Five Women (18 page)

Chapter Sixteen

T
HE
SONGS WERE SWEET
that year, in 1970. The Carpenters sang the mellifluous “Close To You,” Simon and Garfunkel harmonized on “Bridge over Troubled Water,” Diana Ross promised “Ain't No Mountain High Enough” in her velvet voice. And in the midst of all this loving niceness Billie Redmond entered the music scene with a shriek of raw energy and sexuality and lyrics that were unafraid. People didn't necessarily like her, but they had to notice her.

Harry Lawless had put together the band, Bandit, as he had planned, and Billie was the singer. There was gangly, red-haired Andy on bass; frog-faced Toad on drums; scrawny, twitchy Lenny on keyboard; and even scrawnier, twitchier Legs on guitar.

“I guess you must have picked the four ugliest musicians in the world to make me look better, huh?” Billie said to him.

“They're great musicians, though,” Harry said. “And they always have plenty of women on the road, so they can't be that ugly.”

“Oh, hey,” she said, and shrugged. “Music is an aphrodisiac. We all know that.”

It was the most exciting, happiest time of her life. The songs she wrote flowed out of her as if she weren't even writing them herself. Sometimes they were very good. It was as if finally she was really free to say whatever was in her heart and soul without worrying what people would think. What she didn't say in the lyrics she got across in the agony and energy of her singing. She stamped across the stage, her long hair flying, mike in her hand, her head back, her slender throat arched, her voice soaring out, her voice that was always too big for the room, even now. Sometimes she picked up her guitar and played along with the guys—her guys, her band, and everybody knew it.

They were touring all the time, booked in a variety of places from the pits to quite decent, with their own bus. Billie discovered what made Lenny and Legs so skinny and twitchy, and Toad so taciturn: drugs, which they offered to share with her. Cocaine and dexamyl to get up, Seconal and Placidyl to get down, grass and alcohol to stay even.

She and Andy took very little. He was the youngest member of the band, and still read the Bible and wrote to his parents. Billie treated him like a sweet younger brother. Bored on the bus, she and Andy shared a joint, they drank wine together, they split the scored blue dexamyl tablets with their thumbnails and each took half, saying, “Just a nibble,” while the other guys laughed and said, “What are you, rabbits?”

“You're the rabbits,” Billie would laugh. “How many dumb girls have you fucked so far, are you keeping a list? I'm sending it in to the Guinness
Book of Records.”

They loved it when she flattered them that way. She didn't know if they liked her much or not, and she didn't care, because they got along with her and they played the music that made her come alive, and that was enough for her. They were just guys to her—nothing special, neither family nor friends, just people she worked with—because the backbone of her life was Harry.

When she wrote a love song the man she was writing it to was Harry Lawless; when she sang of ambitions and past grief, it was about the sad time before she had met him. The physical attraction they had for each other was constant and electric. He didn't take the bus with them, he flew, because he needed the time to manage his business. When he knocked on her motel room door their clothes were on the floor in a matter of seconds, they had to come before they could even speak, and then they spoke business and love mouth to mouth, entwined. His natural place was inside her. The lyrics she wrote were as explicitly sexual as she could get away with, considering the tenor of the times when love songs spoke of being near and looking for a friend. When a phrase was not about sex Billie saw it that way anyway; it was always Harry, “Like a rock . . .”

The end of that year they made their first album, on his Outlaw Records label. Harry named the album
Billie and the Bandits
, even though the band's name was still Bandit. He said the title had a nice ring to it. While they were cutting their album, Janis Joplin was cutting hers:
Pearl.
But before she finished it she died of a heroin overdose in a Hollywood hotel room. Billie cried when she heard about it. She thought it was terribly sad, and that Janis was foolish to have treated her life so casually. She was much too young and talented to have died and deprived the music world of what could have come afterward. Now Billie began to think that they were not alike at all, that their natures were actually very different.

Billie and the Bandits
came out in the spring of ‘71, and out of it came her first hit single, “Texas Stars.” She wrote the song for Harry, for their lives in the same place before they met, their lonely, ambitious yearning under the same Texas stars, and for their success and sad parting when they became stars in the other way. It was pure fantasy, but so were most love songs. It was also her most commercial song to date. Making it commercial, even when she had to stretch the truth, was her gift to Harry, and her gift in return was that it became a hit and she became, for the moment, a star.

When “Texas Stars” got on the charts that spring, Janis's song “Me and Bobby McGee” was number one. Again she and Billie were together, although again Janis didn't know it. She didn't even see her song become such a great success. Nevertheless, Billie thought it seemed a strange and fitting coincidence that she and Janis should be on the charts at the same time, as if one of them was saying hello when the other said goodbye.

Although she thought “Texas Stars” was a good song, Billie didn't believe the lines she had written about her and Harry parting. Everybody was writing songs about being gone in the morning. Have to wander, don't count on me. She didn't worry about tomorrow. Today was so excellent it could only get better; they were all on a roll. They even had money now, and what they made, they spent.

Harry bought a little townhouse in New York, in a mews, and the two of them lived there together whenever they had time off. It was also his office. They decorated their love nest together, in velvet and gilt and excess. An ashtray made from an amethyst geode shaped like a bowl hung from the ceiling on a gilded chain; unfortunately, though, they discovered that when you tried to put your cigarette out in it, it swung away. They got a good laugh out of that mistake. Their sheets were white satin, custom made. They gave parties, and they went to other people's parties in a limousine. People they didn't even know came to their parties, and they never saw them again. It didn't matter. They were rich and they wanted to look rich . . . or perhaps they only wanted to look it. In the seventies in New York you could live like royalty on less than one would think, and they did.

It was a narcissistic time. Youth, beauty, and sexuality were everything. Billie and Harry had all three, plus talent. He was running the business and she was the artist. Even though she knew something about business she let him take care of everything that had to do with money, except pay her taxes. She was a working woman and she wanted to know what she made. She didn't own anything herself in the way of tangible property, but she didn't care. She had everything she wanted.

She had a few days off so she went home to Plano to see her family. As a favor to her father she sang one song—“Texas Stars,” of course—in the roadhouse. The place was packed because people knew she was in town, and the customers went wild. It was worth the whole trip to see her parents' faces while they watched that. She was a local hero now, and everybody made a big fuss over her. But it all seemed unreal, and she missed Harry. She couldn't wait to get home again, to New York, for New York was now her real home.

“You ought to know,” Toad said, when she got back, “Harry's been fooling around.”

“Why are you telling me this?” Billie asked. She didn't know whether she should believe him or not, but she didn't want to know, and she didn't want to give in to the hurt she was starting to feel.

“I'm a friend.”

“Who is she?”

“Nobody. It was just while you were away.”

What should she say? Harry's a sexy guy, why wouldn't he give in to temptation? I'm enough woman for any man and you're a liar? Did you ever hear of “Kill the messenger”?

Toad mistook her silence for devastation. “It wasn't any big deal,” he said. “I know Harry loves you.”

“I know he does, too,” Billie said.

“Toad says you were cheating on me while I was in Plano,” she told Harry. She was sorry she had said it. It was as if the mention of anything sordid touching, even momentarily, their perfect world tarnished it forever; they would always be in love but it would be a little different. Everybody cheated eventually, especially men, and especially in the music business. Sex was one of the perks.

“You'll hear a lot of lies,” Harry said. “He'd like to get you for himself.”

“Well, that makes him even stupider than I thought,” Billie said. “But don't lie to me and don't cheat on me, Harry. It makes us ordinary.”

His eyes gleamed for a second and she knew she'd gotten him where he lived. By now they both knew exactly how to win. “We'll never be ordinary,” he said. “We love each other too much.”

They were making plans for a second album. Billie and the band were writing their songs, but this time most of the ones Harry chose were hers. The one he thought had the greatest chance to take off was the one she had written after their brief confrontation, called “Don't Cheat on Me.” Basically, what she said in the song was what she had said to him. The woman in it was not teary-eyed, not weak, just realistic. Helen Reddy had had a number-one hit song, “I Am Woman,” and feminism was getting a foothold in America. But Helen Reddy's voice was sweet, and when she sang “Hear me roar,” she sounded less like a lioness than a pussycat. Billie's strong voice and commanding concert image was still a step ahead of anyone else's.

Harry called the new album
Life Games.
When it came out in ‘73, “Don't Cheat on Me” became a hit as he had predicted. He bought a sleek, black Jaguar car and had his and Billie's initials painted on the door, entwined, in gold leaf. By summer “Don't Cheat on Me” was her second gold record, Harry had made another big chunk of money, which was good because he had spent the first one, and they went to Paris on a lavish trip to celebrate. They stayed at the Ritz and drank martinis in the bar, all dressed up; they bought a lot of expensive clothes, and he bought the two of them matching eighteen-karat gold Tank watches at Cartier, which was near their hotel. Billie was not wearing silver bracelets anymore.

They never discussed marriage, although sometimes she thought about it. They were as good as married already, and Harry didn't seem like the kind of man who would take to being tied down in the conventional way. She thought if he proposed she would accept; if he didn't propose she wouldn't be the one to try to change things. As for children, married or not, the last thing she wanted at this point in her life was a baby.

On each of her albums there had been one single that took off, and the other ones didn't. This often happened, and people bought the albums for the song they liked, but it cost a lot more to produce an album than a record, and without more than the one hit the album didn't have such a long life, so Harry decided to start releasing Billie's new songs separately, hoping to get a hit each time, or at least more often than not, maximize his profit and cut his losses.

“But I thought we made all that money anyway,” Billie said. “We sure lived like we had it.”

“This will be better,” he said. “An album is just an ego trip. You've had two. When we have enough hits I'll release a greatest hits collection.”

“But how will we know which song will make it?”

“I was right the first two times, wasn't I?”

She nodded. She didn't feel it was a good idea to mention that the success of “Texas Stars” had been as big a surprise to Harry as it had been to her. She began to write with renewed vigor. Then Andy came up with a song she and Harry liked a lot, called “Dance to Death.” It was more upbeat than what Billie was used to, but it had a great deal of appeal, and they cut it. It was an immediate hit, Andy's first. They were all jubilant, like people who had won at roulette. There was money, there was fun, and Harry was euphoric.

“You see?” Harry said. “I know what I'm doing.” He bought her a diamond bracelet.

Billie was happy for Andy, too. He had a steady girlfriend now, and he didn't want to go on the road anymore after they pushed “Dance to Death”; he wanted to be with a studio band and settle down. Studio musicians got more than road guys, and he was planning to be a family man. That was okay, too. These days you would go into a studio and cut a record with one band, then go on the road and perform live with a different one. The audience who came to a concert didn't notice as long as the original band wasn't famous, like the Beatles, and Bandit never had been so well known that Andy would be missed. Band members changed all the time. Andy promised he would keep submitting his new songs to Harry for Billie to sing, and everybody was happy.

The next record they cut was a song Billie had written, called “No Questions, No Answers.” She thought probably it was her best to date, more mature, more polished. She could see herself growing creatively and she waited for the recognition. But nothing happened to it—it bombed. Billie and Harry couldn't figure out why. They hadn't really known what people would take to and they were as mystified about what people rejected. If they knew what the public liked every time out they would have been as rich as the Beatles. They decided to do another record right away and make everything right again.

The next record they released, Andy's second, shocked them by dying too. Billie was depressed but not scared, because Harry hadn't changed their lifestyle so she knew they were still all right. They had become too successful too fast and were spoiled. This was closer to reality. This was the way everybody else in the arts had to deal with a career, and although it was disappointing you just had to keep going.