Neon Angel

by Cherie Currie

  “Hello,” said a voice to my right. It had a theatrical, booming quality that startled me. I figured that it was maybe some random creep trying to make a move on me, so I turned to tell him to fuck off, but when I clamped my eyes on the figure next to me, I stopped myself. I immediately realized that this was no ordinary creep. For a start, he was not under twenty-one. Not by a long shot! The stranger was tall—real tall—and wearing the ugliest, tackiest bright orange suit that I had ever laid eyes on. The suit looked dirty and crumpled, as if he had woken up wearing it. He looked like some weird cross between a tangerine and Lurch from The Addams Family. Under the flickering club lights, it looked like he was wearing makeup and he looked impossibly old to me. Like somebody’s insane, cross-dressing grandfather! He was so strange and tacky-looking, that I started to laugh. He seemed unperturbed, though; he just kept staring at me, radiating this air of overblown importance. No, this guy was no ordinary creep. This guy was an extraordinary creep.

  “I’ve seen you around,” the tangerine-Lurch said. “You come here a lot, don’t you?”

  “Yeah,” I told him, turning back to my Coke to signal that the conversation was at an end. Instead of taking the hint, he just stood there smiling at me. I started to get an uncomfortable feeling. I didn’t like the way that this guy was looking at me. I thought of Derek, and then pushed the thought away. No. This guy seemed weird, but harmless. Probably just some kind of burnout, the kind of freak that you see everywhere in Hollywood clubs, just some creepy old dude who used to be a child actor or something. Or he could have been in the entertainment industry—a journalist, club promoter, or something. Otherwise he wouldn’t have even made it past the bouncers. But I was in a club packed with people. This creep couldn’t try anything.

  “I like your look,” the freak was saying. “I like it a lot. You got balls, you know what I mean? The platinum-blond hair . . . the tight pants . . . the makeup. Very cool. And you have this look in your eyes that says, ‘I can beat the crap out of truck driver.’ ”

  This made me laugh. I looked up to him again, and said, “What exactly do you want?”

  He straightened up, took a deep breath, and announced, “My name is Kim Fowley.”

  I stared back at him. He was standing there, rocking back on his heels, as if everything had just been explained because he’d uttered his name. I still had no idea who this creep was. After an awkward moment’s silence, I said, “Well, good for you. Am I supposed to know you, or something?”

  Actually, the name did sound vaguely familiar. Not that I was about to give him the satisfaction of knowing that. I think I’d heard Rodney mention it once or twice, but beyond some vague connection with the music industry, I really didn’t have a clue who this guy was. I was getting intrigued, though. What exactly did he want? He smiled at me again, and called for someone to join us over the thunderous sound of the club’s PA. “Joan! Joan, come over here!”

  A girl walked over to us. She was around my age, really pretty, with brown- and blond-streaked hair, dark eyes that seemed to radiate right out of her face. She walked over from the edge of the dance floor and stood next to Kim Fowley. She seemed real shy, and was hiding her face behind that long dark hair.

  “I’d like you to meet Cherie,” he said. I was about to ask him just how the hell he knew my name, but he cut me off. “Cherie—I’d like you to meet Joan Jett.”

  Now I was impressed. Starstruck, almost. I had heard Joan Jett’s name around the scene for what seemed like forever. Rodney Bingenheimer used to talk about her in the hushed, reverential tones he reserved for the most important faces on the scene. “That girl is going places,” he would say. I had seen her at the English Disco: she was a young, stunning Suzi Quatro look-alike. This was before Suzi had really blown up in a big way in America, and even though she was from the United States, she was still mostly successful in Europe. But, to the kids from the glam-rock scene, Suzi was a goddess. We all wanted to look like her, sound like her, be like her.

  Joan smiled and put her hand out toward me, saying hi. She seemed friendly enough, and her presence relaxed me a little. If Joan was involved with this Fowley guy, then he couldn’t be all bad, could he?

  “Tell me, Cherie . . . can you sing? Or play an instrument?” Kim asked.

  I pursed my lips. This question had thrown me for a loop. I looked around for Paul or Marie, wondering if this was some kind of setup. Nobody was paying attention to us, though. I shrugged and said, “I can’t play an instrument. Why?”

  “Have you ever heard of the Runaways?” Joan asked me.

  “Sure. They’re a new group, right?”

  Joan nodded. Word of mouth about the Runaways had been spreading around the scene for the past few months. Nobody seemed to know too much about them, except that they were supposed to be the new hot thing. Everybody already had an opinion on them, yet nobody seemed to have seen them play yet.

  Now that I had admitted to knowing who the Runaways were, Kim went into his full salesman spiel.

  “They’re only the hottest band of the decade!” he informed me with a satisfied grin. “The Runaways are a teenage all-girl rock-and-roll band. The Runaways are going to be the next female Beatles—the girl equivalent of Elvis, or Bowie, or Bo fucking Diddly. I am the magician, the visionary that is going to make it happen. They are going to change the world! Joan here is the rhythm guitarist . . .”

  The way he said it made me feel that he had given this speech many times before. Still, I couldn’t help but be sucked in by his enthusiasm. What I couldn’t figure out was why on earth he was giving this speech to me.

  “So, uh . . . what do you want with me?”

  “Read my lips,” Kim told me. “We—like—your—look. Yes? You can sing, can’t you?”

  When he said this, a few things flashed across my mind. The first was my music teacher Ms. Davenport refusing to let me into the choir the first time I tried out, on the grounds that she thought my voice sucked. She didn’t use those exact words, but she didn’t have to—her face had said it all. I did get in on the second attempt, though, so maybe old Davenport was having her period that day, or something. The next thing I thought of was the school talent show, where I’d recently won first prize by lip-synching to David Bowie. Marie and I had spent hours getting the costumes and the choreography perfect. When the song was over, the auditorium had gone wild. It was the craziest feeling, the most thrilling, goose-bump-inducing sensation, when the final note rang out and the whole place erupted in cheers.

  “Yeah, I can sing,” I told him, trying to play it cool.

  I almost blurted out that my sister and I used to sing Dean Martin songs with my father at the Kiwanis Club but I stopped myself, feeling like a hopeless square for even thinking about mentioning it. Instead I said, “I came in first at the school talent show, singing David Bowie.”

  I decided to leave out the lip-synching part.

  “David Bowie, huh?” Kim said to me. Then he points a finger at my chest. “If my instincts are correct . . . and one thing you will learn about me, Cherie, is that my instincts are ALWAYS correct . . . by the time I’m done with you, you are going to be bigger than David Bowie. In fact,” he said with a leer, “you are going to have the likes of David Bowie licking those silver platform boots of yours . . .”

  Joan started laughing at this, rolling her eyes. I guess she was well used to the strange way that Fowley spoke, but I was still staring at him like he had two heads. He pulled a notebook and pen out of his pocket, and asked me, “So—when are you free to audition?”

  Audition? Suddenly it hit me, with a twist of fear in the bottom of my gut: they were obviously trawling the under-twenty-one clubs, looking for a blond girl in tight pants who looked like she could beat up a truck driver so she could sing in this crazy band they were putting together. And here I was. I placed a trembling hand on my glass of soda and tried my best to look nonchalant.

  “Um, audition?” I repeated dumbly.

  “Yes—audi
tion. What is a good time for you?”

  A new song started up, and a cheer went up from the crowd when the first downbeat rocked the floor, because everyone knew what was coming already. “Benny and the Jets” by Elton John. That song was a favorite of mine in those days; it always put me in a trancelike, relaxed state. But not tonight. Not now . . .

  “Gee, Mr. Fowley . . .” I stammered. “I don’t know. Anytime, I guess . . .”

  I watched as he thumbed through his appointment book. I still couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

  “Saturday at two?” he asked, fixing me with an expectant stare.

  I realized with a start that that was only three days away. “Sure, perfect,” I blurted out before I could change my mind.

  “Excellent.” He made some notes in that little book of his. “Tell me—are you familiar with Suzi Quatro’s music?”

  “Sure . . . I have all her albums,” I said. Of course I had all of her albums: I was a music nut. My mom used to tell me that I wouldn’t have room left for my bed if the vinyl collection in my bedroom kept growing.

  “Great. Well, I want you to learn one of her songs. Any one you like. You can sing that for your audition for the band.”

  Kim Fowley was all business now. He was scribbling an address in his book. He ripped the page out and pressed it into my hand. With a sly smile he started to turn away, but then stopped, as if remembering something very important. Then he asked me, “Exactly how old are you, Cherie?”

  I sat up and assumed my most mature look.

  “Fifteen,” I told him in my most confident voice. “I’m going to be sixteen in a few months . . .”

  With that, his huge, weird face creased into a smile. Not an altogether nice smile either.

  “Good,” he cooed. “Very good!” Something about the way he said it made me imagine that he was about to say, “Young and fresh . . . Just the way I like them!” but thankfully, he didn’t.

  With that, he spun on his heels and walked away. I sat there, watching him go, slightly shell-shocked.

  “It was nice to meet you,” Joan said, before she herself went to leave. Then she half turned and yelled back, “See you Saturday!” And then she was gone, following Kim Fowley’s hulking orange frame into the crowd.

  I just sat there flabbergasted by everything that had just gone on. I was so caught up in my own thoughts that I barely registered that “Benny and the Jets” had ended, segueing into “Personality Crisis” by the New York Dolls, and that Paul was standing right in front of me, looking at me with a strange expression on his face.

  “Are you okay?” he asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost . . .”

  “Do you know a guy called Kim Fowley?” I asked, ignoring him.

  “Sure. The record producer? He did that song ‘They’re Coming to Take Me Away’ that Doctor Demento always plays on his show, didn’t he? Wow—he was here?” Paul started craning his neck to catch a glimpse of Fowley, who was already long gone.

  “Yeah . . .” I said, still slightly dazed. “I was talking to him. He asked me to audition for an all-girl rock band called the Runaways. Joan Jett was with him.”

  “For real?”

  “Yeah.”

  Paul laughed that strange laugh of his. “Holy shit, Cherie! I leave you alone for five minutes, and what happens? You go and become a rock star!”

  “Shut up!” I giggled as Paul dragged me onto the floor to dance. On the way by, I saw Marie. I called her over, and started babbling to her about what just happened.

  “Who?”

  “Kim Fowley!”

  “Who’s he?”

  “That big weird-looking guy in the orange suit!”

  “Oh,” Marie said, wrinkling her nose. “He tried to talk to me, too. He asked me if I could play bass guitar. I told him to fuck off! What a loser . . .”

  When I got home that night, I wanted to tell my mom what had happened, but I couldn’t because she was in Indonesia with Wolfgang. She’d been away a lot lately, and Sandie had been the de facto parent in the house for a while. In a way, this was even better than telling my mom, because Sandie would get it; she was already in the industry. When I was younger, I thought that my older sister was the coolest chick in the world: she had her own apartment in Hollywood when she turned eighteen, and was living a life that seemed so glamorous to me: shooting commercials by day, waiting for her big break, and working as a cocktail waitress by night to support herself. Then she got her shot at the big time: a role in a western called Rio Lobo, starring John Wayne. At this point, she had gone on to star in four more movies. She met T.Y. on the set of a movie called Policewomen where she played a cop who infiltrates an all-female criminal gang. I mean, imagine my big sister being a movie star and even marrying her gorgeous male lead? When I was fifteen, I thought that if I could follow in my big sister’s footsteps, I would die happy.

  It was late when I got home, but I still started banging on Sandie’s door. “Sandie—wake up!” I hissed through the bedroom door. “I have to tell you something!”

  If anyone was going to understand just what a big deal this was, it was my big sister. Despite the fact that there had been some real tension between us ever since the Gail incident, I knew that she would understand what a big deal an audition for a major record producer was. Marie was trying to talk me into just going to bed. “Cherie, can’t it wait till the morning? It’s, like, midnight!”

  “No!” I snapped. “This is important!”

  Sandie and T.Y. staggered out in their bathrobes, rubbing their bleary eyes. “Uh, Cherie . . .” Sandie was saying, “what is it? What’s wrong?”

  I laughed, bubbling over with the excitement of it all. “Oh God, Sandie! I just got the most amazing news!”

  By now, the commotion had even roused Donnie, who staggered out of his bedroom, bleary-eyed and yawning. “What’s all the noise?” he demanded. “Did someone die or something?”

  “Okay, Sandie. Listen to this. Kim Fowley . . . who is like the most important guy in the music industry—I mean big time important, okay? Kim Fowley wants me to audition for the Runaways! On Saturday!”

  Marie rolled her eyes. She’d been hearing this all night. “That guy’s a creep,” she insisted. “I wouldn’t trust him!”

  I shot her a dirty look. “Oh yeah? You tell Joan Jett that!”

  I turned back to Sandie and T.Y. Of course, they had no idea who either Kim Fowley, the Runaways, or Joan Jett were, but they both smiled at me indulgently and nodded their heads.

  “I’m so happy for you, honey,” Sandie said.

  “You’re going to knock ’em dead at that audition, Cherie-zee,” T.Y. added sleepily.

  Coming from Sandie and T.Y., this meant the world. I felt my heart skipping in my chest.

  Donnie said, “So, uh, if you join this band, you’ll be on like records and stuff?”

  “Oh yeah!”

  He sighed, and threw his arms up into the air. “Great! Now I’ll even have to listen to you on the radio!”

  It was late, and Sandie fixed us all a midnight snack. There wasn’t much talk after that. Everyone was tired, everyone except me. After a while we all drifted back to our beds. While Marie slept I crept out of bed, silently opened the door, and stepped out to the backyard. It was November, and the air was cool. It never really got too cold out here in the Valley. I could hear the steady rhythm of the crickets. The sky was clear, and I could see a million stars, stretching off into infinity. I had read and reread magazine articles on all of my favorite rock stars obsessively, and I knew that sometimes all it takes is a simple twist of fate to be discovered. Wasn’t Suzi Quatro discovered by Mickie Most playing some dive in Detroit, just because he happened to be in town on another gig? A part of me was afraid of being disappointed, but another part of me, some fearless part of me, was determined that this chance meeting with a famous record producer was going to change my life forever. I thought of David Bowie onstage, the way he commanded literally thousands of peop
le with every careful, stylized gesture. I thought of the power he had over his audience. The power he had over me! I wanted to be powerful; I wanted to be extraordinary, too . . .

  I stared at the stars. I knew that I would not be able to sleep tonight. I remembered the joint I had in the bottom of my purse. It had literally been sitting there for a month; it had been shoved into my hand at some party, and I’d never bothered to smoke it. I found that I never really reacted well to grass in the past; it made me feel strange, a little paranoid. But I’d sometimes buy a half lid of marijuana, mostly so I could share it with the older kids in the neighborhood who smoked. They always wanted to hang out with me because I had grass: when you’re a teenager, drugs can be an important bonding tool.

  I pulled the joint out. It was battered and bent out of shape from lying in the bottom of my purse for so long.

  I lit it up and took a deep toke, holding in the harsh gray smoke just like the older kids did. I could feel it burning my lungs—it felt much harsher than tobacco. The almost unbearable urge to cough came over me, but I swallowed it down. When I finally exhaled the plume of pungent smoke into the night air, I felt pretty light-headed.