by Traci Lords
Copyright Jeffrey House
49
Flesh Wounds
I spent my last night in Charlotte, North Carolina, with Vince and some friends. We left the Bandit set after wrap in search of a tattoo parlor. Vince was no stranger to ink. His back was covered with Egyptian artwork. I teased him that tattoos looked silly when they sagged and that at his ripe old age of thirty-three, he might want to consider another hobby. He gave me his best bitch look as we pulled into the parking lot of his favorite ink joint. My palms grew sweaty as I imagined the pecking of a tattoo needle digging into my skin. I loathed needles and was a tattoo virgin. Brook was amazed that I didn’t have a single one. He himself sported a Japanese dragon he’d gotten years ago on his left arm.
I nearly chickened out as Brutus the tattoo artist showed me the sanitary needles he was removing from their protective sleeves. Gulp. Perhaps getting a tattoo was too permanent a statement. Oh no, you don’t…. You’re not backing out now. I need this reminder. I handed the artist an old crucifix I had bought from a beggar on the streets of Italy years before. I’d carried that crucifix in my pocket ever since. I thought of it as a symbol of strength, one I really needed at the moment. I felt weak, tempted by the nightclubs’ offers of sex, drugs, and rock and roll. How do people stay on the straight and narrow? How had I? Why had I all these years?
Man, I knew the deal. I also remembered the price. At times it was just hard to stay present and sober in a world that could be so mean. Doesn’t everyone self-medicate in their own way? I wasn’t thinking about hard-core drugs at this point, just a few beers and a hot guy. I couldn’t believe I was fantasizing about such things.
It was definitely time to go home.
The needle poked holes into my soft inner ankle, leaving behind a blue-gray cross. Brutus carved away, freehand, on my flesh. The slicing sensation brought me back to reality and I welcomed the pain. It slapped me right back in line.
I caught the red-eye home to Los Angeles around midnight.
It was ten in the morning on a cool October day when Mr. Steve greeted me as I walked in the door. He meowed at me and I meowed back.
“I missed you too, fella,” I told him, stroking his soft fur. “Where’s your daddy?”
He was all purrs as he wrapped himself around my bare legs, irritating the freshly carved tattoo on my left ankle. The house was quiet as I made my way inside. Hanging up my coat in the front closet, I continued down the hallway, setting my suitcases down beside the washing machine. I had weeks’ worth of dirty laundry. And from the look of things, so did Brook. The house was a mess. He must be working long hours. I paged him, letting him know I was home.
I was loading dirty dishes in the dishwasher when I heard the front door open. Brook bounced into the kitchen and engulfed me in a bear hug, kissing me and telling me how sorry he was for not visiting me on location. “Yeah, that sucks,” I replied, not letting him off the hook so easily.
“What’s so important that kept you away from me? I thought we agreed I would take the job and you would support me by showing up? You know, I had a lot of volunteers willing to spend time with me,” I teased, wanting to get a rise out of him.
His brow furrowed, clearly jealous, and he kissed me hard. “Don’t fuck around, Traci.”
As much as I wanted to drop the attitude, I couldn’t quite do it. I backed off, taking in his sweet familiar smell. How could I love someone and want to fight with him at the same time? I left—not him. Why am I pissed? Is it because I’m scared? Both of our careers were going really well, so well we had little time for each other. I felt like I was missing out…. I felt like I was losing him….
I settled onto the sofa in the living room, stubborn but willing to talk. We just stared at each other. He broke the silence by telling me he had big news. He’d been offered the resident prop master job on Barry Levinson’s new television series Homicide: Life on the Street. It was a steady gig, which meant he’d have to relocate. It was filming in Baltimore. His mother was already set to run the casting department so it would be a family affair. “It’s the break we’ve been waiting for, Traci,” he said.
My head was spinning.
“It sounds like you’ve already made up your mind,” I said quietly. “I think it’s an amazing opportunity, but it’s so far away from home. What about us?”
I tried to hide the tears that stung my eyes.
“Hey,” he reminded me, “we always said, the first one of us to get a series, the other one would go.”
“You want me to move to Baltimore?” I tried to imagine it. What would I do for a living? I can’t act in Baltimore.
“Don’t you get it?” he said. “That doesn’t matter anymore. Quit your little hobby, work in a coffee shop or something. I’ll buy you a house, we’ll have a kid, it’ll be great. Otherwise we’ll have to do the distance for a while.”
I was stunned by his choice of words. “Quit my little hobby?” He thinks of my career as a “little hobby”? I was fuming as I excused myself, needing some time to regain my composure. I really didn’t want to say out loud what I was thinking at that moment: My own husband doesn’t take me seriously!?
I returned to the living room ready to let him have it. He pulled me close, oblivious to how upset and insulted I felt about his decision to take the job no matter what. I felt abandoned. It hurt that he could walk away so quickly.
My anger turned to tears as he held me, and I couldn’t say a word. But I got it. I knew I would do the same thing. Our work was number one for both of us and that admission to myself tore at me. Once again I wondered if seeing my name in lights was worth it.
Brook left for Baltimore a week later without me. I couldn’t hold up my end of the bargain and go with him. I just didn’t see myself working in a coffee shop and I certainly wasn’t ready to be a mother. The choices I had weren’t options. I couldn’t live someone else’s dream. I had my own. And ultimately I chose the same thing he did—a career. He said he understood, and although it took another six months for us to completely walk away from the marriage, I felt it had really ended before my trip to North Carolina.
I was heartbroken.
I filed for divorce that winter. Not only was I losing my husband but I was also losing a family. I hoped we’d all be friends again one day, but it would take some time for the wounds to heal.
50
A Spot of Tea
The months after Brook and I split up were rough. Every song on the radio made me weepy and every black Bronco truck that drove by had me craning my neck to see if it was him. I thought I heard his voice in crowds and saw his face in my dreams.
What had I done?
I had serious doubts about my choice to remain in Los Angeles on my own. I was depressed to think it might all be for nothing. Relentlessly, I searched for an opening, needing an emotional outlet that acting just wasn’t giving me. I spent my free time writing in journals and pouring out my heart on the pages. I continued to take voice lessons, finding both a friend and mentor in my coach Robert Edwards. He encouraged me to search for a record deal, planting the initial seed in my head.
I met radio DJ Rodney Bingenheimer around this time, at a birthday party in the Hollywood Hills. He was a legendary presence in the rock-and-roll world, known for his bold tastes in music, and I told him of my aspirations as a singer-songwriter. At the time he seemed interested, but I didn’t really think anything would come of it.
Weeks later I found myself at the offices of Gary Kurfirst, the man who managed my idol Debbie Harry! His independent label Radioactive Records was producing the soundtrack for a film called Pet Cemetery 2, and I was recommended by Rodney Bingenheimer to Gary’s A&R person, Jeff Jacklin. Jeff hired me to record the track “Love Never Dies” and shortly thereafter I was signed to a development deal with Radioactive.
I worked closely with Jeff, a British A&R man named Brendan Burke, and an exceptionally enthusiastic young guy named Kent Belden, who was just starting out. Brendan was a pro
, having been in the business for years, and he worked closely with the band Live. Kent was an eager twenty-two-year-old with a passion for all things Traci Lords. Together we defined my sound, one which would later earn me the title “Techno Queen” in the underground rave scene.
Radioactive arranged for me to fly to London in the spring of 1994 and put me up in a one-room flat above a coffee shop in Hampstead Heath. I was ready to begin work on my first record. I called my producer Tom Bailey, of Thompson Twins fame, and announced my arrival. I was a huge fan of his and remembered listening to his music when I was in school. I still had an old Thompson Twins T-shirt from a concert I’d gone to as a young girl, but decided to keep this information to myself, not knowing if he’d take it as a compliment. I couldn’t believe the man I’d watched onstage as a screaming fourteen-year-old was now my producer!
Tom Bailey and Alannah Curry lived in a loft just outside London. Their recording studio was located up a set of winding narrow steps above their living quarters. It was an attic paradise. I tried to make small talk as we began to check sound levels, but I was so nervous that wit didn’t come easily. I was intimidated to be working with one of my idols. Tom Bailey was a great singer and I felt completely inferior in his presence. I could not have felt more vulnerable standing there in the middle of the studio, mike in my hands, choking out the words to the first song. Tom understood and made light of my jitters, telling me he hated to sing these days.
“What?! Why? You’re a genius singer,” I blurted out, feeling like a geek as soon as the words came out of my mouth.
He just smiled. He was a gentle, soft-spoken person, his demeanor anything but threatening. He fixed me a cup of tea and suggested I give the closet a try. “It could make a bloody good recording booth.” He was right, and by the end of the day I’d found my nerve, recording “I Want You” in the privacy of Tom Bailey’s closet. One lone candle burned through the darkness of my cozy vocal paradise as I sang “It’s four in the morning and I’m praying for rain.”
We worked together on three songs, “I Want You,” “Fly,” and “Just Like Honey,” which later was rerecorded by Keith Farley of Babble (Tom Bailey’s new group) with a different set of lyrics. In the end it was called “Father’s Field,” the words I’d written in New Zealand a few years earlier, finally immortalized in song. Was I revealing too much? Well, I could always insist that it not be used, I thought, walking through the cool London night air as I shook off the day’s adrenaline rush and prayed for a good night’s sleep.
My album was coming together. The songs I’d recorded with Tom had a sexy ambient vibe. Now I wanted something with a harder edge to add another dimension. I was introduced to producer Ben Watkins, who was known for his aggressive jungle beats. He was a wild man and very passionate about his music. I told Ben I wanted to do a song that had elements of rock and roll but with a techno vibe and he ran with it, creating a slamming heavy metal guitar intro on an insanely hyper track.
I teamed up with an American singer named Wonder and together we created the lyrics to my first single, “Control”: “You say you’re lonely. You say you’re blue. You lost your lover. Let me console you.” Although it had a dominant-female vibe going on, I was still nursing a broken heart. I missed Brook deeply and poured my emotions into the lyrics I wrote and the words I sang.
Next, Ben and I worked on “Outlaw Lover.” I spent days scouring through cowboy stories and watching westerns, trying to get the lingo down. It had a real camp element to it. I cast myself as a woman in a small town who had been wronged, and I tell my unfaithful lover, “You best be warned I’m a woman scorned,” before shooting him dead.
We finished up and rested for a few days. I slept until noon and took long, steamy baths. I joined the locals for a spot of tea in the café downstairs and treated myself to a rare cigarette. I knew no one in London except my producers, but I enjoyed my isolation, grateful for the quiet.
The following week I met Mike Edwards, the handsome lead singer of the band Jesus Jones. He’d also become a respected London DJ, moving away from his pop success. He was a fixture in the underground scene and I was a fan. I had all his CDs back home and I looked to him for advice on the music industry. He ended up writing the music for a hauntingly beautiful song that I named “Distant Land.” A songwriter named Blue and I wrote the lyrics. It was the only ballad I recorded, a sad tale of a woman waking up lost and not knowing where she is, searching for light in a distant land.
Mike and I recorded “Say Something” next, then finally a silly over-the-top song called “Okeydokey Doggy Daddy.” It was a goof track we’d recorded while having drinks at the end of a recording session. Mike asked me to ad-lib some lines as I finished off my beer. Looking around the eggplant-purple studio I started to make comments on my surroundings. “Here in my purple room, I’d like to thank you all so much for this”—fake sob of joy—“Oscar!”
Hollywood was clearly on my mind.
It was time for me to go back to Los Angeles and face my life. I had finished recording my first album. And I felt like I’d accomplished something.
Maybe, just maybe, it was worth it after all.
In the recording studio with Chad Smith and Dave Navarro of the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Los Angeles, 1996, during a remix session for “Fallen Angel.”
The collection of Traci Lords
51
Pretty on the Inside
I returned to Los Angeles with a bounce in my stride. I knew I was on the right path. I wasn’t just dreaming about recording a record anymore, I’d done it. As absurd as I knew they were, Brook’s words had lingered in my mind. I had to prove to myself that he was really wrong. My career wasn’t just a “hobby.” I hadn’t outlived my fifteen minutes of fame. I had the rough mixes of my songs in hand and they were the proof I needed to walk confidently into the new life I’d chosen.
The homey Studio City house I leased after I split with Brook was just as I’d left it—unpacked and unlived-in. The scent of mothballs and fresh cat shit hung in the air. Mr. Steve ignored me, pissed he’d been incarcerated at the kennel up the street while I was away. “Ah come on, buddy…I’m sorry I left ya. Can we be friends again?” He tore across the house, completely uninterested in my fickle brand of love. I guess it was time to pay for my neglect. There I was, a single woman with an angry cat and a house full of remnants of a failed marriage. If there was ever a time for “happy hour,” it was now.
I dismissed the “happy” thought in favor of unpacking my life. As I emptied the dusty moving boxes in my new living room, I was confronted with skeletons of my married years. I voted against a trip down memory lane and shoved all the remaining traces of Brook away in a back closet, knowing full well that my baggage had just gotten heavier. Man, how much baggage can one girl accumulate?
From a photo shoot for Radioactive Records.
Joshua Jordan. Courtesy of Radioactive Records, © 1994 Radioactive Records, J.V.
I couldn’t stand to be still for a moment. I didn’t want to feel the loneliness that nagged at me, so I put my life in high gear. Idle time is the devil’s playground…. I made the rounds, calling my manager and chatting up my agent. I was back and anxious to get cracking, and I needed the distraction of a busy schedule. Pouring my energy into my work, I was game to audition for any decent part that came my way.
I was thrilled to land a role on Melrose Place shortly after my return, cast as one of the followers of a cult leader who enticed resident Melrose Place star Laura Leighton to join our happy family. It was a wicked role and I was a secret fan of Darren Star, who was the creator of Melrose Place. My favorite character on the show was Sydney (Leighton) and it was the best of all possible worlds to book a job, actually like the show, and get to work with Laura. I thought she was great fun to watch and I eagerly waited for the scripts to arrive. Finally, a show my mother would have heard of, perhaps even liked—I couldn’t wait to tell her.
As I settled into life as a single woman and prep
ared for my work on Melrose Place and the upcoming release of my first single, “Control,” I started to enjoy myself.
I had met Roseanne Barr and Sandra Bernhard at a Grammy after-party the year before. They were hanging out in the VIP section of a hip La Cienega nightclub when I arrived with the gang from Radioactive Records. Roseanne introduced herself, generously saying she had a lot of respect for me. She said Hollywood was a tough place, especially for a woman with a past. I was taken off guard by her candor, amazed that she even knew who I was. She left me with a promise that if there was ever a role on her show that was right for me, it would be mine. Nearly a year had passed since that encounter and I was working on Melrose Place when the call came in. Roseanne had kept her promise and Juliet worked it all out. I would finish the five-episode story arc on Melrose Place and then start shooting a recurring role on Roseanne.
It was the first time in my life when I actually knew what my next gig would be.
We filmed Melrose Place on a soundstage deep in the Valley, just past Magic Mountain. As I soared along the 101 freeway to work, I listened to Courtney Love’s band, Hole, tear through the air. Pretty on the Inside was my anthem record and I screamed every word to get psyched for the day.
With costar Laura Leighton during my stint on Melrose Place.
The collection of Traci Lords
I was halfway into filming the episode in which I destroy designer Jane’s clothing line.
I was running lines in my head as I pulled onto the stage lot and made my way to the makeup room. Heather Locklear was already there looking perfect. She was pleasant as always and her friendliness was contagious. I respected her. She was one of those people who always made you feel welcome but still managed to keep you at a safe distance. She had an impeccable reputation, everyone loved her, and she was the ideal role model, so I studied her set etiquette to see what I could learn.
