Читать книгу Memories, Dreams and Reflections - Marianne Faithfull - Страница 6

Where to begin? Well, perhaps I should begin where I left off – just about to start recording The Seven Deadly Sins. And around that time I was, of course, also dealing with the ramifications. It’s weird the way people expect you to treat them in a book. I tried to be honest but that didn’t always suit everybody. A few people were upset with what I’d said … usually about them. I guess I was meant to say ‘I owe everything to A——’ or ‘Without B—— I’d never have …’ Well, I’m sorry, but it wasn’t that kind of book. One thing I’ve learned from my last book is, it’s quite dangerous to summon up the past.

The one who really loved the book was Keith. Of course, he and Dylan are the stars of the book, so no wonder. I was puzzled when Bob mumbled that he didn’t like it very much.

‘Are you joking?’ I said. ‘You’re the bloody, fucking star of the book! Nitwit!’

Anyway, the fourteen years since the book have been, in many ways, a very tough time. I’ve seen the death of a lot of good friends. Denny Cordell and Tony Secunda, for instance, who both were responsible for getting me to write my first book, have passed on.

Denny’s way of getting me to write the book was to give me Jenny Fabian’s Groupie, a book I’d read already, actually. I just looked at it and said, ‘Denny, no! No, it’s not going to be like that. No way!’ And it wasn’t.

Denny was a legendary producer and A&R man. He produced Joe Cocker, the Moody Blues, Leon Russell, Tom Petty, Bob Marley, Toots, and many others. Denny’s illness was terrible. He was ill for a long time. Denny got hepatitis C while working as a gofer for Chet Baker. He got into smack for one year but it eventually caught up with him.

I had a bout with hep C, too. I was shattered for a year, but by the time I got it they had somewhat perfected the treatment, using interferon and other drugs that weren’t available when Danny got sick.

Tony Secunda’s death came unexpectedly. Tony was the visionary agent of my autobiography and a wonderful madman manager of the old school. ‘Sailor Sam’, as McCartney calls him in ‘Band on the Run’, managed Procol Harum, the Move, T Rex, and me (briefly) with wicked provocation and panache. And a couple of years later Frankie (that mad girl he married) died, too, poor thing. There but for the grace of God, as they say! How I’ve made it this far myself, I have no idea. More of that later.

The saddest thing about getting old is the passing of your friends and lovers. Gene Pitney died. I liked Gene, he was a great shag and all that, but why did he die so young? He never drank or took a drug in his life. The odds of Gene dying in Cardiff – poor sod – are astronomical. I give him all honour and credit for the work he did, but what a place to shuffle off your mortal coil.

Then we began losing our parents. My father died in 1996 (my mother Eva had died in 1992). Keith’s dad Bert, who I really loved, died recently and Mick’s father just died, too – what a kind and gentle man he was. It was a serious moment for Mick. And I must say that both his mum and dad were really kind to me, and, well, let’s just say I must have been a complete nightmare. I shudder to think. It wasn’t as if Mick was this blameless soul exactly, but he wasn’t like me, ever.

You start wondering about your own mortality when people begin putting you on the list of who’s next in line. I remember going to David Litvinoff’s funeral. Litz was a brilliant nutter, the catalyst for Performance and tutor in infamy to James Fox. Really the whole film is his style – allusive talk and gangster vibe. Lucian Freud painted a famous portrait of him called The Procurer. He was gay and didn’t want to get old, so he killed himself. He committed suicide at Christopher Gibbs’s house on the Aubusson carpet – Chrissy thought that was frightfully poor form.

I went to David Litvinoff’s funeral with Christopher and Robert Fraser – a long time ago but it’s something I’ll never forget. We were in the limo having just come from the Jewish cemetery where we’d watched David’s cremation – it was all very sombre – when Chrissy suddenly had a furious outburst. He looked at me and said: ‘Well, I hope we never have to go through that again!’

People’s idea of my social life is greatly exaggerated. I think they expect scandalous scenes with famous, outrageous people. You know, ‘And then when Gore Vidal sat down with a line in front of him, he said to me …’ and so on and so forth. Well, okay, I admit it’s fun going to Sheryl Crow’s Christmas party and seeing, I kid you not, Salman Rushdie talking to Heidi Fleiss, but for the most part my life isn’t like that at all. Really. (You can believe me or not.)

Where was I? Oh yes, my lack of a social life. Well, it’s true I have settled down just a bit. After I finished my autobiography I met François, while I was recording a song called ‘La Femme Sans Haine’. Philippe Constantine, who invented world music for Richard Branson’s Virgin Records, wanted me to do a duet with Ismaël Lô. Duets are something I never do, actually, but it turned out very well. Never got released, though, but I did meet François and fell in love.

Oscar Wilde’s famous line, ‘I can resist anything but temptation!’, used to be my mantra, but, after a year and a half in which I’ve suffered the seven plagues of Egypt (and made four records and five movies), I’ve decided to modify my wilful approach to life. But first, let me tell you all about my wicked, wicked ways.