“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
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
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