By Emily Eveland
By Sarah Stanley-Ayre
By CP Staff
By Zach McCormick
By Jack Spencer
By Sarah Stanley-Ayre
By Rob van Alstyne
By Zach McCormick
What other business but rock 'n' roll would make the women who swap spit with the stars an industry unto itself?
After Flavor Flav's Flavor of Love hook-up show took off, Brett Michaels of Poison fame began giving rocker chicks with quick tongue reflexes air time on VH1's Rock of Love. Watching hair-metal groupies do the mini-skirt scoot toward infamy is trashy viewing pleasure of the highest—and lowest—caliber. Pit a couple of shameless souls against one another for the affection of a fickle music dude and ratings could fly. I can't imagine the same drama playing out for, say, a dashing author. Backstage-passers and their temporary paramours have a certain je ne sais quoi that can't be beat, even if you have to avert your eyes—and your pride—watching these women scramble for scraps. When it comes to the music game, though, sexual tension can be a grand part of the show. And having had my fair share of band crushes over the years, I can say it's also a thrilling part of the spell pop music casts, so long as you don't lose grip on reality.
The lustful fan is a more complicated character than the quick television edits dictate. Modern groupies want their 15-minute share of fame, asserting themselves through tawdry memoirs and talk show gigs. They're passing along trivia about penis size, championing songs written in their honor, and demanding a place in show-biz history. In short, these women want to be known for more than blow jobs—which would be admirable if they had more to add to the discussion than whose dicks ended up in their grip.
Old-school groupie Pamela Des Barres has made a career of talking about her rock-star exploits, arguing that she is as valuable a part of the music scene as the bands that surrounded her. Her latest salacious tome is Let's Spend the Night Together: Backstage Secrets of Rock Muses and Supergroupies, although I'd first read Des Barres as a kid. The '80s, when her famous memoir I'm With the Band came out, was an era before gossip sites and Behind the Music episodes, and her lascivious stories about Jim Morrison, Mick Jagger, and Keith Moon made for juicy under-the-covers reading. She gave me entry into a world I had no access to otherwise, adding flame to my imaginary make-out sessions with rock stars.
All of which is great when you're 13. But all these years later, Let's Spend the Night Together is an uncomfortable read, though it's not for Des Barres's lack of effort to be both playful and empowered, as she interviews two dozen groupies and tries to hammer home repeatedly how few regrets her subjects harbor.
Des Barres's purple prose attempts to paint every tale as giggly slumber-party gossip, and, as the title suggests, the author wants to cast these women as inspirations for the Iggy Pops and Elvises they screwed. But there are more moments of darkness than artistic catalysts in these oral histories. To wit: Jimmy Page is said to have had a fling with Lori Lightning when he was 29 and she was just 13, an age difference that's downright creepy. Page's bandmate, Robert Plant, is described as flitting between his wife and her sister-in-law, while a heartbroken teenager named Michele Overman gets lost in the shuffle. After Cherry Vanilla bags a member of the Guess Who, she hitchhikes her way to his tour bus, only to find he's given her the shaft. Not the typical conduct you'd expect between men and their mentors.
Young girls are pawned off on roadies, given STDs and drugs, slapped around, and ignored completely when a better piece of ass comes around. By their own admission, many are interchangeable—as Dee Dee Keel tells Des Barres, "I would say to certain musicians, 'I'll be your L.A. girl,' because I wanted to be something—some kind of monumental thing to them." And yet these women keep trying to claim some status from between the sheets.
The respite from desperation comes from the women who've done more with their lives than recount the bedpost notches they carved 40-some-odd years ago. Cynthia Plaster Caster is a funny and charming interview subject, having made her legacy as an artist making molds of rock penises from Hendrix to Jello Biafra (an equal-opportunity sculptor, she later included casts of female musicians' breasts in her collection). Elvira (yes, she was a groupie back in the day) built her niche as Mistress of the Dark, and Margaret Moser is a writer and part of the Austin music industry down at SXSW. But for each of these careerists there is another middle-aged woman who still refers to sex as "servicing" a musician for the music he wrote.
The one male groupie in the mix is Pleather, a 32-year-old straight guy who offers Des Barres memories of Courtney Love and L7. His women-worshipful attitude is a fresh change of pace from the book's general tone, which holds that rock is a man's world (that ladies snuggle their way into), but in the end, Pleather's kiss 'n' tell admissions feel less like table-turners and more like tabloid trivia.