Shannon Johnson

The Fate of the Fates: a Hollywood Memoir

Our first gig never happened. It was supposed to take place at an underground club called The Galaxy, the cops busted the joint the night before our gig while some band called L.A. Guns or Guns and Roses was playing. That meant our drummer and I had to hit the clubs again peddling our lousy little tape.

 “You’re an all-girl band; that’s novel,” the sleazy club promoter said, adding, “We can probably give you a try.” The Go-Gos were back from “Vacation” and the Bangles would soon “Walk Like an Egyptian.” An all-girl band was uncommon, but not all that novel any more.

“We write our own songs and play our own instruments,” we assured the guy, although some of us had been musicians for only a few weeks. I was desperate to become famous; I would have signed us up to play a hoochy-koochy bar just to get started. We had been sure the punky, avant-garde Anti Club would call us. They never did.

Our real first gig was at the FM Station which was a fairly big and reputable place to gig in North Hollywood. Our guitar player and self‑proclaimed white witch was away in Boston when our premier came around. Her feelings were hurt, but, you know, the show must go on because there are thousands of bands playing at any one time in Los Angeles. And you’ve got to promote yourself. Flyers, free passes, photos—all self promotion. You don’t make any money trying to become famous, but we figured we could hold out the couple of years it would take to get there.

We were billed as an all-girl band. However, for the Fates’ premier a guitar player with Velvet Buzzsaw, stood in for our guitar player. He was just uninhibited enough to have fun. The rest of us were petrified bunnies with stiff bitch facades. Later we would really become precious.

Fortunately, that show went well, unlike the gig where I suddenly heard myself playing a tear-jerking ballad out of tune. That was also the fateful night when our keyboard player’s instrument became a Ouija board conjuring the demon spirits of the tone deaf as its sequencer moaned an arpeggio that sounded like Lucifer talking backwards on a Zepplin album. We went on at 2 a.m., and our groupies were locked out. These earth children never carried IDs so they protested by rioting for The Fates outside the club. Unfortunately,  there were five whole customers inside the place, so the sound man unplugged us long before MTV unplugged Clapton or Nirvana.

 “Hey, man, we’re not finished with our set.” Did he not know who we were . . . destined to be?

“You’re finished alright,” said hairy Goliath.

Anytime we had a gig, anxiety would drain the blood from my fingers and make me shiver, sometimes uncontrollably. Even a run of scales and my best white girl attempt at slap and pop didn’t bring warmth to my digits. I made mental notes to wear fingerless gloves, to soak my hands in hot water before going on, or to get drunk. But it was sort of a silent agreement that we would not drink or do drugs when we were gigging. Our drummer was a recovering alcoholic; our keyboard player was a druggy; our guitar player was a very small-time dealer; our singer, while drug free, was a self-deluded prima donna covering up low self-esteem; and I, the so-called leader of the band, was naive yet cynical and gutless.

 As the leader, I did work to get us gigs. Why, I nearly convinced the girls of the importance of rehearsal time. I even purchased some of our instruments with my own fast depleting savings. Oh, it was such a struggle, constantly. The ones who needed it most thought they were above rehearsal. The most creative one was too screwed up for two-way communication.

Our second gig was worth something. The white witch was back from Boston. It was a “battle of the bands” at The Central. I don’t remember where we were slotted, but by the time we went on, I’d seen a few of the bands and they could actually play their instruments ... but we were all girls, novel. Maybe that’s why we took second place. I like to think it was because we were real contenders.

 I took several odd jobs to support myself on my quest for stardom. I cleaned an eye doctor’s office on the weekends. He had me clean his office on Saturday and then again on Sunday. He was a sweet, old, Jewish man. His secretary, who told me she had attended high school with Jane Russell—cross my heart, and her daughter came to some of our shows. A lot of our straight-laced friends were very supportive. An old black man dressed to the nines, who had just a smidgen of senility, would come to see me play. He brought me presents: an umbrella, a cake, a bottle of wine. I served him everyday at the deli where I worked.

Zipi Deli was a block away from Capitol Records. The New York-style deli was owned and run by Su and May, a young Korean couple. They had three kids, and they were my family away from home. I was their punky, often moody, damned hard-working American girl from Awkansass. “Leenda, you my besta friend. I love you,” Su would tell me. Linda? Su had an endearing sense of humor, and he disliked New Coke so much that he switched his fountain over to “Pepchi.”

May and Su made sure I ate every day, and, at least once a week, they invited me to their house for supper. Korean food is good ...once you get used to it, except for that soup. It looked like it had been scooped right out of the ocean and heated up. Those tentacles, eyes, bones, shells, suckers were fiery hot. I would rather stick pins in my eyes than be rude to nice people, but I had a hard time with that soup. “Leenda, you don’t likey this‑a Korean soup?”

Quickly, I made something up about being allergic to eyeballs.

Another time: “Leenda, you too quiet. You don’t likey this‑a Korean food?” They truly were concerned about my welfare and were always telling me “you need-a eat more; you need more rest.”

“I love this food!” I said, with much conviction. Indeed, I had truly acquired a taste for sushi, kimpop, kimchi, everything but the soup.

“You makey noise.”

 “What?”

 “You likey food, you makey noise.” Su was explaining something very culturally important and I wasn’t getting it. “In Korean it good etchiquette, you makey noise.”

Ahh... I had wondered at the cacophony of smacking the five of them were making. I never was able to make myself eat with my mouth open in front of them, though I reassured May that