Track two - freedom of bleach

TRACK 2 of my semi-autobiog work-in-progress

One fresh February morning, me and my friend Lisa – who co-wrote and directed Beached – drove to Las Vegas in a sturdy, white Toyota Corolla. As we sped past the silent, rusty desert that has played the main character in so many films and TV shows, the warm wind bounced off my Raybans, and blew my still-damp hair back off my face.

Lisa, who was also a journalist, had arranged for us to go to the press night of The Showgirl Must Go On at Caesar's Palace. It was my first time in Vegas and as we checked into the Mandalay Bay, I spent the first ten minutes gawping at the rows of elderly ladies at the slot machines, a cigarette stuck to their lined, sun-blanched lips.

Chucking my suitcase onto the enormous bed, I went into the bathroom. As I glanced in the well-lit mirror, I noticed my dark roots resembled a narrow strip of chocolate ice-cream in a tub of vanilla. I decided to get a last minute bleaching. The only place that had availability was the hairdresser at the Hard Rock Hotel who, I learnt later, was Britney’s colourist. Darling reader, one of the important life lessons I gleaned is that Americans use much stronger bleach than we do (which explains quite a lot). Bleach applied, my scalp slowly started to feel like it was on fire. I let out an agonised screech, and one of the gayest men I’ve ever seen – he looked like he had been freshly dipped in a vat of milk chocolate – sashayed over and poured a can of Diet Coke over my burning head. That was the second lesson I learnt that day: the acid PH level in Diet Coke neutralises the alkaline PH of the bleach. As a result of this lesson, one of my abiding memories of that evening is meeting one of the most famous women on the planet with a flaky scalp that smelt of warm Diet Coke. The after show party was at an Italian restaurant behind Caesar’s. Bette was very warm and not at all Diva-ish and she said “you’re really funny, you should come do a show in Vegas.”

Those four days in Vegas were a crazy, magical time. I not only got to see Bette’s show (choreographed by Toni Basil who I also met afterwards with my bleachy, Diet Coke scalp.), I saw Cher’s show (including a rehearsal) and was lucky to see Robin Williams’ show Weapons of Self-destruction which was on another level of funny.

I’ve flirted quite a bit with self-destruction myself. Actually, not so much flirt as have penetrative sex with. Fortunately, I seem to have been born with what I call the pulling-out-of-a-nose-dive gene. As well as the lessons about bleach content and how to neutralise its effects, I have learnt that although self-reflection is a necessary tool for survival, it does make ones skin rice paper thin. Facing the forces that would pull one under, and batting them away, is one of the hardest things we do. It’s an exorcism we do in the sanctity of our own small rooms.

One night I was in the restroom of a bar in San Francisco. As I was putting on a slick of lipgloss, a friendly woman pulled out a roll out make-up bag displaying every drug you can imagine. She gestured and offered me the stash, and I thought it would be rude not to. So I snorted a few lines of coke with my new best friend, and, eyes wider than before, veered back to my friends who were waiting in the bar. We carried on drinking. The next morning, my mouth was as dry as an Arab’s dap, and my head felt like a wild boar had taken a shit in it. I rang down and in my I’ve-just-puked voice, managed to tell hotel reception that ‘I must have terrible food poisoning’ and begged for a late check-out. They took pity on me and, holding my head, I crashed back into a dribbling slumber.

As I was in California for three months, I decided to record an album as a sort of companion to the short film. Also entitled Beached, it has lots of Midler classics like The Rose, Wind Beneath My Wings and I Think it’s Gonna Rain Today and I also slipped in a song I wrote Turn the Lights Back On.

Darling reader: bit of trivia - I sang that song live on Loose Lips , a TV show hosted by Melinda Messenger and Richard Arnold. The producers suggested I mime along to the track, to which I replied: “I don’t know how to mime.” My green room guests were Kym Mazelle and Woody, a sweet black Labrador who was modelling pet accessories.

I had arrived.

Spoiler: we’re always travelling; nobody actually ‘arrives.’

There is also a track I wrote that should have been on the album, but for some reason wasn’t included: You ain’t Elvis (but you think you are . I recorded it at a blissfully serene studio nestled in the beautiful hills of San Francisco; before the far-left turned it into a dystopian shit-hole. While we recorded, deer would come and peer through the big windows. I often have to pinch myself at the calibre of musicians that played with me. Eamonn Flynn, my keyboard player and arranger is one of the very best musicians I have ever worked with. He was so helpful in ways I had yet to understand, and I owe him a great debt of gratitude for sharing his wisdom and unmatched musicianship.

I have a queasy feeling that I was a frightened, lost soul during much of that time. I’m certainly not proud of some of my erratic, unreliable behaviour. A messy, tawdry divorce from my first husband in 2002 and classic absent daddy issues, certainly didn’t help with trust in others. But I don’t want to dwell on the excuses we’ve all read a million times. I met some truly talented, fascinating people who gave me wisdom in their kindness. When I was short of money for rent, the bass player, Jamie said gently: “This too shall pass”.

I often think about that moment.

It didn’t hurt that he was one of the most beautiful black men I have ever seen.

Coda:

During the 2008 Beached project, I was based in Santa Monica. While I was there I used to hang out in a little internet café 5 minutes stroll from where I lived on Cedar St. Every morning I would pull on a sun-dress and flip flops, grab my bag and head out.

I loved that lazy stroll to the café. The morning sun was just warming the Santa Monica pavements, like squares of bread in a big toaster.

One of the songs I associate with that time is Estelle’s American Boy (featuring Kanye West).

As I sat outside in the glorious Californian sunshine, a group of guys had started to gather round my table while I listened to the tracks and made album edit notes. Bryan was one of them. He was bald, Jewish, and sexy as hell. The heat between us was melting our daily Frappuccinos.

I had 10 days left on my 90 day visa, and I can’t abide men who dither so I texted him on my tiny motorola flip phone: “So, are you coming over, or what?” He must have sprinted, because, I shit you not, 30 seconds later he was banging on my door. Matron.

Darling reader, I fucked his brains out.

A few days later, I went to his apartment. He was holding his cat. I instinctively reached out to hold it, but he moved the cat away. Bryan, a grown man, wouldn’t let me hold his cat.

That’s another lesson I learnt: don’t ever get serious about a man who won’t let you hold his cat.

Me walking through the desert outside Vegas (photo taken by Lisa Marks)

MORE TO COME…