SF. Pt.19. Samantha.

So I’m Samantha. The Eternal Female as Chuck likes to say in his supercilious patronizing way. Hard to know if it’s meant as a compliment or not. Isis, Ishtar, Artemis all rolled into one. Knowing Chuck it could be a reference to my bum. Think Venus of Willendorf. But he’s the author so he always gets the last word. Perhaps he wants me to come across as some kind of muse? As if being married to Dick and Simon simultaneously had some deep symbolic significance. I suppose I’m lucky I didn’t have to put up with Arthur too. The bumbling idiot. Last heard of in Thailand. Don't ask me what he gets up to there.

It all started in the early Sixties. I was at art school. I suppose I did have something of an identity problem at the time. Couldn’t decide if I was Jewish from Golder’s Green or a debby type with snotty parents in the country. Woww solved the problem by making me both. Bastard. I was going to be an artist that was the plan but I got sidetracked like so many into the rapidly evolving pop music scene.

I smoked my first joint in Simon’s pad in Ladbroke Grove. He was just back from India and getting into rock writing so we were a good fit. He was an ambitious bastard but clueless when it came to clothes. I took him to the in shops. It didn’t take much to turn him into a hip young dude around town.

Those were great days in the Grove. Hawkwind and the Mountain Grill. On again off again. Free love. What you’d call casual sex these days. But nobody worried much about catching anything.

Simon had a Mini-Cooper. We’d drive out to Rediffusion to be part of the crowd at Ready Steady Go. The girls were so much more in touch than the blokes in those days. Girls wore Mary Quant stuff and beehive hairdos whereas the boys were still wearing sports jackets…with ties! It was great mixing with the musicians and singers off stage. I met everybody. The Beatles, The Stones, The Who, The Kinks you could find them all there. I’m not sure even now if anybody really knew how big the whole thing was going to get. Maybe Andrew Oldham had some idea but he burned out early.

The clothes darling! So many changes. Everything happened so fast. Biba’s one day, floral bell-bottoms and kaftans the next. That’s why I hate it when people call me a groupie. I’ve seen myself lumped with people like Pamela des Barres and the Plaster Casters in a few rock biographies. Very irritating. I wasn’t a complete nutter. In fact I functioned pretty well amongst all the chaos. I see myself as more the Jenny Fabian type. More of a mover and a shaker. Not just another freak hanging out. I couldn’t care less about the bloody books they keep churning out.

And another thing I hate…when people ask me about what it was like having sex with pop stars. Did Jimi have a big one? What did Jimmy Page do with those whips, what was Syd really like? etc. As if anybody knows what Syd was like. He had identity problems. Who didn’t? A classic romantic. He grew up listening to Radio Luxembourg and Goon show probably like the rest of us. I thought he was nice. Now we have to listen to Bono.

Then things got crazy. Things were happening at the speed of Dylan. Hard rain hit Mr. Tambourine Man like a rolling stone. UFO was when things really took off. Suddenly there were lots of Americans in London. What's your sign man? Want to throw some I-Ching? And lots of acid. Psychedelic was the new in word. The BBC didn’t know what to do about it. It was quite funny watching groups stoned out of their heads turn a TV studio to bedlam.

Later it was clubs like Ad Lib, Speakeasy and the Bag of Nails. Which is where I met Dick Headley. Dick was another diamond in the rough when I met him. He’d just been fired from Arsenal for drugs and it was in all the papers. I took him under my wing and built his self confidence needed some work. He was so different from Simon. Simon’s studied naturalness was easy to fall for but he was a devious bastard underneath it all. Very ambitious…and long-sighted. I can see that now. I knew he wasn’t happy with the kind of writing he was doing. Things like record reviews for the NME. A publicist is what he was, albeit a darn good one. He was selling out and he knew it. But he did enjoy being at the epicenter of what was going on. Deep down he aspired to be like Burroughs and Beckett. Of course it was much more complicated than that but this is the potted version.

The Sixties are really making the news these days. Nostalgia abounds. Everything from Abbey Road, to Woodstock. Bob Dylan gets arrested in New Jersey and the Manson Family start getting released. Of course we’re all in our sixties ourselves now. Not much time left. The kids must be fed up with it but it’s fun to remind them what they missed. No point telling them a lot of it just seems plain silly in retrospect. Acid for instance…all those elitist freaks wandering around smiling like they alone had the key to life’s mysteries, what rubbish, as if it was all so groovy. There were lots of casualties too. Syd miraculously making it across the road at Notting Hill Gate in heavy traffic. Not recognizing me. Staring into space. Emily plays.

Simon never needed anybody’s help in any way. He loved himself too much. So Dick was a breath of fresh air. I ‘d never met anybody quite like Dick. He was a super-intelligent lout (thank you Sam), his Dad was in and out of prison so he’d more or less been brought up by his mum who was on the game (true). I don’t think he’d ever read a book in his life. I introduced him to the counter culture and it was fascinating to watch him at gallery opening and receptions. I loved the way he was completely unimpressed by ‘all that poncey stuff’. You always knew where you were with Dick.

When I got pregnant the first time everything changed. I’d helped Anita through her miscarriage the year before and it had made me think. A lifestyle change was called for. That meant cutting out the drugs and getting out of London.

Which I more or less did. The odd toke didn’t count. Giles was born in a nursing home in Bournemouth. Simon and Dick were surprisingly good about it. But it was an idiotic arrangement. Having two common-law husbands could never work. I decided I wasn’t going to be a co-dependent before I’d ever heard the term. So I got a good lawyer. When everything was settled I found myself with two kids, two houses, two lots of child support and no husband. Which suited me fine. I stayed friends with both of them but I liked my freedom. And I must admit Dick can be a great comfort.