret he might share with you one day. When we kissed he inhaled my breath like he was savoring my soul. I’d never felt anything quite as dark or sensuous as James Patrick Page. He captivated me with stories of the English countryside and his lone manor in Pangbourne surrounded by a majestic moat. He always made me feel like we were somewhere off in the mist of Avalon.