She's with the Band

Pamela Des Barres, groupie extraordinaire, is the author of "I'm with the Band," a memoir of her years in the world of rock and roll. First published in 1987, it was recently reissued in paperback and is soon to become a movie starring Ally Sheedy, who has purchased film rights.

I Suppose most people would say that I've led a wild, wild, wild life. But being a flower child of the Sixties, not only was I allowed lo pander to my own frenzied, albeit selfish, priorities, I was expected to be a bad girl. All the rest looked to the West with baled breath, waiting for the revolution. Boys grew their hair long, girls took off their bras and threw them at wild-eyed musicians intent on rocking and shocking the world. Rock and roll pounded out the roll call and we all stood together, our hearts beating to the same different drum. And I wanted to get my hands (text concluded on page 80) on the drummer. Or the bass player. Or maybe the guitarist. The singer was always a possibility. Music was my life.

Springing from the frigid loins of the Fifties (1948, actually) and finding myself in the middle of the free-love Sixties whirlwind, I was both old fashioned and openly in heat. I wanted the big L word to join hands with the big F word. This made for a tantalizing combination and helped open up those backstage doors.

Oooooh! I loved that music! I lived for the music; I wanted to surround myself with it, get intimate with it and with the glorious men whomade it. I was so moved by it; moved to tears, to orgasm. I wanted to make beautiful music with the musicians, and the fact that I never learned how to play an instrument didn't stop me.

I feel so fortunate to have lived out my fantasies. I was a teenager at just the right time. I had the comfort of my nurturing family life and I still got to submerge myself in Beatlemania and thrill to Mick Jagger's big lips. Bob Dylan's lyrics spoke directly to me.

Love, remember, was the order of the day. Love-ins flourished, and people really did hand flowers to policemen. Some bright spark came up with the term free love. Right. Love was free, so we made it--instead of war--and I wanted to share my love with musicians. So did most of my friends.

The girls and I spent a lot of time making lists of all the gorgeous bays in bands that we wouldn't kick out of bed. I kept my list in a little gold loose-leaf notebook in my purse: Mick Jagger was number one, written in flaming red.

It took me a while, but eventually, I put myself in the right place at the right time, and Mr. Jagger and I had a fabulous fling. Even though I was always looking for my Prince Charming, I believed it was acceptable behavior in 1969 to have a "friendship" fling, with no heavy commitment or frightening consequences. It's hard to put into words the amazing high I got standing on stage with the Rolling Stones, watching Mick Jagger down on his knees, whipping the floor with his studded belt. Just as I knew the words to Satisfaction, I knew I would be back at the hotel with Mick after the show, peeling back those white sheets and climbing in. As I wrote in my diary almost 20 years ago:

"I entered rock-and-roll heaven and was hanging around on Cloud Nine; my heart was beating below my waist. Delicious kisses from that amazing mouth. Oh, how I was melting. Those lips!"

Of course, I was always on the lookout for a new British band, and I was one of the fortunate few to see the mighty Led Zeppelin at The Whiskey à Go Go. At the end of a spectacular guitar solo, Jimmy Page passed out, and as his roadie carried him offstage, one of Jimmy's cherry-red patent-leather slippers fell off and I ached to retrieve it for him. Uh-oh. Another major crush was forming. Jimmy Page had a dangerous reputation, but he pursued me, and I found him irresistible.

I saw Jimmy's whips curled up in his suitcase as if they were taking a nap, and pretended I didn't. He came up behind me and put his hands around my throat and said, "Don't worry, Miss P., I'll never use those on you.

Being on the road with Led Zeppelin was a classic case of rock-and-roll heaven. I was exactly what I had aspired to be: the girlfriend of the lead guitar player in the world's biggest and best rock-and-roll band. Again, from my diary:

"I was on the left side of the stage where Jimmy entranced 80,000 Led Zeppelin maniacs with his magic guitar fingers.... The audience was in a frenzy, and from my vantage point, sitting on Jimmy's amp, I felt almost like one of the group. The girls looked up at me and wondered which one I was sleeping with, and I was proud."

One of my major rock-and-roll moments came when Frank Zappa, who produced my all-girl rock band, the GTO's (Girls Together Outrageously), asked me to be in his movie 200 Motels, I was doubly thrilled because I got to meet my first Beatle. Ringo Starr was playing the part of Frank Zappa, and Frank was directing. I played the part of a horny reporter; Keith Moon, the notorious drummer for the Who, was playing the part of The Nun. (I thought that was interesting casting.) Despite Keith's lunacy, I developed a penchant for him, and we became an item. I reveled in it, becoming several different people with Mr. Moon: a rich older lady in pursuit of a gorgeous young steward, a hooker accosting a young virginal kid from Connecticut. Whew! These racy little improvs went on long past many dawns.

I took a little excursion away from the delights of rock when I met an exquisite young actor named Don Johnson. I was between boyfriends and he was between girlfriends. Sometimes God is, indeed, in heaven and all is right with the world.

I remember the first time I went to Donnie's place. The door was thrown back and standing in front of me was Donnie Wayne Johnson. His Hollywood bachelor pad reeked of male conquest and female acquiescence. The furniture was big and beige, the ceilings were high, the lights were dim and I was reduced to a lump of burning flesh. The guy was a hunk of burning love. A sex god. A good time. A very good time. At least that's what I was hoping.

I got my wish; Donnie was all those things and more. I fell in true-true-true love for the first time in my life, and we got a little love nest together in the pulsing heart of Hollywood.

Unfortunately, it wasn't always bliss on the old home front with Mr. Johnson. I desperately wanted to hang on to my love object for eternity, but a very young Mealine Griffith happened by and he eventually walked her down the aisle. woe was me. Thank heaven I was still in the consciousness of peace and love, and we remain big pals to this day.

As you can see, along with the outrageous highs came the devastating lows, but it was always worth it. Every woman eventually gets her heart broken by some guy who stomps on it. It just so happened that my heart got creamed by gorgeous musicians--and one incredibly gorgeous actor. They say it all comes out in the wash, but what happens if you have everything dry-cleaned?

And I was so lucky to have blossomed into a woman in an era that trampled on all the rules. All those seemingly wicked things I did in my naughty youth were the things that dreams are made of, and they made me what I am today: one happy chick!

I just turned 40, and I've been getting such questions as, "How does it feel to be forty?" "Do you feel any different?" Although I got to be a teenager when it was really cool, I wouldn't trade one flaming minute of my wild life to be 21 again. I would have missed Dion on American Bandstand, the Beatles at the Hollywood Bowl, the riots on Sunset Strip, the psychedelic experience, sleeping on a communal mattress in Haight-Ash-bury--all of that exquisite free love!!!

Besides, I've made taking splendid care of myself a hobby, instead of tendingan aquarium or a rose garden, and turning 40 ain't what it used to be. We know which supplements to take when, how many glasses of Evian to drink daily and how many times our heart should beat per minute so that our arteries can be a lot younger than the calendar tells us. You can even get free-radical collagen cream to alter your skin cells. Right down the street at the cosmic-crystal store, you can buy a cassette tape that teaches you how to clear your mind of negativity.

I've been dyeing my hair for so many years, I wouldn't know a gray hair if it snapped at me. I doubt if Red Number Five is good for me, but there are still some things that just can't be avoided.

So now I'm in Playboy, and am I thrilled or what? I've always been highly immodest, and in my rock-and-roll hey-day, I chose to expose myself at any time to tweak authority, wearing the flimsiest piece of lace I could find, flaunting my God-given gifts at love-ins and rock concerts. I consider posing for Playboy another defiant, thrilling act I'll be able to look back on with tons of pride. It's a gas!