Neon Angel

  So when Kim got wind of Mom’s upcoming move to Indonesia and decided to interfere, he immediately made things much worse. He ranted and raved, waving the paperwork around, and basically told my mom that I belonged to him now, and if she didn’t like it she’d better have a good lawyer. My mom stood there, with her jaw on the floor, while this strange man in an orange suit told her he would sue her if she tried to take her own daughter to another country. She slammed the door in his face. But the damage was already done.

  When Marie and I moved to Aunt Evie’s, Donnie was sent ahead to Indonesia. Mom was due to leave a few weeks later. With the contracts signed, we were immediately put into Fidelity Studios to record the Runaways’ debut album.

  “You’re costing me money!”That was Kim’s mantra throughout the recording of the debut album. Recording an album with Kim Fowley at the control was a real step back in time. This was the seventies—albums were big business. Bowie had been releasing beautifully produced albums for years. Led Zeppelin, Pink Floyd, Elton John . . . this was the era of the double LP with beautiful gatefold art, a product specifically designed to be listened to from beginning to end. This was the era of the album as art—something to be carefully crafted and perfected.

  Recording The Runaways was a throwback to the Sun Records era: the philosophy was set the tape running, play the song, and get the fuck out of the studio.

  Screwing up was not an option. To that end, Jackie Fox was replaced by a skinny bass player with an English accent named Nigel Harrison, who was in some supposedly up-and-coming band we had never heard of called Blondie. Jackie had to look on while Nigel played the songs with the band. This was hard on Jackie—I think the first she knew of it was when Nigel showed up and introduced himself as the bass player.

  Kim produced the record the same way he would deal with us in rehearsal: he wanted to make it fast, make it cheap, and get it to market as quickly as possible. There were never instances of Kim sitting in the producer’s chair looking thoughtful, wondering if we could get a better take. Each song was run through three times at most, and the best take was picked. It was the same way with the vocals. I had never sung in a recording studio before, and the first time I stood in there facing down that drop mike, with the headphones on, I totally froze. The music was blasting in my headphones, but my voice came out weak and unsure. The tape immediately stopped. I heard Kim storming toward the booth, and I closed my eyes, preparing myself for another verbal backlash. Instead, a totally different Kim popped his head through the booth.

  “What’s the problem, Cherie?”

  “Uh, I’m just nervous, Kim! I’m sorry! I’ll . . . I’ll try again!”

  “Hmm . . .” Kim looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he left the booth, reentering with a harassed-looking engineer in tow. “Take the drop mike out of here,” he told the engineer. “I want a regular mike. One she can hold and move around with.”

  The engineer started objecting, saying that the sound quality wouldn’t be right, but Kim dismissed his objections with a wave of his hand.

  “It’s rock and roll! Who gives a shit about the sound quality? You think the fucking kids are gonna care about what kind of mike she used?”

  After a few moments of the engineer rewiring the room, and cursing Kim under his breath, I was standing there with a microphone in my hand.

  “The problem,” Kim said, “is that you aren’t performing. You’re trying to SING. I want the Cherry Bomb, not Cherie. Don’t think that because we’re in the studio that you have to start trying to sing in tune or anything. Move around if you have to. Grab the microphone—wave it around. This isn’t high art. You aren’t a fucking opera singer or some dog shit like that. This is rock and roll. You have to project—rock-and-roll authority, remember?”

  I looked around the sterile room, stuffed full of wires and recording equipment. “It feels kind of weird,” I said. “I mean, doing it onstage is one thing . . . but here?” Kim reached over, and flicked off the light. The room was immediately plunged into darkness. I stood there, confused and afraid to say anything. “Now you’re in the dark,” he said. “Now you’re not in a recording studio anymore. You’re onstage. The room is packed. Do you need anything, water?”

  “No,” I said meekly.

  “Then let’s go!” Kim clicked his fingers impatiently. “You ready to do it?”

  “Yeah . . .”

  This was the closest to tenderness that Kim ever got. At moments like this, I felt that I loved Kim in some weird way. Not loved him like I found him attractive—ugh, God no—but I wanted to make him happy. I wanted to prove him right. Despite the screams, the threats, and the abuse, I was still a kid and Kim Fowley was the only regular adult figure in my day-to-day life. So I instinctively wanted to make him proud of me. I guess when you’re a twin, you have some issues with that stuff. Never feeling like a whole person. Always having to compete for the attention of adults. I suppose this was the same mix of love and fear that makes a battered wife stay with her husband.

  The next time the song kicked in, I was ready. I moved around in the dark, imagining that I was onstage at one of the tiny, packed clubs we had been playing. I sang the words as if I were competing with the roar of thousands of kids packed into a full-blown arena. When the track ended, I waited a couple of moments and then said into the mike, “How was that?”

  “Great,” Kim said through my headphones. “Do it again.”

  “Can’t I listen to it?”

  “No!” Kim barked. “There’ll be plenty of time for listening and dog shit like that when the album is out. Now come on—time is fucking money!”

  The album was recorded and mixed within a matter of weeks. On the day that we finished recording, I came home from the studio to say my good-byes to Mom. I couldn’t even feel excited that I had just recorded an album with my band. My mind was fixed on my mother’s imminent departure. She was due to leave for the airport later that day. I let myself in, and Marie was standing there looking guilty.

  “What’s up?” I said. “Where’s Mom? Is she still packing?”

  Marie shook her head.

  “Then where is she? Out back?”

  “Mom’s gone, Cherie. She left for the airport already.”

  “What?”

  I checked the time again. I had left the studio early so I could say good-bye to her. I looked at Marie; was she joking? One glance at her face told me that she wasn’t.

  “I gotta get to the airport! Come on!”

  Marie and I sped toward the airport, trying to catch up with Mom. I had to beg Marie to drive me because I still didn’t have my driver’s license. I sat there in the passenger seat silently, my mind racing. Why on earth did she leave without saying good-bye? Did she hate me that much for wanting to stay? Was it because of what Kim Fowley said to her? It must be! She had changed after that. There was this unspoken feeling that she and I weren’t even on the same side anymore. The distrust was brewing. Or could it be because of Dad? She always said I was a daddy’s girl, and when she was mad at him, it would spill over inexplicably into her being mad at me. I was on Dad’s side. I was on Kim’s side. I started to realize that as far as my mother was concerned, I was on everybody’s side except hers.

  I caught Marie glancing at me as she drove. I looked back at her, and she looked away quickly.

  “What’s going on? There’s something else, isn’t there?” I demanded.

  Marie got real quiet for a moment, and then spoke quietly and deliberately. “Mom thinks . . . well, she thinks that you’re going to serve her with court papers.”

  “What? What the hell do you mean? What court papers?”

  “Like, a court order. She has this idea that you . . . that you and Dad are planning to keep her here. To make her take custody of us.”

  I started to cry inside. In the period after Dad left and Mom was taking care of us, I had gotten used to the calm. But now things were worse than ever: it was the same old drama that the two of them seemed incap
able of getting beyond. They were fighting about who should keep the house, who should get the money, who should take care of the kids . . . and they were using anything they could to hurt, batter, and humiliate each other. It was exactly like the old days, the days before Dad left. And now my mother had decided that I was against her, too. There was no more shocking feeling in the world than realizing that my own mother considered me her enemy.

  Before Marie had even put the car in park, I was sprinting across the lot, trying to find Mom. I shoved my way through dazed travelers, nearly knocking over an old lady dragging a suitcase, running through LAX like a mad person screaming for her. I had to find her before she boarded the plane! I had to tell her that I loved her, that I wanted her to be happy, that I would never have dreamed of serving her with court papers . . . “You’re my mother!” I wanted to tell her. “I want you to be happy!”

  Her flight hadn’t left yet, and I began frantically searching for her. I had made it all the way to the gate when I caught a glimpse of her. I almost didn’t recognize her. She was wearing sunglasses and a big hat that obscured most of her face. She was going at a fast pace, not looking up. Quick and determined, she walked right past me without looking.

  It was then that it hit me, that my own mother was wearing a fucking disguise. She was so scared that I was going to hit her with some kind of court order from Dad that she was sneaking out of the country to avoid me. As she hurried through the gate, I ran toward her, but suddenly found myself blocked by two security guards. I tried to shove my way past them, and they had to restrain me.

  “You can’t stop me from seeing my MOTHER!” I screamed at them. “I might never see her again! Let me through! LET ME THROUGH!”

  They didn’t care. It wasn’t their job to care. A crowd started to gather as my screams got louder and more hysterical. “Get your hands off me, you asshole!” I screamed at the guard closest to me. “MOM!” I bellowed, “MOMMY! MOOOOOMMMM!” I saw her disappearing down the walkway to the plane and I struggled violently, but the guards held me back. “MOM! I WANT TO SAY GOOD-BYE TO YOU! MOMMY!”

  By now, I was hysterical, tears streaming down my face. I saw her shudder at the sound of my voice, but she did not stop or even slow down. “YOU NEVER SAID GOOD-BYE!” I screamed, but it was no good. My mom was so convinced I was here with some devious, ulterior motive that she would not turn back.

  By this time a third security guard had arrived, a big bastard, and he grabbed me hard. But it was pointless. All the fight had gone out of me. Marie came running over, and was fighting her way through the crowd that had gathered around me. I flopped into the arms of the guard, sobbing, and saying over and over “Mommy, I love you . . . please . . .” but she was already gone.

  I couldn’t breathe. I heard Marie telling the guards, “She’s my sister. I’m sorry . . . I’ll take care of her,” and I fell into her arms and cried harder than I have ever cried in my life. Marie had to practically carry me back to the car. She sat me down inside, and we just stayed there for a while, not talking. When my breathing was under control, Marie said, “It’ll be all right, Cherie. I promise. You can call Mom when she gets to Indonesia, and explain everything. You can explain the truth to her, and she’ll realize that it was all a big mistake.”

  I didn’t answer. Marie stuck the key in the ignition and started back for the house.

  Call my mother? Explain to HER? The thought brought a horrendous, rancid taste into my throat. I didn’t know if I would ever be able to speak to my mother again after this. I cried again, I cried all the way home. Not just because of what had happened, but because I knew that after today I would never be the same. Something turned off inside of me that day. Something inside of me snapped, and I stopped caring. I never wanted to feel like that again, and so I began to learn how to shove those feeling deep, deep down inside of myself to a place where they could not hurt me anymore.

  The pain of realizing that my own mother was afraid of me was too much for me to deal with. So I had to force myself to stop caring. To stop feeling. It would be two years before I saw my mom again.

  Lita’s take on it was simple.“Don’t worry about it,” she said. “Parents can be weird. It’s their job to be weird.”

  We were in a tiny, decrepit dressing room following our first official performance as Mercury Records recording artists. It was at a tiny club called Wildman Sam’s. When I say tiny, I mean it: this place might as well have been someone’s living room. The show was wild that night. After the crazy rehearsal schedule, and the constant running through of the songs, we were on fire. We played so loud, and the tiny place was packed with two hundred kids who danced so hard that I expected the plaster to start falling from the ceiling in great powdery chunks. I guess that’s what they call bringing down the house.

  “Yeah, I guess. It just sucks, though . . .” I said back to Lita.

  Outside of the dressing room, people were trying to get in to meet us. You could hear them yelling, and begging to be let in. Kim was acting as security.

  “Look at what we have going on right now, Cherie,” Lita said. “People are going crazy for us. This will all work out. Don’t let it bum you out . . .”

  I looked over at Joan. She caught my eye and smiled at me. It was one of those special smiles that she would give me from time to time, like there was some secret between us. Some unspoken understanding. I smiled back at her, and she looked away, leaving me feeling a little light-headed. The pounding on the door, the pleading to come backstage to meet us, and Kim’s yells reverberated from somewhere out in the hallway. Somehow I felt that so long as I had the girls—Joan and Sandy in particular—then maybe I really would be able to deal with all of this.

  After all—what other choice did I have?

  Chapter 10

  Highs and Lows

  With the album recorded, pressed, and in shops in record time, things started moving quickly. There was one last hometown show to do, and then we would set off on our first U.S. tour. We were in Stinky’s van, heading toward the venue. I shifted around uncomfortably, trying to ignore the incessant cramping in the pit of my stomach. What a day to get my period! And I didn’t even have any aspirin . . . However, not even the cramps or the toxic odor of Stinky’s van could ruin my mood. I looked over to Joan and Jackie, and I could see a similar excitement building on their faces. Everybody’s nerves were on edge about tonight’s show, and why not? This one was going to be special.

  Tonight we were playing the Starwood, one of the hottest clubs in West Hollywood. The Starwood was a really cool (although kind of skuzzy) club run by the infamous Eddie Nash. All of the hottest bands had passed through the place, and the audience was an exciting mix of musicians, movie stars, rock legends, and shadowy underworld figures. According to Kim, “everyone” would be there tonight. We had been pressing him excitedly about just who “everyone” was, but he was keeping unusually tight-lipped about the details.

  We had played the Starwood once before; it was one of our first “big” shows. That time Kim grabbed hold of me backstage and said, “There’s someone I’d like you to meet!” I turned, and there, standing in front of me, were none other than Robert Plant—who was wearing a Runaways “Robert Loves Kim” T-shirt—and Jimmy Page. I did everything I could to keep my composure, so just shook their hands politely and told them it was nice to meet them. Then Kim led us all into the dressing room, and Lita just about fainted when she saw them. A rock guitarist having the opportunity to hang out with Jimmy Page was like a devout Catholic getting an audience with the pope.

  Meeting celebrities was not the only reason I was excited about tonight. The band had outgrown the matching T-shirts, and Kim had brought on a designer called Ciri, who had helped design some cool stage outfits for us: a silver lamé jumpsuit for me, red and black for Joan . . . all of this in preparation for the upcoming U.S. tour. Also, for the first time, I would perform “Cherry Bomb” dressed in a white satin and black lace corset bought from a lingerie store right acr
oss the street from the venue. I had seen it there the day before, and something made me stop and look again. As I pressed my nose to the glass, that corset set my brain on fire. Man, how cool would it be if I wore that onstage?

  Kim was always screaming that I lacked “rock-and-roll authority.” I imagined standing in front of the audience, dressed in that getup. That would really blow people’s minds. I ran to get Scott Anderson, our new personal manager, and we gawked at the corset together before going inside so I could try it on. When I walked out of the dressing room wearing it, Scott immediately smiled and said “Sold!” and put down the sixty bucks. I don’t know what the saleslady thought of some older guy buying sexy lingerie for a sixteen-year-old, but it probably didn’t look good. I noticed the way Scott looked at me when I stepped out of the dressing room, and wondered—not for the first time—if he liked me. I had been noticing him giving me long, sideways glances. He was kind of a geeky guy, but then again, I seem to have a thing for oddballs.

  Back at the venue, Kim was sold on the whole idea, and he even had me try on the outfit so he could see for himself.

  “I want to wear it when I sing ‘Cherry Bomb,’ ” I told him as I emerged from the dressing room. Kim just nodded.

  “Turn around. Slowly.”

  I did, and Kim stared at me, looking thoughtful.

  “Before you perform ‘Cherry Bomb,’ Joan sings ‘You Drive Me Wild.’ That should be enough time to change.”

  Kim really saw the potential and ordered, “We’ll build you a changing room, right onstage. You will disappear behind the black curtain, and then with a little sleight of hand, Cherie Currie will reemerge transformed. You won’t just sing ‘Cherry Bomb’—you will BE the Cherry Bomb!”