Cory Seymour covers Andee Eye for Vogue. Click here for the interview.
Air Mail weekly—Graydon Carter’s new online magazine. Click here for the article.
A memory of Marlon, 1968
Hardly anyone used the front door at Marlon Brando's house. That was mainly because the beautiful Japanese front and back door were quite near each other. Anyone used to being there went through the back entrance. You could usually catch Marlon's right-hand, Alice M., to catch up on the news.
One afternoon I arrived, and much to my surprise, the large refrigerator in the kitchen was chained up. Serious chains. I ducked into Alice's office. She lifted her head with an ironic smile. "He's on a diet." Alice was Marlon's Major Domo, and if that fridge was chained, it was because it needed to be.
Minutes later, Alice packed up for the day and left. I heard her car pull out. I was working on a series of stories Marlon and Christian had hired me to write and was organizing my papers when I heard the front doorbell ring. I ran out of the kitchen to answer it when I saw Marlon appear in a beautiful Japanese robe.
"I'll get it," I think he said, but I had already flung the door open. Two guys were standing there with hands full of neatly stapled brown bags.
"Trader Vic's" one of them said with a crooked smile. (A favorite Polynesian restaurant at the Beverly Hilton Hotel.)
Marlon had joined me and was eager to pay for the food and have them leave. The aromas were wafting through the bags. And the look on Marlon's face—priceless.
He quickly fled with the bounty padding his way back to his wing of the house. He didn't dare even offer me a spare rib.
James Stephans
Gram Parsons was the one who saw me photographing folks at the swap meets back in 1968. He knew I loved the salt of the earth real folks that came from near and far and gathered at places like this.
He was the one who said, "You need to go to the south—you need to go to the Ozarks—you need to go to the reservations—you need to see what makes America a place of roots."
And I did. Together with my friend Cheryl Winette, we headed out with our cameras. Two girls, a convertible and a heart full of appreciation for the people we met. This gentleman in the Ozarks liked to wear skirts, so he had a breeze on hot summer days. He played, "You Are My Sunshine," for his goat and us.
The story behind the cover photo of Hot Rats
Christine Frka, pictured in this photo, was quiet and playful.
I wanted a mix of comedy and balls. I wanted to say something about the emergence of female power. Christine was a Tim Burton character mixed with a silent film star. The photos from the shoot that day were so good. The combo of me and Christine really worked.
When next I saw Frank Zappa, he immediately wanted to license the photo for an album he was doing called "Hot Rats," which I agreed to. Little did l know it would enter the iconography as it did.
A print will be released in conjunction with "Andee Eye," and will be in the book as well.
Mad Dogs, the Tour
Leon invited me to go with him and Denny to the Santa Monica Civic Auditorium as a prospective venue for the L.A. leg of the tour. While Denny was backstage talking to the management, Leon motioned for me to come with him.
We stepped through the curtains onto the stage. Just us two facing an empty house.
“If you can sing to one person, you can sing to a million. It’s all in a raindrop.”
“What is, Leon?” I asked.
“The ocean.” When he smiled he reminded me of Clark Gable sometimes. I didn’t know why he covered up that poetic face with all that hair. He motioned to the empty house. “I want them rushing the stage.
“You do?” I asked. He nodded and smiled.
He was straight out of a medicine tent from the heart of Oklahoma. This man was the real thing. Leon and all good rock and roll guys (Chuck Berry, Jerry Lee Lewis, Little Richard) knew how to rock the house. They found those rhythms in every church, every little town where there was a piano and some semblance of a gospel choir.
What a perfect musical director to bring together some of the hottest musicians in the world: Joe Cocker, Chris Stainton, Jim Keltner, Carl Radle, Bobby Keys, backed up by a choir and singers including the great Claudia Lennear and Rita Coolidge.
Self-portrait
Here’s a self-portrait in Marlon's dining room window. These guys were really something —Marlon [Brando] and Christian [Marquand]. I was still reeling from being overseas for many moons with my supposed husband-to-be, actor James Fox. I did a stupid thing —come to think of it— I made him too cool—you know what I mean? … Pumped him up until he decided to try it out on the rest of the world.
Ultimately, I had to leave London. As fate would have it, something exceptional was waiting for me in L.A. Not only these two amazing men—but the whole enchilada— all blooming in a renaissance and revolution that was Los Angeles 1968!
Sharon Tate
For fifty years, I’ve been silent about my friend Sharon Tate. How weird to see her being played on screen... I’m not sure how to process the edge and wit of the Tarantino flick, but at least it helps transform gruesome into paradox.
Sharon was the least likely to be thought of in connection with that world, although she did make an odd choice having Roman as a boyfriend. He was so surly and almost always in a bad mood.
Most times, when he was around, I made excuses and extricated myself from their suite at the Chateau Marmont. I understood perfectly how he could make those horror movies—he spent so much time brooding.
It was an odd mix because Sharon was a beam of light.
Roman and I shared a very dear friend—Christian Marquand. They both wanted to see what Disney had concocted with their new ride, “The Pirates of the Caribbean.”
One afternoon, Sharon, Roman, Christian and I set out for Disneyland in a helicopter. Disney wanted to razzle-dazzle these European film directors.
Sharon and I were going crazy listening to the two men trash America, saying that Disney was a load of bull. “What a preposterous place.”
I looked at Sharon like, “They’re serious ya’ know,” and she gave me one of those shrugs like “Yeah... I know.”
When we arrived at Disneyland, the kind folks gave us the royal treatment, which was thrilling. I tried to entice them onto other rides, but All Roman wanted was that particular ride.
Sharon and Roman were in the car behind us. I remember turning to see Roman grinning like a little kid once the adventure began.
It was a self-fulfilling prophecy of sorts... halfway through, the ride broke down.
“No!” shouted Christian, standing up in the boat, hands on his head. “I don’t believe it!”
The slew of insults began again. Roman hissing and Christian huffing and puffing—insisting on a team to get us out of there. It took several men and some time for them to wade into the water to rescue us. We literally had to walk the plank to get out.
I remember taking Sharon’s arm and skipping away from Roman and Christian. “You know we’ll be hearing about this for months, right?”
She burst out laughing, and so did I!
I finally got him to smile...
Playwright Sam Shepard, a Scorpio, used to while away the hours with me at Alfred Street. We talked so much those hot summer days, I sometimes wondered how I could ever unspool what he was saying. Then I realized I should just listen.
Lions and Tigers and Nazis in the Jungle
It was 1968 and French actor, director (and sometimes boyfriend) Christian Marquand invited me to a remote fishing village in Mexico called Puerto Angel. We flew in on a small plane, otherwise, it was a 12-hour drive south of Oaxaca. Sizzling hot. Nothing but jungle‑In fact, no-thing.
A shack on the beach was the main place to eat—fish, tortillas, salsa for breakfast, lunch and dinner. Our hotel—two cots and two hammocks… and a cold shower.
Oh well … only two nights and we'd be out of there. The plane was scheduled to come get us. The sand went on for miles before you actually could get in the water.
We sat in the shade of the fish shack picking bones out of tiny fish on our plates. About 50 feet away, a dog was hacking and coughing, having a terrible time.
"Look at this dog," said Christian, "He is choking on something." He jumped up and ran to the dog sticking his hand down its throat. What an odd sight. Christian bent over this black dog.
He came back to the table, "There was no bone. I couldn't help him."
At sunset, we were watching the colors change by the water's edge. Two men approached.
"The dog, we think it has rabies."
They were going to send his head to be checked… to Mexico City.
“His head … Oh my.
“This is the correct way to do it.”
"Okay, I said shaking one of their hands. “We will be in Acapulco. You can contact us there.”
"Oh no," they exclaimed, "You will wait here." All one had to do was look at the bearing of these men—they were in charge. We could be arrested if we tried to go.
So now we were quarantined to this place, my blood pressure dropping by the hour. "Stuck Inside of Mobile" running out of jokes and stories.
The villagers got back to us a few days later. The dog had rabies.
"We heard your hand was in his mouth, they said. “This is not a problem unless you have a wound.
I remember the sunlight beaming on Christian’s index finger as he held it up —a big cut, right below the first knuckle.
Christian and I just looked at each other. “Merd”.
They ordered us to see the doctor, the only doctor, it turned out, for hundreds of miles.
"You will find him in the jungle. Big Al will bring you." Who the bleep was big Al?
It turns out he was the only guy in that part of the world with a car that he used to take tourists on dives. What dives? What tourists? We hadn’t seen another soul except the locals.
So now Big Al, porky pig's doppelganger, would be our Chauffer into the jungle to visit “the doctor. Big Al’s scalp was pink with a great number of freckles. He incessantly combed his thinning hair in the side mirror of his black 1950’s Caddie.
It might have taken 45 minutes plowing through the jungle, five miles an hour, to get to our destination. Christian and I were in the back seat, his big palm resting on my now sunburned knee, squeezing it as we would go over tree roots. This outrageous Frenchman, who had “Gaul” that couldn't be bottled, was somehow feeling vulnerable.
All the while, big Al was winking at me in the rearview mirror whenever he got the chance.
No one told us anything about this doctor, so we were surprised when we finally arrived at a clearing in the jungle. There he was, standing in the sunlight waiting for us. A tall, stately German gentleman in his 60's. I got out of the car like Anne Frank. I could hear the sirens going. I remembered my mother telling me as a child, "They cooked little girls like you in ovens."
He covered over his own surprise when he saw my eyes go wide. I expected he’d had at least twenty years of practice with the few tourists he had met in this part of the world. But it wasn't about me, it was Christian, who needed help.
The doctor's home was a charming hacienda with doilies, a table set for lunch, lovely artwork. I imagined he had re-created his home in Germany. “I wonder why he didn't go to Argentina,” I thought looking around at the little cherubs and knick-knacks.
After his house lady served us tea on some very nice china, he escorted us into his treatment room. He drew a diagram on Christian's stomach, explaining that for twelve days, Christian would need to get a shot. How can I forget the look in Christian's eyes as the doctor presented one of the biggest needles I had ever seen.
I looked around his office at his instruments and supplies. Even with the ceiling fans —it was hot and clammy. The room started to swirl .. I had to remain conscious! The only way back to “civilization” was big Al waiting outside.
Christian had to make that trip for twelve days. There was no way I would ever return to the doctor’s house and I’m sure he was as relieved as I was that I stayed in Puerto Angel.
At some point Christian started to go mad, running at night through the surrounding hills just to keep his sanity. He began looking like a rabid dog. He would tease me and pretend to come after me to bite my neck.
There's much more to this story that happened later including a torrential storm that completely wiped out the lower village, bringing dozens of sea turtles to their deaths on the rocks.
Any ideas of romance were long gone with the two of us—stripped now of any pretense, all I could pray was to never be in a place like this again.
SGT. PEPPER'S
One of the perks of living in Rome with my fiancé James Fox was that author and raconteur Gore Vidal lived nearby in a third story penthouse. We often visited him for Sunday brunches, which Gore and his mate of decades, Howard Austen, were famous for. There were always amusing and insightful guests.
One Sunday, we visited Gore with an early pressing of Sgt. Pepper in tow.
After lunch I asked to be excused to put on the album. Gore's penthouse had a rooftop terrace with an amazing view of Rome and the Vatican. The music spilled out onto the terrace.
I couldn't believe what I was hearing as the first strains began. It was clear to me this was a concept album and it was mind-blowingly good. I imagined the heads of Cardinals and Bishops perking up as "With a Little Help From My Friends" wafted over the rooftops and into Vatican City.
I danced until I was out of breath and ran into the dining room. Everyone at the table turned toward me. Gore slammed his hand on the table.
"That's it!" he declared. “They've blown it now. I predict this album will be the end of The Beatles.”
I glanced over at James who shot me a look like... "Do you really want to get into it with Gore for the next hour and debate him?" The whole table was waiting for some sort of show down… but I wasn't going there.
What came to my mind so clearly was— I do not have to defend The Beatles. Not on this day, or on any other.
Leon Russell, Denny Cordell, the pilot and I almost went down
Leon Russell, Denny Cordell, the pilot and I almost went down in this little twin-engine plane on the way back from George Van Tassell's Integratron in Giant Rock, near Joshua Tree. It was apparently the worst rainstorm LA ever had. The guys wanted to visit with Van Tassell who was showing us his energy meter and letting us into his life long work, The Integratron.
The pilot lost radar - the storm pitching the little plane left and right. Leon and I were in the back seat -- he took my hand and said, "We need to white light this plane Miss A," which we did.
Once radar was gone, the pilot was becoming more and more agitated - until Deny Cordell saved the day by speaking him down in such a soothing way. Basically Denny brought that plane in and saved all of our lives.
