Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway

Neon Angel: A Memoir of a Runaway

Cherie Currie, Tony O'Neill

Language: English

Pages: 384

ISBN: 0061961361

Format: PDF / Kindle (mobi) / ePub


In this candid autobiography, Cherie Currie—the original lead singer of ‘70s teenage all-girl rock band The Runaways—powerfully recounts her years in the band, her friendship with guitarist Joan Jett, and her struggle with drugs. An intense, behind-the-scenes look at rock music in the gritty, post-glam era, Neon Angel is a must-read for anyone whose heart beats to the rhythm of David Bowie, Suzi Quatro, Nick Gilder, and the Sex Pistols, and for every fan of the movie it inspired: The Runaways, starring Dakota Fanning and Kristen Stewart as Cherie Currie and Joan Jett.

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record our songs for the Runaways movie, it was like we never left. Thirty-two years had passed, but time stood still, and we never missed a beat. While excelling at every turn, she has also exhibited an ironic flair for finding herself in dramatic situations. So, to conclude, Cherie Currie—mother, uniquely devoted ex-wife, musician, versatile visual artist—is really so talented. (I still can’t believe Cherie carves wood with a chain saw, and is so good at it!) But what truly amazes me is what a

eight o’clock and Marie was in the bedroom getting ready with me. She was dressed in blue jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, boots, and a belt. It was way too conservative for my taste, but I had to admit she looked good for a surfer chick. T.Y. knocked and then peeked around the bedroom door, smiling at us indulgently. He looked like a doting father. I knew back then that T.Y. really wanted kids, but Sandie was dead set against it. I still believe that this was because Marie and I had flushed her

the fuck out of here!” Sandie gave me a sideways glance and noticed the expression of dread on my face. “You’ll be fine!” she said again. “Don’t sweat it. You’re gonna knock ’em dead!” I tried to tell myself that Sandie was right. I’d been practicing like hell ever since that first meeting with Joan and Kim. I tried to get away from my toxic thoughts by mentally running through the song that I had picked for my audition. I went for a slow, sultry number called “Fever” from Suzi’s latest album,

was pristine and bright. I didn’t even look at myself in the mirror. I was too mortified. I needed towels. I needed to get the blood off of me. I started looking around, and noticed: all of his towels were fucking white. Didn’t this motherfucker own ANYTHING that wasn’t white? I looked under the sink and found a dark washcloth that had obviously been used, but I didn’t care anymore. That washcloth was the most welcome sight I had seen all night. I cleaned up, and wrung the blood out of the

with the security guards, all trying to push, punch, or otherwise force their way to the front so they could be close to us. Some people were holding up our posters, or copies of our LP. They screamed our names, and reached their hands out toward us as Sandy counted off the first song. . . All at once the stuff Joan had been saying to me made perfect sense. With the spotlights on me, and the makeup already beginning to melt down my face . . . with the earsplitting roar of the crowd and the scream

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