NEON
ANGEL
CHERIE CURRIE
WITH TONY O’NEILL
This book is for my mother, Marie; you are a miracle, my best friend, and I love you. My son, Jake Robert Hays; you amaze me every day and I couldn’t be more proud. And Kenny Laguna. You never gave up on me or this book. Without you, none of this would be possible. You are extraordinary and I love you.
In loving memory of Sandy West Pesavento.
A special thanks to my twin sister, Marie; my brother, Don; Vena and my niece Grace; sister Sandy and brother Alan Levi; Cristina Lukather; Trevor Lukather; Wolfgang (Dad) Kaupish; Joan Jett; Gretchen Bonaduce; and Robert Hays, the best ex-husband in the world.
Can’t stay at home, can’t stay at school
Old folks say, “You poor little fool”
Down the street I’m the girl next door
I’m the fox you’ve been waiting for
Hello Daddy, hello Mom
I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb
Hello world, I’m your wild girl
I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb
Stone age love and strange sounds too
Come on, baby, let me get to you
Bad nights causin’ teenage blues
Get down, ladies, you’ve got nothing to lose
Hello Daddy, hello Mom
I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb
Hello world, I’m your wild girl
I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb
Hey street boy, want your style
Your dead-end dreams don’t make you smile
I’ll give ya something to live for
Have ya, grab ya till you’re sore
Hello Daddy, hello Mom
I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb
Hello world, I’m your wild girl
I’m your ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-cherry bomb
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Epigraph
Author’s Note
Foreword by Joan Jett
Chapter 1 - Diamond Dogs and Revelations
Chapter 2 - Rebel, Rebel
Chapter 3 - The Queen of Hate
Chapter 4 - Learning Experiences
Chapter 5 - The Orange Tornado
Chapter 6 - Cherry Bomb
Chapter 7 - “Welcome to the Runaways”
Chapter 8 - Mom’s News
Chapter 9 - Saying Good-bye
Chapter 10 - Highs and Lows
Chapter 11 - Touring
Chapter 12 - Kim Fowley’s Sex Education Class
Chapter 13 - The Road
Chapter 14 - Daddy’s Car
Chapter 15 - Snapshots of Europe
Chapter 16 - Greetings from Scotland Yard
Photographic Insert
Chapter 17 - Postcards from Nowhere
Chapter 18 - The Queens of Noise
Chapter 19 - The Procedure
Chapter 20 - Too Many Creeps
Chapter 21 - Live in Japan
Chapter 22 - The Last Straw
Chapter 23 - Beauty’s Only Skin Deep
Chapter 24 - One Hundred Ways to Fry a Brain
Chapter 25 - The Terrible Green Limousine
Chapter 26 - Killers and Clowns
Chapter 27 - Foxes
Chapter 28 - Battlefields
Chapter 29 - Annie and Me
Chapter 30 - Life in the White House
Chapter 31 - Marie Says Good-bye
Chapter 32 - The Twilight Zone
Chapter 33 - A New Life
Chapter 34 - The End of the Ride
Chapter 35 - This Side of Forever
Afterword
Acknowledgments
Copyright
About the Publisher
Author’s Note
This edition is based in part on Neon Angel by Cherie Currie with Neal Shusterman, published in 1989.
All incidents and dialogue are to the best of the author’s recollection and knowledge. Some identities were changed to protect the innocent, and in some cases, regrettably, the not-so-innocent.
Foreword
by Joan Jett
I met Cherie one night in the San Fernando Valley, at a club called the Sugar Shack, which had become the place to go, since Rodney’s had recently closed. Kim Fowley and I went there specifically to find a lead singer for the Runaways. I remember seeing Cherie and her twin sister, Marie. They were standing together—they were quite striking, and they definitely stood out.
Cherie had her hair in kind of a grown-out Bowie cut, and I picked right up on that. When Kim and I spoke to her about trying out for the band as a lead singer, she said yes, but the rest I won’t chronicle here, since it’s all in the book. The thing is, she got the job! For me, Cherie was a great lead singer, perfect for our band. “The Blond Bombshell”—she had total command of the stage. A little tough, a lot nasty.
We were always well-rehearsed, so the shows were tight. As I watched from my position to her right, Cherie was always very compelling. We were very close friends, too. Besides our own music in the band, we both loved Bowie and a lot of the same music. (There was plenty of disconnect about favorite music, too.)
When the Runaways went to Japan with a hit record, it was so thrilling, so big, so hysterical—and so different from America—it seemed like all we had dreamed of. We lost one of our members in Japan, and Cherie soon followed after we got home.
She had a big following, and was on a lot of magazine covers, so she figured she could do better on her own, or at least that’s what I thought she felt. When Cherie quit the Runaways, I was so pissed! She had bailed on the dream! I was very angry and hurt for several years after that. Of course, I never stopped loving the Runaways, and Cherie, too.
She left in 1977, and after that Cherie and I didn’t really know each other for nearly two decades. I’ve grown up a lot since then, and now I realize things happen the way they are supposed to happen. I’m not mad at Cherie anymore, either.
And during the past fifteen years or so, since we have been working on the business and legacy of the Runaways, we have rekindled our friendship. I must say, I really only knew a small part of Cherie. Neon Angel is a chronicle of a remarkable journey—the story of a remarkable woman who has an uncanny knack of reinventing herself—from singer to actor to drug counselor to physical trainer to mom to author to painter to chain-saw carver. Anyway, when Cherie and I recently got together to record our songs for the Runaways movie, it was like we never left. Thirty-two years had passed, but time stood still, and we never missed a beat.
While excelling at every turn, she has also exhibited an ironic flair for finding herself in dramatic situations.
So, to conclude, Cherie Currie—mother, uniquely devoted ex-wife, musician, versatile visual artist—is really so talented. (I still can’t believe Cherie carves wood with a chain saw, and is so good at it!) But what truly amazes me is what a fine, honest, introspective author she is—with an incredible tale about an incredible life, and a fascinating personal odyssey, as she lived it.
Joan Jett
January 2010
Chapter 1
Diamond Dogs and Revelations
September 8, 1974
My twin sister, Marie, and I looked uncharacteristically plain that night. In fact, we looked like any pair of normal fifteen-year-old girls from the Valley. A pair of blue jeans, our plainest, most boring blouses. No makeup, no nothing, but the “plain Jane” look was deliberate. Tonight was a special night, and the outfits were carefully chosen.
When we snuck out of the bedroom, the duffel bag slung casually over my shoulder, our mom sensed movement immediately and called out from the kitchen, “Girls? Is that you?”
“Yeah, Mom,” Marie called back as we headed toward the front door without pausing, “it’s us. We’re just heading out . . .”
“Where are you going?” she called again, her voice betraying a hint of suspicion.
“Babysitting!” we chimed in union, before I added, “We told you already!”
Babysitting was what we told our mom whenever we were doing something that we knew she wouldn’t approve of. Babysitting was code for going to the nightclubs where we dressed outrageously and danced all night. Babysitting was code for smoking pot and drinking Mickey’s Big Mouth beer with the neighborhood kids. On this particular night, babysitting was code for a rock concert. The lie fell easily off my tongue as we pulled open the door and the murky San Fernando Valley air hit our faces, sweet with the scent of juniper and the promise of freedom. I was fifteen years old, and it felt like lying had become almost second nature recently. That sickly feeling I used to get with every half-truth or outright lie was now so mild, it was almost unnoticeable. Anyway, tonight I had bigger things on my mind than the white lies I told my mother to keep her blissfully unaware. Tonight was a special night: it had been marked in my calendar for months. Tonight was my first-ever David Bowie concert, and nothing on this earth was going to stop me from getting there.
The door closed behind us, and we crept into the night.
We started off walking casually down the block, in case Mom was peeping out from a kitchen window. After all, we wouldn’t have wanted to make her suspicious. I walked with the easy gait of someone who had nothing to hide. Marie was looking over her shoulder, creeping along the sidewalk like a fugitive on the run.
“Calm down, will you?” I hissed. “You look so nervous! Mom’s cool. She’s so busy with Wolfgang she won’t even suspect anything. We’re just babysitting, remember?”
Wolfgang was my mother’s new boyfriend. Wolfgang was German, and extremely wealthy. He was handsome I suppose—for an old guy—and always dressed in expensive tailored suits. He worked for the World Bank and traveled a lot. All I really knew about his work was that he made a lot of money doing it, and lived in Indonesia. When he was here in California, my mom seemed happy. When he was gone, she would be quiet and a little sad. I had the feeling Wolfgang disliked me, but that was okay with me. I disliked Wolfgang because Wolfgang was not my father, and he never would be.
“It’s not Mom I’m worried about,” Marie confessed, still looking over her shoulder at the empty suburban street behind us. “Its Derek.”
I rolled my eyes. “Oh PLEASE! Stop going on about Derek!” I sighed.