A Tear-Free Fare Thee Well to The Marvelous Marianne Faithfull

Our time with her in Dublin was brief, but one for the history books. And her death? Well...attention must be paid.

The best of the worst pics of us together. In Dublin. In the 1990s.

It was a great moment and it was a great moment you really had to have been there for. My mother had taken my kid sisters to see one of their favorite performers. Good Mom that she is it behooved her to get the best tickets that she could so that her elementary school-age daughters could see the hottest shit on the planet that year: New Edition.

Hustling to their seats, she expressed some amount of maternal concern regarding seating and lines of sight.

“Are the seats good?” She asked after New Edition had opened with “Cool It Now”, their big hit at the time. “I mean, can you see them?”

At which point my now-Grammy-winning sister countered with, “yes, But can they see US?!?!”

It was wonderful and the centering that was part of that understanding of the world at large, and the outsized celebrity world is, it must be assumed at this point, a family trait. Because as luck would have it, in the early 1990s, back when I still had a record store, I had come in possession of a cassette tape. Strange Weather is what it was called and the singer? Marianne Faithfull.

In 1979 when record labels were trying to push anything slightly left of center —remember that famous “punk rocker” that they fed us initially named Tom Petty? — as being punk rock or new wave, her Broken English had fit the bill. And I had become a fan and via this, conversant with her history and the whole Mick Jagger-Keith Richards’ swinging ‘60’s in London bit.

Letters [to her were] laden with the kind of total-life-and-death urgency that will never not be read as creepy. And desperate….Both of which I was.

But Strange Weather spoke to me in a whole different way. It was speaking to me. As in: Faithfull had made this record, specifically, for me. It was played again, and again. My car cassette player, an El Tech, made in Mexico, was a variable speed unit. If I sped up when driving the music played faster. If I slowed down, it would almost sound normal. But normal or not it had become the soundtrack for a particularly unsettled period of life.

A period of life that saw OXBOW heading toward recording Serenade in Red with Steve Albini. It may have not made sense to many but it seemed what Strange Weather had to offer was what Serenade in Red, very much needed. A love interest where that love was rooted in crazy obsession. This was the story, as well as the name of the game in total.

Marianne Faithfull had to be on it and her not being on it was not, by any stretch, acceptable. In the almost pre-Internet days (Albini’s first contact with us was made via a postcard from him), this was not the easiest thing in the world to pull off. Letters were sent to her label, her lawyer, anyone who might have known her. Letters laden with the kind of total-life-and-death urgency that will never not be read as creepy. And desperate.

Both of which I was.

In the third round of letters, there was finally a bite and we were in conversations. I had decided to use a touchstone to attract interest and that was playing on her familiarity with the American song book. She was wanted to do a cover of Willie Dixon’s Insane Asylum. The original he had sung with Koko Taylor and I knew she had to have known it. It was perfect for her, for Serenade in Red, a record full of murderous intent, and me.

Her lawyer agreed, at least enough so that phone numbers were exchanged, and international calls were made that involved her and me, trying with all my might to not sound like a fan boy. Which was a wonderfully fanboy thing to do.

“What’s with all the damage ladies?” A musician friend had asked me, in response to what was emerging as a penchant of working with fearsome women. Lydia Lunch, Jarboe, a failed attempt at Diamanda Galas.

We had studio time booked in California, a date to record, Albini’s begrudging interest in the possibilities (she would sing on two other songs as well) and a level of excitement commensurate with who it is that she was to me.

“What’s with all the damage ladies?” A musician friend had asked me, in response to what was emerging as a penchant of working with fearsome women. Lydia Lunch, Jarboe, a failed attempt at Diamanda Galas.

I had tried to explain and did so poorly, so here’s a better take: they’re as authentic as fuck and radiate a readiness to blow big giant-sized holes in anything that’s not as solid as they are. I didn’t know if Faithfull fit this bill but on the basis of voice alone, I’d wager that she was.

And chatting with her on the phone I was thinking of what my sister had said: can she see us? Or in this instance “me.” You see, my interest in “the damage ladies” was, usually, sexually nonsexual. By which I mean, I understood that they were attractive and I was attracted to them, but that was well down the list of why I was there.

I was there because they were/are great artists and in many/most cases had been overlooked by many for men who had gone for the obvious, and failed to recognize the genius lurking not far beneath the surface at all.

Of course, there’s a strong possibility I’m out of my mind and this idea that I could see what no others could might be proof positive of the same. But I’d be the last to know.

I was, however, the first to know that she had been denied entry into America for our recording date. Her arrests had been enough for the Canadians to turn her away when her connecting flight landed in Toronto. She had been sent back to Dublin by border authorities who gave not two fucks about her legend or legacy.

Not to be undone, plans were made for us to go to Dublin to record. Gibbs Chapman would produce her contributions (Albini was not keen to make the roadtrip), we pulled some strings and got some time at U2’s studio, Windmill Lane, and with two-inch recording tape took off for our first date with Faithfull.

Spending money for three plane tickets and the studio time plus hotels and food, especially when you’re cash poor but credit card “rich”, might have been a prescriptive for disaster. But everything would work right, right?

Wrong. Her phone had been disconnected (days also before widespread cellphone usage), and the last letter had been two weeks before we left. So we sat at the studio, terrified. She had to show.

Two hours later, and two hours late, she showed. Every bit the rock royalty most should have understood her as. She sized us up and turned it on, regaling us with tales of “Van the Man” (that would be Van Morrison to you), Seamus Heaney (whose son Sean, a journalist, was showing up to capture these moments), Hal Willner and more.

Minutes turned into an hour and ever with an eye on the clock and the running cash, I suggested we start.

“Oh, darling,” she drawled. “I’m not nearly ready yet.”

She had a friend with her, who had announced his musical bona fides by way of introducing his band name.

“Golden Whore?” I had genuinely thought this is what he said.

“Golden Horde,” he sniffed, correcting me and checking to see if I was taking the piss. In any case she whispered something to him and he disappeared. Those with the eyes to see made this for what it was. He came back, later than I would have liked, those two disappeared somewhere, and we stared at Francois, a man she had introduced as her manager.

Ten minutes later they both reappeared. Cannabis clouds in their wake.

“Are you ready?”

“Oh, not today dear.”

G-ddamn it. And so, put off to the next day. And the next day it was the same, sort of.

She tried to sing, was having a hard time getting in the groove (ok’d one of the other songs and nixed doing the third in total) and it had been suggested that maybe, since we were both there together, we do it as a true duet. An idea that she finally seemed to like.

Our version was ripped into and when I hit the blood curdling scream part she froze. When the tape was stopped, she left the room.

“I’ll let you finish.” She seemed disturbed and I was confused but it was what it was at this point, and finished the song.

She came in right after though, and in one take, pulled a rabbit from the hat and killed it, and me, in the process.

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And in the doorway on the way out of the studio someone had requested a photo and we stood for one. She adjusted her breasts and looked at me. Through me. Into me. Which is also how she was leaning.

The photos, now taken, she asked what we were doing with the rest of our evening, and when we said we had to get back to San Francisco and were leaving early the next day, precluding any partying she asked why.

“Well, we all have day jobs.”

Shouting, amusement in her eyes she, stomping for emphasis, underscored our very precise places in space: “Francois?!?! ‘I’ want a ‘day job’!”

Francois rolled his eyes, I laughed, everyone else packed.

Though she later recorded with Metallica (who when asked where they got the idea to work with her, fouled out by saying it was their manager’s idea. An idea he got right after hearing what we ended up calling Insylum) and Nick Cave, her Insylum is still my favorite. Not the least of which was because we never saw or heard from her again. As in: ever.

So it feels/felt like a fever dream. Right up until this last week when the news circulated that she had died. Without any (or very little) help from her famous friends, the subsequent decades had been rough on her. And in that way she earned and continues to earn some measure of undying love from me.

Not sadness. Not even a little bit of this. But a tribute. That we were lucky enough to share this place in space with her for even the shortest of moments. And her voice still rings in my head. As it will until voices echo in my head no more.

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February 6, 7, 8 and 9 finds you in Italy? Make an effort to make it here. Or….below in April.

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