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Miss O'Dell: My Hard Days and Long Nights with The Beatles, The Stones, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, and the Women They Loved (English Edition) par [O'Dell, Chris]
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Miss O'Dell: My Hard Days and Long Nights with The Beatles, The Stones, Bob Dylan, Eric Clapton, and the Women They Loved (English Edition) Format Kindle

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Longueur : 436 pages Word Wise: Activé Composition améliorée: Activé
Page Flip: Activé Langue : Anglais

Description du produit

Extrait

Miss O’Dell

1
Derek Taylor


February–March 1968

I was sprawled out on the sofa in my Hollywood apartment, wearing jeans and a sweatshirt, watching a game show on the black-and-white, thirteen-inch TV, smoking a joint, and getting really annoyed. My date was almost two hours late. I was alone in the apartment because my roommates, both high school friends from Tucson, were out partying. Where the hell was he?

When the phone finally rang around 10:00 p.m., I didn’t try to hide the fact that I was upset.

“Chris! It’s Allan.” He sounded a little out of breath, and from the background noise I guessed he was in a restaurant somewhere.

“Allan, where have you been?” I said. “You said you’d be here two hours ago.”

“I know, I’m sorry, but look, I’m at the La Brea Inn with some friends and there’s someone here you have to meet.” Allan was talking fast. “His name is Derek Taylor, he used to work for the Beatles, he’s doing publicity for A&M Records, and, Chris, you just have to come down here and meet him.”

“I don’t want to go out. I thought you were coming over here.” I was still annoyed with Allan, and I didn’t believe that this guy Derek knew the Beatles. The Beatles! Who knew anyone who worked for the Beatles? He was probably just one of those people hanging out on the periphery who once met someone who once knew someone who claimed they were once best friends with someone who worked for the Beatles.

“Chris, you’ll really like him.” Allan sounded pretty excited, actually. He was almost pleading with me. “Just jump in your car and come over. Come on!”

I was torn—should I go or stay? I remember staring at the lamp on the side table, almost as if I thought it might tell me what to do. Allan seemed sincere about wanting me to join him, and whoever Derek was, he had certainly impressed Allan. I’d never seen him act this way about anyone before. Oh, what the heck, whatever happened, it would be better than sitting in my apartment all alone feeling sorry for myself.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll be there in half an hour or so.”

“Hurry. I’ll be watching for you,” he said.

I changed into my yellow-striped bell-bottom jeans and white top with puffy sleeves (Cher in her “Sonny and” days was my fashion idol), touched up my makeup, and drove to the La Brea Inn on Sunset Boulevard and North La Brea Avenue. I loved my new beige Mustang, which I’d bought in Tucson for two thousand dollars. My father co-signed the loan. I’ll never forget that feeling of driving off the lot in my new car, the windows down, the hot desert air blowing through my hair. Oh, that indescribable feeling of total freedom!

The drive took about fifteen minutes. The streetlights on Sunset Boulevard were so bright it might as well have been day, and under their glare I began to feel exposed and insecure. Maybe I should have stayed home. Really, all I’d wanted to do that night was hang out with Allan in my apartment, two friends talking, no pressure, no stress. I liked it that way. I always tried to take things lightly, not to invest too much, although I have to admit that even at twenty I fantasized a lot about finding the right guy and a relationship that would last a lifetime. Maybe this is the one, I’d think when I first became interested in someone. But when the relationship ended, even though it would hurt like hell, I moved on pretty quickly. I went with the flow—one of my great strengths that would also prove, at times in my life, to be a significant weakness.

I parked my car in the crowded lot and took a few deep breaths, trying to force the anxious thoughts out of my mind and put a confident smile on my face. I was always uncomfortable walking into a room where the party was going strong and everyone else seemed to know one another. Never knowing what to expect, I feared I wouldn’t fit in, that no one would talk to me, and if they did, I’d say something stupid or inappropriate. So I had learned to put on a “face,” smiling confidently, walking with a firm stride, my back straight and head held high while my insides were trembling, whether from fear or excitement I never quite knew.

The restaurant was dimly lit, and a massive two-sided fireplace in the center of the room separated the bar from the dining area. A thin fog of cigarette smoke drifted toward the high ceiling, a pleasant hum of conversation filled the room, and the crackling fire put a pleasant glow over everything. As my eyes adjusted to the light, I saw Allan waving to me from a table by the fireplace.

“Hey, Chris, glad you made it,” he said, giving me a hug and introducing me, first, to the two women at the table—a writer named Eve and her friend, whose name I immediately forgot. I wasn’t paying attention to them anyway because I couldn’t take my eyes off the handsome man who had pushed back his chair, waiting for Allan to introduce us. He was so—well—so English, dressed in a navy blazer with a silk scarf tied loosely around his neck and tucked into an open-collared shirt, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other. A well-groomed mustache lined his upper lip, his long hair, layered to look somewhat unkempt, curled up at the ends, and his eyes drooped in a gentle, lazy way. Just like Paul McCartney’s eyes, I thought.

“Chris O’Dell, meet Derek Taylor,” Allan said.

“Lovely to meet you, Chris,” Derek said, standing up and taking my hand in his, all the while looking deep into my eyes. At that moment I felt like the most important person in the world, as if no one else in the room mattered to him. Dashing—that was the word for him. He reminded me of the romantic, swashbuckling Errol Flynn.

I sat down next to Allan and tried not to look like I felt—out of my element. This was clearly the “in” crowd. Eve was talking about her latest writing project, and from the sound of it, she was one of those almost-famous people who really did know a lot of famous people. Dressed in jeans and a flowing silk blouse, with rings on almost every finger and a huge gaudy necklace that was probably worth a fortune, she held her head back at a steep angle, eyes slightly narrowed, looking down the steep cliff of her cheek at me. I’m sure she sensed my insecurity and perhaps that raised the angle of her chin a bit higher.

“What’s your sign?” she asked me, her eyes intent and unsmiling.

“Sign?” I had no idea what she was talking about.

“Astrological,” she said, raising her chin a little higher.

I smiled, trying to be friendly. “Pisces,” I said. And with that, she turned away and didn’t speak another word to me for the rest of the evening. Like everyone else, she focused her attention on Derek, and who could blame her? I loved the way his eyebrow lifted in an amused sort of way and how his undulating, often indecipherable English accent cloaked what I would come to know as a Liverpudlian wit, which says one thing and means another, poking fun without being blatantly cruel about it. Derek would tell his stories, spinning his magic with perfectly chosen words, drawing you into his spell, and making you feel as if there were no better place to be in all the world than sitting right next to him. We drank and talked, and after three or four glasses of wine, I was feeling much better about everything, especially when Eve and her friend stood up to leave.

“Deadlines,” Eve explained, with a wink at Derek.

Derek, Allan, and I drew our chairs closer together, ordered more drinks, and stayed until the restaurant closed. Something clicked that night between Derek and me. He told me later that he was attracted to the fact that I seemed so unaffected by the Hollywood scene and so innocent about the world. I’m not sure how innocent I was—I’d been in LA for almost two years, and I’d already had several disastrous love affairs, I was drinking too much, smoking too much pot, and discovering the joys of amphetamines. But perhaps it was a sort of youthful naïveté that endeared me to Derek, and later to the Beatles, the Stones, and all the other rock stars, along with my willingness to withdraw into the shadows and let others take center stage.

I was always the listener, the eager helper who wanted more than anything to be liked and accepted, the friend who was content to do what she could to make other people happy. Ever since I was a little girl growing up in Keota, Oklahoma, I’d learned how to put other people’s needs above my own. The memories are so strong that I can still picture myself, a six-year-old girl with wavy blond hair and blue eyes who wore plaid dresses with white collars and patent leather Mary Janes with anklets. I’d skip down the sidewalk of the main street, past the sheriff’s office, past the winos sitting on the bench in front of Burris’s grocery story, past the tiny houses where I waved at people sitting on their porches or working in their yards until I came to my favorite spot, an old oak tree with spreading limbs and acres of grass all around.

Sitting under the leafy branches, my legs splayed out in front of me, I spent hours searching for four-leaf clovers. I had a lot of time after school to explore because my younger sister, Vicki, was sick again with chronic pneumonia—eventually the doctors would remove part of her right lung—and my mother was staying with her in the closest hospital, thirty miles away, across the Oklahoma border in Fort Smith, Arkansas. My father was always busy at school, teaching or coaching, and I had afternoons to myself. I was used to being alone. Loneliness was part of me, as familiar as taking a breath. The message I had internalized was to take care of myself, do the best I could, and no matter what the circumstances, keep a big smile on my face.

I also learned early on that I was not the center of the universe, but that knowledge did not stop me from pursuing my dreams. I never stopped looking for the four-leaf clover that would change my life. It was waiting out there for me, and when I couldn’t find it in the shade of the massive oak, I skipped along the dirt road and looked for it elsewhere. I never stopped dreaming that I would discover something precious and beautiful, mine alone to keep and treasure.

After we closed down the La Brea Inn, Derek invited Allan and me to continue the party at his rented home in Laurel Canyon. We sat in the living room, listening, as he rolled a joint and told us stories about how he’d once worked for a local paper in Liverpool and left that job to work as the personal assistant to the Beatles’ manager Brian Epstein. After touring with the Beatles in 1964, Derek moved to Hollywood to become a publicist for Paul Revere and the Raiders and, later, the Beach Boys, Captain Beefheart, the Byrds, Tiny Tim, and the Doors. But now, he said as he passed the joint around, he was preparing to leave LA in a few weeks to start his new job in London as press officer for Apple Corps Limited, the Beatles’ new company. His wife and four children (soon to be five and eventually six) were already settled in their new home in the country outside London.

That was the strongest pot I’d ever had, some Hawaiian stuff that I think Derek called “Icebox.” We listened to the Bonzo Dog Doo Dah Band, playing the Intro and Outro track over and over again, which cracked us up. Derek continued to regale us with stories about his life with the Beatles, and I sat there stoned out of my mind, thinking, Wow, so this is how the in-crowd lives in Hollywood. I felt as if I had stepped into a whole new world. Which, of course, I had.

I look back at that magical evening with one question in mind: What if I had stayed home? We all have those critical junctures in our lives, when we make a seemingly trivial decision that radically alters the direction of our lives. It takes only a second, really, and then everything changes.

When I met Derek I was twenty, a high school graduate with a pleasant personality and an eagerness to please. I didn’t have any great ambitions, although I had moved to Los Angeles to get away from Tucson with the dream of something better happening to me. That was the choice—stay in Arizona and go to college (I wanted to major in drama), or leave Tucson with dreams but no plans and see where life took me. But when I got to LA, I realized I was just a small-town girl in a big city—lonely, directionless, insecure, and self-doubting, always waiting, waiting, waiting for a new experience or adventure to come along. I was free to be whatever I wanted to become, but I had no idea what that was.

That night in the La Brea Inn changed everything. I have lived such a storied life, filled with wild adventures and unimaginable opportunities, surrounded by rock stars and celebrities, living in times that were at once magical, thrilling, bewildering, and terrifying. Despite all the craziness and confusion, the bad (some would say stupid) decisions and the good (I would say lucky) choices, the close friendships and the bitter betrayals, the drug highs and the inevitable lows, this is my life and I wouldn’t change one tiny piece of it for fear of losing it all.

But back then I had no idea that one chance meeting would completely alter the direction of my life.

“Chris, dear, would you like to join me and some friends for dinner at the La Brea Inn?” I just adored Derek’s voice with its soft, sweet tone and the warmth that seemed to wrap around each word. I had to admit it—even though I struggled with the fact that Derek was fourteen years older than me (and married, with four children)—I had a huge crush on him. He was attracted to me, too, but the fact that he was married, with children, stopped anything from happening between us. His conscience got in the way, which was okay with me because I came to see him as more of a father figure than a boyfriend. A boyfriend could always dump me, but a father figure would protect me and stand up for me no matter what.

“I’d love to!” I said. I was sitting at my desk at Ted Randal Enterprises struggling with typing up the latest tip sheet on the mimeograph paper. Ted programmed radio stations in the US and Australia, picking the records he thought would be hits and creating playlists for the stations. I hated that mimeograph paper because it was so unforgiving of typos and so incredibly messy, the blue ink getting all over my hands every time I touched it.

Derek didn’t own a car—he didn’t even know how to drive, which I found sort of strange—and for the next three weeks I was his driver, chauffeuring him around Los Angeles as he tied up loose ends and prepared to move back to London. I drove him to television and radio interviews, sat in on recording sessions, accompanied him to meetings with lawyers and record producers, and joined him for lunches, dinners, and drinks with people like folksinger Phil Ochs, screenwriter Carl Gottlieb, film producer Fred Roos, and actress Teri Garr.

It was all such a frenetic, fantastic whirlwind, with one event following right on the heels of another, that I didn’t have time to go to work. Or so I told myself. For the first few days I phoned in sick, but after a while I didn’t even bother to call. All I wanted to do was be with Derek for the few short weeks before he left. When I finally handed in my notice, Ted Randal was clearly irritated with me, but truthfully I didn’t care—I was young and carefree, Derek was paying for all my gasoline and meals, and he was introducing me to so many people in the record and entertainment industries that I figured I’d find another job without a lot of trouble. In the meantime, I was having too much fun to worry about much of anything. I was living in the moment, and the moment was all about Derek.

One evening, just a few days before Derek left for London, was particularly memorable. I was in my apartment, getting ready to meet Derek at A&M Records, when he called.

“Chris, dear, tonight we’re having dinner with Peter Asher,” Derek said.

Peter Asher! I struggled to contain my excitement. Peter Asher, formerly of Peter and Gordon, the British duo! Peter Asher, brother of Jane Asher, Paul McCartney’s girlfriend! Peter Asher! I thought. Wow!

“Okay,” I said nonchalantly.

I remember thinking how well-mannered and quintessentially English Peter was as he dabbed at the corners of his mouth with his white linen napkin and talked to Derek about this new business venture called Apple. He had much redder hair than I had imagined from his photographs, and he wore black Buddy Holly–type glasses that might have looked goofy on someone else but made him look cute in a refined sort of way, if that makes any sense at all. Prim and proper and not one for small talk, Peter focused most of his attention on Derek. I assumed he was shy because he didn’t look at me very often, even though Derek kept trying to include me in the conversation. When Peter did turn my way, he swiveled his whole body around at the same time he turned his head, which seemed to me a very polite gesture and a way of giving me his full attention.

“Yes, my dear,” he said to me at one point, and I liked that, having Peter Asher call me “dear.” He had a really sweet smile. I sipped my wine and listened politely as the two men talked about the Beatles’ grand plans for Apple, including separate divisions for publishing, film, electronics, and even an Apple boutique. Peter was already working as head of A&R, the artists and repertoire division of Apple Records.

After we dropped Peter at the airport for his flight to London, Derek said the most amazing thing.

“You should think about coming to London, Chris.”

“London?” I wasn’t sure what he meant. Was he inviting me to come visit him?

“Apple is going to be huge,” Derek said. “It would be a very good time to appear, you know.”

I laughed, delighted by the idea of “appearing” at Apple. Would I just walk in and ask for a job? Was Derek serious? It seemed so preposterous. I didn’t have any savings, and I didn’t know a soul in London except for Derek and now Peter. I couldn’t just pack up and move to London without a job or a place to live—it was a fabulous fantasy, a scene that I could play out in my mind or in front of my mirror, picturing myself having tea with Pattie Harrison or chatting with George, Ringo, Paul, or John in a real English pub. And when I listened to Derek, sometimes I even believed the dream might come true.

Revue de presse

“If there were such a thing as a female Forrest Gump of rock ‘n’ roll, Chris O’Dell would be it.” --High Times

"One of the most rollicking and enjoyable classic rock memoirs of recent years…don’t mistakenly file this book under Groupie Lit." --Houston Press

“Nick Carraway to classic rock’s Gatsbys…brisk and excellent.” --The New York Times Book Review

Détails sur le produit

  • Format : Format Kindle
  • Taille du fichier : 2224 KB
  • Nombre de pages de l'édition imprimée : 436 pages
  • Editeur : Touchstone; Édition : Reprint (27 septembre 2009)
  • Vendu par : Amazon Media EU S.à r.l.
  • Langue : Anglais
  • ASIN: B002QJZ9WW
  • Synthèse vocale : Non activée
  • X-Ray :
  • Word Wise: Activé
  • Lecteur d’écran : Pris en charge
  • Composition améliorée: Activé
  • Moyenne des commentaires client : 5.0 étoiles sur 5 2 commentaires client
  • Classement des meilleures ventes d'Amazon: n°194.941 dans la Boutique Kindle (Voir le Top 100 dans la Boutique Kindle)
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Format: Relié
Books by axe-grinding groupies like Frannie Schwartz and Pamela des Barre make me tired. This book is a refreshing change of pace from the groupie genre and let it be known that Miss Chris O'Dell was NOT a groupie. She was friends with many professionals in the music business and, like Olivia Arias (later Mrs. George Harrison) had a job that placed her in contact with these professionals. This is a serious memoir that is not meant to be titillating nor shocking. Unlike the books by authors such as Ms. Schwartz and des Barre, this is NOT of the "National Enquirer" ilk.

Miss O'Dell provides fresh, personal insights and information about some of the world's greatest musicians, such as George Harrison and Eric Clapton and Leon Russell. She is a bright, conventional woman who keeps her head and her character intact. She is impressed with her rock friends and her respect for them and her rise above sycophantism make her someone to respect. Nobody likes or can respect a toady.

Chris O'Dell has had many interesting life experiences. She even typed the lyrics to some of George Harrison's works. She was also present when George declared that he was in love with Maureen "Mo" Starkey, Ringo's wife. Ringo point-blank told George that he was glad it was someone he knew who was interested in his wife as opposed to some stranger.

Miss O'Dell worked at Apple records during its inception and very early days and was friends with Derek Taylor. Her friendship with drummer Jim Gordon would end on a tragic note. In the early 1980s Gordon committed a heinous crime, matricide and is currently serving a life sentence.

George Harrison would dedicate a song to her, the eponymously titled "Miss O'Dell" and Leon Russell would later pen "Pisces Apple Lady.
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Format: Broché
Books by axe-grinding groupies like Frannie Schwartz and Pamela des Barre make me tired. This book is a refreshing change of pace from the groupie genre and let it be known that Miss Chris O'Dell was NOT a groupie. She was friends with many professionals in the music business and, like Olivia Arias (later Mrs. George Harrison) had a job that placed her in contact with these professionals. This is a serious memoir that is not meant to be titillating nor shocking. Unlike the books by authors such as Ms. Schwartz and des Barre, this is NOT of the "National Enquirer" ilk.

Miss O'Dell provides fresh, personal insights and information about some of the world's greatest musicians, such as George Harrison and Eric Clapton and Leon Russell. She is a bright, conventional woman who keeps her head and her character intact. She is impressed with her rock friends and her respect for them and her rise above sycophantism make her someone to respect. Nobody likes or can respect a toady.

Chris O'Dell has had many interesting life experiences. She even typed the lyrics to some of George Harrison's works. She was also present when George declared that he was in love with Maureen "Mo" Starkey, Ringo's wife. Ringo point-blank told George that he was glad it was someone he knew who was interested in his wife as opposed to some stranger.

Miss O'Dell worked at Apple records during its inception and very early days and was friends with Derek Taylor. Her friendship with drummer Jim Gordon would end on a tragic note. In the early 1980s Gordon committed a heinous crime, matricide and is currently serving a life sentence.

George Harrison would dedicate a song to her, the eponymously titled "Miss O'Dell" and Leon Russell would later pen "Pisces Apple Lady.
Lire la suite ›
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Amazon.com: 4.2 étoiles sur 5 155 commentaires
4 internautes sur 4 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 Sex, Drugs, and Rock and Roll but Mostly Drugs 29 avril 2014
Par Mark R. Brewer - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
Chris O'Dell met Derek Taylor, a friend of the Beatles, in L.A. in 1968. This led to her getting a job at Apple Records in London. This job led to others, and Chris eventually became an expert at running a tour for a band. This allowed her to meet many of the rock legends of the 1960s and 70s. Her book gives the reader an abundance of insights into these people. Some of them come off very well. Others do not. The Beatles all seem like good guys, friendly and kind. Chris became best friends with Pattie Boyd Harrison, George's wife, and so George was the Beatle she knew best (he wrote a song, "Miss O'Dell," about her). George could be fun and carefree, but he also had a cold side. Chris says you were never quite sure which George you would get. Neil Young, Bob Dylan, Graham Nash, Mick Jagger, and Keith Richards are others who seem like decent people. Yoko Ono, Stephen Stills, David Crosby, and Eric Clapton are not as likable. Yoko is cold. Crosby and Stills are spoiled little brats, stamping and shouting whenever the slightest thing doesn't go their way. Clapton is a first class jerk, and this is not the first book I've read that showed him in that light.

But all of them are rather pathetic, so caught up in sex and drugs and rock and roll that they can't see straight. George has an affair with Ringo's wife Maureen. Pattie has an affair with Eric Clapton, whom she will end up marrying (and divorcing). And Chris O'Dell sleeps around quite a bit. It was a crazy time, and MISS O'DELL captures it. It's an enjoyable, illuminating, and well-written book.

But there were some places where I wanted more. For instance, O'Dell glosses over George's 1974 U.S. tour, which she was on, not even mentioning George's hoarse voice, which was a problem throughout (I was at the Philadephia show).

The book certainly shows that fame and fortune is not all it's cracked up to be.
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
3.0 étoiles sur 5 Groupie/ "friend" to the bands and insiders 18 mars 2015
Par Ephi82 - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I found this an interesting slice of life among the biggest rock stars of the 60's and 70's, focused on my favorites, the Beatles.

It seems Miss O'Dell was good friends with several Beatle insiders, and friends with George Harrison and Ringo Starr, but it's clear her main contacts and friendships were with Patti Harrison and Maureen Starr. My reading is that George loved having her around so she would keep Patti occupied so he was free to do whatever he wanted to do, including having an affair with many woman, including Maureen Starr. Perversely, she started to bed ole Ringo after Georges announcement he was in love with Maureen. Interestingly, all while Miss Chris is still one of Maureen's best buddies......hmmmmmm

In the final analysis the is a book written by a groupie of the 60's and 70's, who occasionally worked for the people she gravitated to as a tour manager/administrator while taking copious amounts of drugs. After the first 2/3 of the book, it get repetitive, and with each page you see her credibility slip away...

Again, while interesting, she seems to have been a tour manager and functional groupie for a number of big stars back in the day
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
5.0 étoiles sur 5 Glad I Picked This One Up...Join me! 23 novembre 2013
Par Linda Lauren - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Format Kindle Achat vérifié
I truly enjoyed Chris O'Dell's memoir. It was written with a fresh eye that didn't spent reams of paper and our time rehashing groupies. She wasn't one, not really. Having sex with a friend who is a musician you have a relationship with based on business is very different than slutting around backstage waiting for the band to finish to have a one-night-stand. That's not Miss O'Dell. She wrote from a deep perspective of understanding the business of promoting and being a part of the marketing of music and musicians. I saw her book as a female version of Barry Fey's great read, "Backstage Past." A great read. She certainly deserved a song written about her and I'm glad George Harrison did so!

I want to add that I don't know her, but I do admire her business sense and loyalty to those in her circle. I hope she writes another one!
1 internautes sur 1 ont trouvé ce commentaire utile 
4.0 étoiles sur 5 What a cover! 3 mars 2011
Par Jeff Walker - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
Ar least one of my four stars goes to Calvin Chu for the jacket design. It's just fabulous, and about as evocative of the late `60s as you can get. Here you have a 22-word title/sub-title, the guy sticks it all into two spaces--sunglasses lenses--that take up less than a quarter of the cover, and it works! And we should all thank Katherine Ketcham. Nearly all celebrity memoirs have a "with" and Ketcham is this book's. I can well imagine the countless question and answer sessions that Ketcham then molded into a convincing memoir. Here's one question I'd like to ask after reading the Beatles and Stones sections and skimming the rest: How can a young woman have sex with Mick Jagger, Bob Dylan, Ringo Starr, Sam Shepard, Leon Russell et al and not manage to reveal a single salacious detail? This was the `60s and `70s for heaven sakes! I think it's great that she shared the sexual openness of the era, but her unfortunate unforthcomingness four decades later reduces her accounts of these liaisons to mere notches on her bedpost. Of course, I suppose having a grown son and a professional career renders one ill-dosposed to tell-alls.

That said, for Beatles fans it's nice to see `economy class Beatles' George and Ringo sitting in first class for a change. And both George and Ringo do come across rather well (as do Jagger and Richards). O'Dell's ditziness blatantly wrecks Ringo's marriage but he eventually forgives her and they once again become the friends they had been pre-fling. There are enough fresh anecdotes about George and Ringo to satisfy Beatles fans and there are stray observations that are quite telling and that I've seen nowhere else. For instance, while the Krishnas are staying at George's Friar Park, a couple of their children fall into the water and almost drown. Do their parents feel guilty for being so negligent? No, they were simply entrusting their childrens' fate to Lord Krishna. Oh dear--erstwhile normal people turned into morons by religious fanaticism. Now THERE'S part of the late `60s/early `70s scene you don't have to feel sorry you missed. Ditto the drug scene; it's almost inevitable that O'Dell ends up as a substance-abuse counsellor.

One does get a headache from all the descriptions of the alcohol and drug-suffused rock `n' roll life. Bear in mind that after a certain point that they're taking all these expensive health and sanity-threatening drugs just to temoporarily feel as good as non-users do. Anyways, I thank `O'Dell for her many revealing glimpses of that life from her rather unique perspective as a worker at Apple and later as a rock tour organizer. Very feminine insights they are, too, quite different than what you'd get from the men involved.
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5.0 étoiles sur 5 The Real Deal 1 décembre 2009
Par Glenna M. Meredith - Publié sur Amazon.com
Format: Relié Achat vérifié
Chris O'Dell has given us an authentic experience in her memoirs of living the rock and roll life. And, she lived it with the most important people in the genre, in the age and beyond.
It's impossible to sit and imagine what it might have been like to live and work among the Beatles, or the Stones, Dylan and beyond. Chris takes us there, puts us in the midst of these people and does it all while telling her story. It's all hers, she's not trying to relate their lives, only the life she lived while involved with them.
The word "groupie" crops up periodically from people trying to describe her, and yet this woman worked in the industry, became the first female tour manager and, more than that, she forged a path for other women to work in the music industry beyond the role of the secretary or "assistant". If you're looking for more than diary type memories, then consider how revolutionary she really was in an age that was only just beginning to emerge out of the "housewife" mentality of the earlier generations.
Chris O'Dell gives us a delightful, exciting and sometimes "gasping for air" account of life in the 60's. If you don't remember that era, didn't live through it, you may not understand what it meant to be a pioneer of the decades to come. Freedom meant exploration, and that exploration led to issues and sometimes, regrettably, dependencies on drugs or alcohol that was unknown previously. New drugs like LSD revolutionized creative thought, but often led to other more pervasive addictions.
Happily, Miss O'Dell's path does lead to a life that is dedicated to solving problems and helping people. Hers is not one dimensional, as might have been the case with someone of lesser values and conscience. The book offers insight, folly and pathos. Many of the larger than life characters are suddenly, simply people. It takes someone of a caring nature to impart a sympathetic view of people who are shaping our world culturally and creatively. They become more than icons of an age.
I loved reading this book. As a fan, as a member of a generation that was impacted by the period she takes us to, and as a woman.
Serendipity or destiny? Who's to say. Either way, anything is possible.
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