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I’ve just signed with an agent, Drea Cohane of The Rights Factory in Toronto. I’m pretty excited and boosted; such a boost to have a professional in your corner. Drea is smart, enthusiastic and encouraging. I will have more news in the near future. In the meantime, here’s an excerpt from the forthcoming Town Slut’s Daughter.
New York, New York, a town so nice, they named it twice. Nice. Yeah, right. And the city that never sleeps never sleeps because it’s rank and sweltering hot, baked sidewalks oozing blood, urine, spittle. Neither did things cool after sundown. Still, Fiona loved the city’s fascinating, ruthless nightlife and omnipresent skyscrapers.
The band had scored a sublet on the Upper West Side, not far from the Dakota and the Museum of Natural History, New York City a peeping tom’s paradise. The Virgins watched yuppie couples cook, cleaning crews dust and a working girl roosted on her toilet, a fine line between uninhibited and exhibitionist thought Fiona.
The plan was to sojourn in NYC for a month, play shows, make contacts, seek management and promote the EP. Everybody else liked the record. It got them gigs, which got them press, which got them a European tour, airplay on a string of college radio stations and a big time booking agent, Brian Kezdy. Most East Coast press coverage was favourable, though Fiona wondered why rock journalists could never come up with one original question.
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FROM CANADA—PURE ROCK ‘N ROLL—THE VIRGIN MARRIES
I must admit I’m a sucker for girls with guitars. At times this well-built punk thrash outfit from Vancouver, Canada, sounds like Bessie the Brontosaurus pounding the city’s pavement. You have to give them credit for being tough and loose, fast and funny, all in a femaleist way, as they steadfastly condemn tanning beds, silicone implants and Citibank. The Virgin Marries exhibit the introspection of a Steppenwolf in All I Have Is Me while Woman Driver reveals insights into the female psyche: A mother, a bride or a daughter / Now which one will I be/ Forever and ever is a long time/ To turn my back on me/ My parents ornament the hood/ My husband’s in the rear view mirror/ My children ride up on the roof/ I think I am behind the wheel. This is a seditious band and these provocative young women provide fine, if not frightening, role models.
New York City is not a good place for anyone with a jones for heroin. Dolores swore she was trying to corral her habit, but Jackie often found her in the bathroom, head in bowl or spike in arm. Rita kept an eagle eye on the band’s equipment.
“That’s the next step with junkies. They start stealing your shit and pawning it.”
“Aw man,” said Dennis, “don’t call her a junkie.”
They wanted to put Dolores into rehab but Kezdy had them booked to play the UK and Europe a month down the road.Despite a loud Virgin Marries buzz, a 150 bucks was the most money they’d ever earned. Friends and hangers-on volunteered to manage the band but Rita insisted on holding out for someone with clout. They did have a certain breed of chippy coming out for all their shows, new friend Poppy the ultimate fan. Poppy was an exotic dancer, a euphemism for stripper, Fiona learned.
“Poppy is sexually strident, cheerfully malevolent and a larcenist,” observed Rita. “Check her bag.”
A huge Plasmatics fan, Poppy had decided the Virgin Marries were her new favorite band. “I’d walk through Bed Stuy to see you girls.”
She often got off stage at the Galaxy Club in Times Square, covering her tits and track marks with feather boas to take a cab to Max’s, because “CB’s is full of bridge and tunnel people now.” Poppy spent all her tip money on drinks and drugs, indulging Dolores far too much. She introduced the Virgins to Dee Dee Ramone, Mink DeVille, Johnny Thunders and Gordon Stevenson, bass player for Lydia Lunch’s band, Teenage Jesus and the Jerks. They wondered why Johnny Thunders knew everybody. Why soon became obvious. Thunders was a desperate opportunist hustling anyone who showed even the remotest interest in him. Poppy had asked Fiona to come by her room at the Chelsea to pick her up for lunch. Fiona dutifully arrived on time and walked in on her giving Thunders a blowjob.
“Oops, sorry!” she sputtered.
The “living tragedy” looked up. Sort of. Poppy lifted her head of kewpie doll curls, Thunders’ dick at half-mast. “I’ll be right with you, sweetie.”
Yeah, right. Too bad she’s not getting paid by the hour.
It seemed the entire Isle of Manhattan fancied the Virgin Marries, including John Belushi, often showing up at their shows, entourage in tow. Club and record storeowners were bombarded with requests for the Virgin Marries. Major label deal rumors flew.
“Oh man! We’ve gotta get signed to Virgin Records.”
Revelling in their run of successful New York City gigs, Fiona sat sipping coffee, reading a Sunday Times article about John Steinbeck’s friend marine biologist Ed Ricketts, not only the inspiration for Cannery Row character Doc, but Steinbeck’s muse as well. The phone rang.
“Fiona, get over here!” yelled Poppy. “415 W. 57th Ave. Quick! Jackie OD’d.” Continue reading →
