Memories, Dreams and Reflections

Marianne Faithfull

with David Dalton

Copyright

Fourth Estate

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd. 1 London Bridge Street London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain in 2007 by Fourth Estate

Copyright © Marianne Faithfull 2007

Quotations taken from Henrietta by Henrietta Moraes (Hamish Hamilton, 1994); When I Was Cool by Sam Kashner (HarperCollins, 2004); the works of Gregory Corso (courtesy of New Directions Books); ‘Incarceration of a Flower Child’ (© Roger Waters).

The publishers have tried to contact all copyright-holders but would be pleased to correct any omissions.

The right of Marianne Faithfull to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

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Source ISBN: 9780007245819

Ebook Edition © SEPTMBER 2008 ISBN: 9780007283095

Version: 2017-07-03

For François

contents

since writing my last book

Where to begin? Well, perhaps I should begin where I left off – just about to start recording The Seven Deadly Sins. And around that time I was, of course, also dealing with the ramifications. It’s weird the way people expect you to treat them in a book. I tried to be honest but that didn’t always suit everybody. A few people were upset with what I’d said … usually about them. I guess I was meant to say ‘I owe everything to A——’ or ‘Without B—— I’d never have …’ Well, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t that kind of book. One thing I’ve learned from my last book is, it’s quite dangerous to summon up the past.

The one who really loved the book was Keith. Of course, he and Dylan are the stars of the book, so no wonder. I was puzzled when Bob mumbled that he didn’t like it very much.

‘Are you joking?’ I said. ‘You’re the bloody, fucking star of the book! Nitwit!’

Anyway, the fourteen years since the book have been, in many ways, a very tough time. I’ve seen the death of a lot of good friends. Denny Cordell and Tony Secunda, for instance, who both were responsible for getting me to write my first book, have passed on.

Denny’s way of getting me to write the book was to give me Jenny Fabian’s Groupie, a book I’d read already, actually. I just looked at it and said, ‘Denny, no! No, it’s not going to be like that. No way!’ And it wasn’t.

Denny was a legendary producer and A&R man. He produced Joe Cocker, the Moody Blues, Leon Russell, Tom Petty, Bob Marley, Toots, and many others. Denny’s illness was terrible. He was ill for a long time. Denny got hepatitis C while working as a gofer for Chet Baker. He got into smack for one year but it eventually caught up with him.

I had a bout with hep C, too. I was shattered for a year, but by the time I got it they had somewhat perfected the treatment, using interferon and other drugs that weren’t available when Danny got sick.

Tony Secunda’s death came unexpectedly. Tony was the visionary agent of my autobiography and a wonderful madman manager of the old school. ‘Sailor Sam’, as McCartney calls him in ‘Band on the Run’, managed Procol Harum, the Move, T Rex, and me (briefly) with wicked provocation and panache. And a couple of years later Frankie (that mad girl he married) died, too, poor thing. There but for the grace of God, as they say! How I’ve made it this far myself, I have no idea. More of that later.

The saddest thing about getting old is the passing of your friends and lovers. Gene Pitney died. I liked Gene, he was a great shag and all that, but why did he die so young? He never drank or took a drug in his life. The odds of Gene dying in Cardiff – poor sod – are astronomical. I give him all honour and credit for the work he did, but what a place to shuffle off your mortal coil.

Then we began losing our parents. My father died in 1996 (my mother Eva had died in 1992). Keith’s dad Bert, who I really loved, died recently and Mick’s father just died, too – what a kind and gentle man he was. It was a serious moment for Mick. And I must say that both his mum and dad were really kind to me, and, well, let’s just say I must have been a complete nightmare. I shudder to think. It wasn’t as if Mick was this blameless soul exactly, but he wasn’t like me, ever.

You start wondering about your own mortality when people begin putting you on the list of who’s next in line. I remember going to David Litvinoff’s funeral. Litz was a brilliant nutter, the catalyst for Performance and tutor in infamy to James Fox. Really the whole film is his style – allusive talk and gangster vibe. Lucian Freud painted a famous portrait of him called The Procurer. He was gay and didn’t want to get old, so he killed himself. He committed suicide at Christopher Gibbs’s house on the Aubusson carpet – Chrissy thought that was frightfully poor form.

I went to David Litvinoff’s funeral with Christopher and Robert Fraser – a long time ago but it’s something I’ll never forget. We were in the limo having just come from the Jewish cemetery where we’d watched David’s cremation – it was all very sombre – when Chrissy suddenly had a furious outburst. He looked at me and said: ‘Well, I hope we never have to go through that again!’

People’s idea of my social life is greatly exaggerated. I think they expect scandalous scenes with famous, outrageous people. You know, ‘And then when Gore Vidal sat down with a line in front of him, he said to me …’ and so on and so forth. Well, okay, I admit it’s fun going to Sheryl Crow’s Christmas party and seeing, I kid you not, Salman Rushdie talking to Heidi Fleiss, but for the most part my life isn’t like that at all. Really. (You can believe me or not.)

Where was I? Oh yes, my lack of a social life. Well, it’s true I have settled down just a bit. After I finished my autobiography I met François, while I was recording a song called ‘La Femme Sans Haine’. Philippe Constantine, who invented world music for Richard Branson’s Virgin Records, wanted me to do a duet with Ismaël Lô. Duets are something I never do, actually, but it turned out very well. Never got released, though, but I did meet François and fell in love.

Oscar Wilde’s famous line, ‘I can resist anything but temptation!’, used to be my mantra, but, after a year and a half in which I’ve suffered the seven plagues of Egypt (and made four records and five movies), I’ve decided to modify my wilful approach to life. But first, let me tell you all about my wicked, wicked ways.

summoning up a sunny afternoon in the sixties (one of many)

Listening to Revolver always brings back memories of when we were all much younger and madder. Any excuse to get together, get high, get dressed up, or play each other our latest faves. In and out of each other’s houses and at many different clubs, Pete Townshend and Eric Clapton dropping by Cheyne Walk, Mick and I visiting Brian Epstein; day trips to George Harrison and Pattie Boyd’s multi-coloured hippie cottage, evenings at Paul McCartney and Jane Asher’s.

Sometimes a tiny little moment, a gesture, will catch me unawares and transport me back to the sixties. One day I was waiting for a taxi after the Versace show, and suddenly there was Stella McCartney knocking on the window. As I turned and peered out, Stella gave me a wink and a thumbs up. And I had this sudden flashback to her dad, Paul, because that gesture and the wink is just what he used to do in those days. Kind of a corny music hall cheeky-chappie thing. So there was dear Stella by Starlight, who looks quite like the old man anyway, giving me Macca’s sign! The sixties was a great motley cast of characters in an ongoing operetta with multi-hued costumes to match. What I remember most is how beautiful everybody was, and, of course, the beautiful clothes: we dressed up like medieval damsels and princes, pirates, pre-Raphaelite Madonnas, popes, hussars, mad hatters and creatures visiting from other planets.

And then there were the courtiers and spear-carriers – all those strange characters around the Beatles and the Stones: the roadies, the hustlers, and instigators. George’s personal assistant Terry Doran, the ‘man in the motor trade’, somehow getting hold of Lennon’s psychedelic Rolls-Royce and ending up with a top job at Apple Corps. There was the sublime Derek Taylor, the Beatles’ publicist and agent provocateur; the sinister Tom Keylock, Andrew Oldham’s homicidal chauffeur; Brian’s thuggish builder, Frank Thorogood, and his deathbed confession of how he murdered Brian Jones.

Then there were the Beatles’ old roadies Neil Aspinall and Mal Evans. Big, benign, boyish Mal shot by the LA police during a misunderstanding. And Stu, Ian Stewart, the Stones’ original piano player. I loved Stu! I remember for my twenty-first birthday Mick wanted to buy me a car and Stu was given the mission to find it. He turned up with the most beautiful car imaginable, a 1927 Cadillac, a Bonnie and Clyde car in an incredible beige colour with a red stripe across it where the doors opened. How cool was that? But despite Mick’s efforts I never learned to drive. It was like driving a tank in the First World War, it had a gear stick and all that stuff, I could hardly see, my nose only just reached the windscreen.

Stu did me another great favour. Mick hated the Stones’ performance in The Rolling Stones’ Rock and Roll Circus. He just wanted the whole thing to go away. It was like the scene from Snow White where the Wicked Queen says to the huntsman: ‘Go! Take her into the forest and destroy her!’ with Mick as the Wicked Queen and Stu as the huntsman. Except that it wasn’t me he was talking about, it was the cans of film of my part in Rock and Roll Circus. He wanted those tapes destroyed. Burned. Thrown into the Thames. For ever eliminated. And Stu said, ‘Yeah, okay, Mick, will do.’ But he couldn’t do it! ‘Where can I put these cans of film,’ Stu thought to himself, ‘where Mick will never think to ever look?’ And so he took them to Eel Pie Island and said, ‘I say, Pete [Townshend, this was], I’ve got these old cans of film. Do you mind if I leave them in your garage?’ And Pete said, ‘No, Stu, go on. That’s fine, you know, I don’t mind, don’t use it, there’s nothing really in there.’ And there they lay, mouldering away, for twenty-five years, until one day, God knows, Pete, clearing out the garage, found the film and it said Rock and Roll Circus on it! And he goes, ‘Oh, hey, what’s this?’ And being incredibly smart, he put it on his home projection and watched it, and every single shot was of me for the Rock and Roll Circus. He called Allen Klein and said, ‘I’ve got something you’ll be very interested in. I’ve found the lost Marianne film from the Circus. What do you want me to do with it, Allen?’ And Allen said, ‘Hallelujah! I’ll send a courier.’ And he did. He sent his daughter, Robin Klein, to pick it up. Townshend knew about this problem because of course The Who were very much involved with the Rock and Roll Circus – and he also knew that one of the reasons the show hadn’t come out was because they appeared to have upstaged the Stones. They really didn’t, but, anyway …

And there it all was, except for one really beautiful crane shot. I don’t know what happened to that. Maybe Mick was so angry that he just had one roll of film out of a can, tore it into a million pieces and burned it in the back garden as he and Bianca danced around it hooting like owls!

I loved Mick, I really did, you know – but if I had stayed in that situation with Mick, all that money, going to the South of France, Keith and Anita Pallenberg, blah-di-blah, Goat’s Head Soup, I’d be dead, and I knew that. And if I was going to go down, I wanted to go down my own way! Not with some adjunct decadent ringleader and his scurvy crew!

When I split with Mick and left with Nicholas, I took a beautiful Persian carpet and some Ossie Clark dresses and all my Deliss silk clothes. So these were the clothes I was wearing when I was living on the street, a wraith-like vision, an anorexic waif, feeling no pain, and not feeling any cold either, of course, you see, because of the smack.

At this point, I’m sort of an honorary Rolling Stone, a situation I’m a little ambivalent about. I love them and we had such great times, but it was a really hard scene to be in. I was never going to be good at functioning in that bitchy world, with all those betrayals. Now, when I go to see them backstage or at the George V Hotel, it’s lovely to see Keith and Ronnie and Mick and Charlie. Charlie’s always been a delight. I love to go and hear him outside of the Stones environment when he plays his jazz shows in London.

I’m still scared of the Stones because I always have this feeling – and it’s not just an illusion – of being sucked in again. Unlike Anita, I don’t have any immediate connection with them. I’m a free agent, and yet, when I see them, I suddenly feel drawn in. I go back to their very beginnings. I am part of them. I know that. And that’s okay.

One of the favourite places Mick and I liked to hang out was George and Pattie Boyd’s house in Weybridge. Mick loved George and I thought Pattie one of the most beautiful people ever. I loved the way she dressed, her fantastic sense of style. Psychedelic dresses in beautiful colours or little skirts that showed off her wonderful legs.

During those magical afternoons George would be the perfect host, serving up exotic teas, fat joints, and his new songs like exquisite delicacies offered for our consumption. A little bungalow (by rock star standards) brightly painted in sparkly psychedelic ice-cream colours, very warm and cosy and friendly, like the people who lived there, with a garden full of sunflowers and cushions outside. Just a very soft, gentle vibe, as if this fairy-tale cottage were conjured out of his sweet melancholy songs.

It was always far easier to go and visit people from other bands. You didn’t have all the stresses and strains you do with your own group. At Redlands, Keith’s house in West Sussex, there was always some tension – undercurrents that I couldn’t even put into words. Subterranean stuff, which I think is always lurking about in any band. What makes an interesting band is that incongruous combination of people at odds. The tension makes for great music, but it doesn’t always make for the easiest social situations.

Clearly there were similar issues with the Beatles, but any raging insecurities or problems within the group were never apparent at Weybridge on a sunny afternoon, with George sitting cross-legged on a kilim playing us his songs.

So being with George and Pattie was very relaxing. Mick and I were able to lie back on Moroccan cushions, get high and float away listening to George’s new songs. When he wasn’t playing his own stuff, he would be playing Ravi Shankar on those beautiful green discs we all used to have. I do think he very much brought all that into our world.

Mick loved George’s songs – those wonderful songs on Revolver – but George never felt that anybody appreciated his songs, really, or thought they were as good as John and Paul’s. George was racked with doubt about his work, but it’s now obvious what a great songwriter he was. ‘Beware of Darkness’ is as good as anything anybody ever wrote.

In a way, Brian Jones was George’s counterpart in the Stones. But there was a big difference in their personalities. The thing about George – and we all feel it strongly now that he’s gone off and left us – is that he plunged into things. Whatever he got into, whether it was the sitar and Ravi Shankar or the Maharishi, he walked right in and never looked back, and that takes a lot of confidence. Brian, on the other hand, was all flash. He loved to astonish – and then on to the next thing. Sometimes I’d get the eerie feeling that – like the positive and negative in a photograph – George was the positive version of Brian. They were quite similar in many ways; both could play a lot of different instruments and were hugely talented. But of course one huge difference was that Brian was unable to write songs. His perpetual upsetness and unhappiness and paranoia and low self-esteem all worked against him. It was tragic because he wanted to be a songwriter more than anything. I’ve watched the painful process, Brian mumbling out a few words to a twelve-bar blues riff and then throwing his guitar down in frustration.

I think in Brian’s state writing a song probably wasn’t possible. He could only do it through another medium, through Keith. I guess the closest he came to it was ‘Ruby Tuesday’, where his melancholy recorder wistfully carries that sense of irretrievable loss. ‘Ruby Tuesday’ was a collaboration between Keith and Brian. It’s one of the few cases where Mick had nothing to do with a Stones song, neither the lyrics nor the melody – but he and Keith got the writing credit. Without Brian, there wouldn’t be a ‘Ruby Tuesday’.

It’s funny how each drummer was so perfect for the band they were in. Mick admired Ringo’s drumming – it was so simple, so spare, so incredibly on the money – but it wouldn’t have fitted into the Stones at all. You couldn’t have taken Ringo and put him in the Stones; you couldn’t have Charlie Watts drumming for the Beatles. As for Keith Moon, his drumming would have got too much in the way of the guitars and the vocals in either the Stones or the Beatles, but could there have been a more perfect drummer and maniac for The Who than Keith Moon?

I’ve heard this funny theory that Mick wanted to be a Beatle and that John wanted to be a Rolling Stone, but I think it misses the point by a mile. Mick loved the Beatles, of course, and obviously there was a bit of natural competition going on there, but I don’t think that was unhealthy at all – they sparked off each other.

You know, people have said, with a little truth to it, that the Beatles were thugs pretending to be gentlemen, whereas the Stones were gentlemen pretending to be thugs, and this is where it all gets so interesting when we talk about the music, because you’ve got those contradictory aspects bleeding through. They’re very subtle, but they’re there, and that’s what makes the music so compelling, the rent in the temple cloth.