musicians

Photo Of The Day

Pamela Des Barres.

Pamela Des Barres.

I’m With The Band

 Confessions of a Groupie

David Bowie shouldn’t be shamed in death, Pamela Des Barres says: Groupies know what they’re doing. And she—former lover of Jimmy Page and Mick Jagger—should know. Pamela Des Barres is one of the most famous groupies of the 1960s and 70s.

Having ruled Los Angeles’s groupie scene, Des Barres scoffed at the feminist outrage over David Bowie’s tryst with another famous groupie, Lori Mattix, who was only 15 when Bowie allegedly deflowered her.

“It’s just ridiculous,” Des Barres, now 67—a super-groupie turned journalist and memoirist has said. “Yes, she was a young girl. A lot of people think that’s wrong and let them, but this was a very specific time. Lori is 60 years old now and has no regrets or remorse. She’s told her story a million times before!”

Whenever someone famous and influential dies, particularly when that person is as influential as David Bowie, a schizophrenic cycle of mourning grips the Internet.  First come the shocked tweets and brief personal tributes. Then the thoughtful eulogies and remembrances by this famous person’s peers, mixed in with RIPs from people who didn’t know who he was before Facebook informed them that morning.

It’s often those in the latter category who then dig up dirt on the star, hell-bent on tearing down our cultural heroes the very day they pass away.

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Photo Of The Day

Photo: Ken Gammage. This is a photo of Edsel Fong Ford along with his routinely 'abused' customers. Sit down and shut up.

Photo: Ken Gammage.
This is a photo of Edsel Fong Ford along with his routinely ‘abused’ customers. Sit down and shut up.

‘Sit down and Shut up!

 The Worst Waiter in History

I dared to ask what someone at the table next to me was eating; the waiter grabbed the plate from their table and offered me a taste! Haven’t been there in years, but it is forever etched in my memory.

Sam Wo, is the venerable old-time Chinese greasy spoon. The building is about 10 feet wide and five stories tall. You enter through the kitchen, past the woks and chopping blocks, pushing past the cooks, busboys, and waiters. Then you climb a tiny stairway to low ceilinged floors with six or seven small tables and a dumbwaiter. If the floor is full, up to the next, until you find a table. The third and fourth floors were the bailiwick of the world’s rudest, worst, most insulting waiter, the legendary Edsel Ford Fong. He had a brother named Henry Ford Fong, who had the first and second floors. I guess their Dad really liked Fords.

I had the bad idea of asking for sweet and sour pork and a coke. “You Retarded? No coke!! Tea Only!! No sweet and sour!! You see on menu?!! You get house special chow fun…No fork, chopstick only…What you want, fat man?” answered Edsel.

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Photo Of The Day

Joni and Nash

Crazy Love

Graham Nash first met Joni Mitchell after a Hollies gig – within months he left the band and moved in with her in LA.

‘Come to my house and I’ll take care of you’: Graham Nash on his romance with Joni Mitchell, and making music with Crosby and Stills

It was August 1968, and the Hollies and I had come to an impasse. We had grown up together and enjoyed incredible success, but we were growing apart.

The same with my marriage: Rosie was off in Spain chasing another man, and I was in Los Angeles, the city that already felt like my new home, to visit Joni Mitchell, who had captured my heart. For just a moment, I hesitated. Sure, I was an English rock star – I had it made. I had co-written a fantastic string of hits with The Hollies. I was friends with the Stones and The Beatles.

You could hear me whistle at the end of All You Need Is Love. But deep down, I was still just a kid from the north of England, and I felt I was out of my element.

Suddenly, Joni was at the door and nothing else mattered. She was the whole package: a lovely, sylphlike woman with a natural blush, like windburn, and an elusive quality that seemed lit from within. Behind her, at the dining room table, were my new American friends David Crosby and Stephen Stills – refugees, like me, from successful, broken bands. I grinned the moment I laid eyes on them.

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