Although he hadn’t actually spoken the words, he did some heavy alluding. I had illusive visions of being the blithe young maiden of the manor; we’d give life to a band of seraphim and be eternally happy. Little did I know several other girls were under the same identical spell.
Jimmy was still playing guitar with the Yardbirds, but he was also working on putting his own group together in England. He said he was hoping to come back to California soon. If the band did well, then they’d do a West Coast tour. Obviously it went quite well, because Led Zeppelin hit Los Angeles like napalm. After their dazzling debut at the Whisky A Go Go, Led Zeppelin became the new rock-and-roll gods. Jimmy stayed at my house for the first two luminous nights, and then the band went up to San Francisco for more accolades at the Fillmore.
The next thing I knew Jimmy had disappeared. I heard he was holed up the Hyatt House on Sunset with one of Frank Zappa’s infamous G.T.O.’s (Girls Together Outrageously) and Hollywood’s chief groupie, Miss Pamela. My romantic teenage heart was shattered. I agonized, longed, and generally stirred myself into a state.
In the midst of my misery, while still working at the Experience, a most beautiful boy came in wanting to buy a ticket for B.B.King. Because the show was almost over I told him he could go in for free, but he didn’t budge. He just stood there, staring at me with the sweetest smile and most soulful brown eyes. I felt an electric jolt in my heart and could almost see the fairy dust falling around me.
“What time do you get off?”
I still had half an hour to go but replied, “Right now.”
I was wearing a white summer mini dress and my sexy new platform slides. When I came around the corner, he looked at my long legs and breathed and audible sigh. As we walked to a café down the boulevard I could feel the sweet thunder shimmer between us.
Jackson Browne was a yet unrecognized songwriter who lived in the hills of Echo Park. “Would you like to come over and hear some my songs?”
It didn’t take much persuasion, and we were off in his faded-blue Volkswagen.
His apartment was part of an old house nestled in the hills of Echo Park overlooking the Lake. It was sparsely furnished, just a simple bed, dresser, a few tables, and an old upright piano in the living room. Jackson’s house had the feeling of a monk’s quarters, clean and calm, with smooth hardwood floors. The only decorative touches were a lovely old silk embroidered crazy quilt his grandmother had stitched, a holy crucifix on the wall, and a vase of fading wildflowers on the windowsill.
Jackson sat down at the piano and played a slow-moving version of “Doctor My Eyes.’ The rendering was so beautiful it gave me a chill. By the last longing note of “Jamaica Say You Will” I was full of desire. I wanted to be Jamaica and make love in the shadow of the tall green grass. We didn’t even kiss that night, but the anticipation was heavenly. The night was sweeter than a kiss. I could have stayed all-night and just and gazed into his deep brown eyes till the dawn, but I had to get home to collect my boy from the babysitter.
After meeting Jackson it didn’t take long to forget about Jimmy’s swift departure. I was quickly under the spell of Jackson’s gentle heart. He was tender with baby Damian, and took us out on lovely little outings. We’d go boating on the lake by his house and take long walks up to the stream at Bronson Park. One of my favorite places was the historical abbey. It was in Highland Park, and his grandfather had built it in 1925. It was the place where Jackson had lived as a little boy, and looked like a magical small-scale Gothic castle. Then there was his impassioned music that captivated me.
Jackson wrote me song called “Under the Falling Sky.” One of the verses was, “Abandon your sad history and meet me in the fire.”
Into the fire we went. The chemistry between Jackson and me was like a magnet to metal. We could barely look at each other without falling into bed. We christened every room in the house, the Volkswagen, and even a public dressing room when we were out shopping. We could never get close enough. The soft smell of his freshly washed damp hair, his taste, and his breathtaking long hands, the sharp line of his jaw, his voice, and his music, it all sent me.
Jackson was hired to sing at a folk club just outside San Francisco, and we decided to make a little holiday out of it. Mimi agreed to look after Damian, and we tooled our way up north in his VW bug. One of his friends had offered to let us stay at a lovely farmhouse in the country. We took the cozy room on the top floor, and spent the weekend lost in young abandoned passion. It felt like we were worldly old souls, but I was barely nineteen and he was only twenty-one years old.
Jackson was still relatively unknown, but when we arrived at the coffeehouse the small venue had standing room only. It was packed full with adoring followers. As he sang “A Song For Adam” he was aglow in amber stage light, and you could just about hear a feather fall. At that moment I thought we would be together forever.
I became completely wrapped up in the warm romance of Jackson Browne. My son had just learned to walk and I had my own place and interesting employment. My life seemed to be taking a gentle form, until I received an ill-fated call. My girlfriend Lorraine, who was married to Traffic’s Dave Mason, had just returned from England. She said she’d spent some time with Denny Laine, and had given him my address and telephone number. I hadn’t seen Denny for more than a year, nor had I really thought of him. At first I ignored his letter, but then hearing his soft English voice over the long-distance wire was hard to dismiss. He said he missed our son and how he’d had time to think and change his reckless ways. He’d even started his own publishing company and called it Naimad, which is Damian spelled backward. He’s also joined a new band with Ginger Baker called Air Force, and had plenty of money to take care of us now. He wanted another chance. I’d been with Jackson for almost a whole dreamy year. How quickly I forgot my prior despair. After a few months of cloak-and-dagger sweet talk and hopeful promises, I found myself thinking, “Maybe he really did change.” He was the father of my son. But how was I going to tell Jackson I was moving back to England?
I waited till the last possible moment to mention it, but even then I had a grim feeling in my soul. Why was I doing this? Jackson, always the gentleman, saw Damian and me off at the British Airways terminal. At the gate he handed me an antique velvet doll’s slipper stuffed with a delicate quail egg, which I still possess. I knew I was about to board an enormous mistake. I wanted to turn back and go home, but it was too late. I’d let go of my house, our bags were packed, and the jumbo jet plane was ready for take-off.
For the first few months it seemed my hasty choice had actually been the right decision. The three of us, a family, were living together in a rambling two-story Tudor in the sleepy village of Cholesbury. Denny doted on Damian, and even bought me a vintage Jaguar XK 150 convertible to motor around the village in. It was like we’d fallen in love all over again. Everything was perfect, except for one little catch. The lovely old house in all its country splendor was a prewar Tudor, built well before the days of central heating. There were five bedrooms, a formal dining room, and a grand-sized living room with a hearthstone so wide you could actually sit in it. Granted, there was a fireplace in each room, but unless you stood close to the flame, the rooms were so chilly, it felt like it might snow in the house. I spent most of my days lugging cumbersome buckets of heavy coal, logs, and kindling up two flights of stairs. I stoked waning embers with antique bellows, and boiled huge pots of water on the wood-burning auger just to have a lukewarm bath. We were freezing our butts off. I begged Denny, “Could we please get a smaller place with some heat?”
We ended up keeping the house in the country, but also rented a toasty furnished flat in London. It was the ground floor of a brownstone in the ritzy area of Kensington. The flat had a charming English garden, and was within walking distance to the famous Harrods, my favorite department store.
Ginger Baker was looking for another backup singer for his band Air Force, and I asked if I might try out for the job. I’d always dream
ed of singing. I loved the blues and Irish lilts, but rock and roll would do.
I auditioned for Ginger with an a cappella version of Billie Holiday’s “My Man.” And just like that I was signed up with the band. Soon after my audition, Air Force began a one-month tour of England. The whole band traveled the countryside in a magical mystery tour bus.
What an amazing life I seemed to be living. At twenty I was in a rock and roll band, singing at all the music festivals along with Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, Richie Havens, Donovan, and all the other peerless bands of the sixties, plus getting paid as well. I had a proper English nanny for Damian, and a house in the country and one in London. I’d signed with a label—the Robert Stigwood Organization—and we were recording an album. I had more cash than I could spend. I had become one of the mysterious girls on the King’s Road, prancing in my silver platform boots, sheer chiffon mini dresses, and feathers trailing in the English breeze.
Despite living in the rock-and-roll hurricane, I was miserable. Since we’d move to London, Denny was slowly slipping back into his suspicious, morose mode. We were back to square one; the only difference was that we had money to burn. I missed California, my little house, Mimi, and Jackson’s gentle way with me. I realized I’d made a huge mistake. If only I could click my heels and be back in my own little bed in Hollywood. I began to realize Denny’s spontaneous rage wasn’t going to magically disappear, nor did it have anything to do with me. It was simply his stormy nature, and it seemed he was never going to change. The teenage sexual obsession that had kept us together was all but gone. There was nothing sexy or attractive about being accused and threatened, nor did I want my innocent child to witness that sort of behavior.
Air Force was about to embark on an American tour. As everyone in the band had a fear of flying, the whole group was booked for passage on the QE2. We were packed and ready to sail, but the night before departure, the tour was cancelled. Ginger decided he would prefer to go to Africa and play drums with the Nigerians. It seemed the band was finished. To tell you the truth, it was actually a relief; Denny and I had been booked in the same berth on the ship, and more than likely would have killed each other.
My friend Ned Doheny had just arrived in England from California and graciously called to say an innocent hello. Denny never liked it when I chatted on the phone, but this time he got so enraged that he cuffed me. The shear impact sent m flying across the living room, delivering me to the corner in a dazed heap. I was so stunned I actually saw perfect five-point stars circling above my head, just like in the cartoons.
When I came to I saw a reflection of myself in the mirror. My entire face was covered in sticky crimson blood. I flew to the bathroom and locked the door. Denny stood outside apologizing and pleading for me to let him in. I found a deep gash just above my eye. Inspecting it closer in the mirror, I could see the skin was broken deep in a V shape with a jagged edge. I wasn’t sure if it was Denny’s silver ring or if I’d hit my head on the corner of the counter. I couldn’t stop the bleeding, so I grabbed a towel and pressed it hard to my eye.
I needed to get to a hospital fast, and I didn’t want that crazy man anywhere near me. I escaped out the bathroom window and scaled a steep wall along the side of our flat just to get to the street. A passing taxi saw my bloody plight and sped me to the hospital at no charge. When I got to St. George’s, it took six unsightly black stitches to close the gaping wound. The initial adrenaline was beginning to wear off, and I was sniffling back my tears. I could hear the eerie sound of the sewing thread tensing through the skin above my eyelid, and thanked God I wasn’t accidentally blinded. When the doctor was finished he handed me a mirror to have a look at his needlework. The crisscross sutures made me look like a sword-wielding pirate, but the worst was over. I was still recovering on the gurney when a nurse came in and told me my husband and son were in the waiting room. She said that if I didn’t want to see them I could take the side passage out, and I took her advice.
10
For my final hurrah and last night in England, I met with some friends down at the “Speak.” The Speakeasy was the definitive in-crowd rock-and-roll oasis. You walked down a flight of red-carpeted stairs and through a hallway that opened into a big comfy room with elevated levels and cloistered private booths. There was a stage where on any given night you could see Jimi Hendrix, Eric Clapton, the Small Faces, or Johnny and Edgar Winter performing beyond the dance floor. To the right was a raised-glassed partitioned restaurant where they served the best creamed petit pois and filet mignon sandwiches on the planet. You might find Rod Stewart or David Gilmour from Pink Floyd having a late-night meal, or catch a yet unknown David Bowie prancing on the crowded dance floor. Luigi, the tuxed Italian maître d’, serendipitously sat me directly across from Eric Clapton, who was bemused by the sight of my freshly sewn sutures.
“What happened to you?” he asked.
I told him the whole grisly story, and that I was taking a flight home to California the following morning.
“Don’t go back,” he said. “Why don’t you and Damian come and stay at Hertwood Edge for the summer?”
Eric had my trunks picked up from Kensington, and my son and I were off on our way to Surrey.
Hertwood Edge was Eric’s country estate. His tow-story manor had marble floors, wainscoted walls, and a dining room with French doors that looked out onto the lush English countryside. It was a formal Moorish manor, but not ritzy or bedecked, just comfortable and relaxed, with a pair of frisky dogs that had the run of the house. The grounds were beautiful, partly manicured but mostly wild, and they went on as far as you could see. Damian was happy there as well. He had free run of the house, but mostly enjoyed riding his tricycle up and down the wide halls.
Eric had just formed Derek and the Dominos, and for that summer the entire band hung out and did nothing but create heavenly music at all hours of the day and night. It was the onset of the Layla album, and you could feel the anguish in the air. Eric was despondently in love with Patti Boyd, but also close with Patti’s husband, George Harrison. There was a feel of Shakespearean tragedy brewing in the manor. Eric was already a bit of a brooding wraith, but now painfully obsessed with winning Patti’s hand. It seemed Patti could never find the right moment to break the news of their secret affair to George, which kept Eric in tormented uncertainty. Out of all the grief came the radiant song “Layla.”
It was amazing to listen as Eric worked on pieces of music for the album, and going to the recording sessions that went on till dawn. I remember driving back to Eric’s from a “Layla” recording session in London. I was with Bobby Whitlock, a member of Eric’s band, and he was breaking in his brand-new Ferrari. The sun was just rising and Bobby was doing an easy 130 miles an hour on the forest-lined motorway. There was a light mist in the air, and as we came over a small crest the Ferrari spun out of control. It spun five times across the road in eerie slow motion, and then deposited us in a soft grassy patch in the woods. That was about as close to curtains as I’d ever come. Neither of us said a word. Bobby just started the Ferrari back up and we took off like bats out of hell. That’s how it was back then—we all thought we were invincible.
I never missed a rehearsal, which could be heard he next village over., At the time it didn’t really occur to me how special it was living at Eric’s house, being a part of that extraordinary musical history. I was happy just being there.
As the only girl in residence, I became the household cook, and always had something tasty simmering on the stove. I got my secret recipes from Alice’s Restaurant’s cookbook, which had the yummiest hot chili to date. There was always plenty of hash to smoke, and the occasional Mandrax. “Mandies” were a dreamier, British version of Quaaludes, like a Quaalude lite. One night the dealer who usually brought hash and the Mandies arrived with something special. He called it “China white.” I don’t think any of us had ever tried heroin before. It was “Ooh, heroin, definitely taboo.” We didn’t even know how much to take.
There was a party at Eric’s house on July 14. It was a birthday bash for Jim Gordon, the drummer of the Dominos. George and Patti Harrison arrived together, and Mick Jagger showed up in his glistening white Bentley convertible. Mick had visited once before. I remember being engrossed in a book in the study when he peeked in and said, “You’re pretty.” With a blush, all I could think to say was a faint “thank you,” and went back to reading my book.
Dandelion; Memoir Of A Free Spirit Page 9
