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  Also at the Landmark was her old mate Peggy Caserta, a lesbian she knew from her San Francisco heroin days. Caserta is infamous for penning the bestseller Going Down with Janis Joplin, which opens with a description of Janis giving Caserta head while stoned on heroin.

  By 1970 she had overdosed five times on heroin. But on 4 October she didn’t recover from the super-pure heroin she shot up around one in the morning alone in her hotel room. That day she’d been in the studio listening to the tracks already put down. Then she went with the band to eat at Barney’s Beanery before retiring around 12.30am.

  Apparently, after she’d shot up the smack delivered to her earlier by her dealer, she ventured into the hotel lobby to buy cigarettes before returning to her room. There she fell and died at 1.40am that night.

  Her death, aged twenty-seven, became one of the most celebrated events of the era, along with those of Jimi Hendrix, Otis Redding and Jim Morrison. Perhaps the one person who would have been most surprised is Janis herself, who had often imagined herself as an eccentric old lady making music well into her twilight years.

  Janis Joplin’s place in history is secured. While she continues to inspire a new generation, the rock chick will live on.

  MARIANNE FAITHFULL

  Tales of her drug addiction and life on the streets of London as a heroin junkie have kept Marianne in the media for the past forty years, relegating her considerable artistic achievements to second place, much the same way as her relationship with Mick Jagger did in the early days.

  Before her landmark album Broken English was released in 1979, Marianne enjoyed a string of hit singles in the 1960s. A whisper of a girl with a slightly husky voice, large eyes framed by thick lashes, blonde hair and ‘big tits’, as her first manager so charmingly described her, she was the quintessential 1960s waif—all sex, pout and attitude. Singing for her was just a hobby.

  Marianne Faithfull was born in 1946, the only child of Eva, a headstrong, feisty Austro-Hungarian baroness, and Major Glynn Faithfull. They were not a wealthy family and there was little love between her parents. Her father, a somewhat eccentric inventor, was off on tangents that her mother couldn’t fathom. When Marianne was about four her parents split and she didn’t see her father for years.

  Under the care of her mother and grandmother, Marianne grew up in Reading in southern England. Sent to the local Catholic convent as a charity boarder, she was not allowed to forget her lowly status. She didn’t like the confines of the convent, its cloisters feeling more like a prison, its staid thinking stifling her adventurous spirit.

  As a teenager in the early 1960s she sang folk songs at coffee shops and performed in amateur theatre. She didn’t know what she wanted to do, but thought it might involve performance. Artistic and articulate, Marianne was a compulsive reader interested in existentialism, Nietzsche and de Beauvoir, jazz and poetry, and Brigitte Bardot and Juliette Greco. She visited London often, going to the ballet and theatre, attending art gallery openings and revelling in the excitement of pop culture. London was a creative melting pot. Fashion designer Mary Quant, artists like David Hockney and Lucian Freud, the Beatles and the Rolling Stones were among those pushing the boundaries, placing London at the heart of the swinging 1960s.

  Marianne was artistic and articulate, interested in existentialism, Nietzsche and de Beauvoir, jazz and poetry, Bardot and Greco

  Marianne was ‘discovered’ at a party in London. Within minutes of seeing her, Andrew Loog Oldham, the Rolling Stones’ manager, decided to sign her. He didn’t know if she could sing, but that was immaterial. She had the right look—a virginal waif with a glint of confidence in her eyes—that promised an exciting mix of innocence and sex.

  When her first single ‘As Tears Go By’ was released in 1964 she was in her final year at school. One semester to go and she bailed. The lure of London and the status of pop star were calling. The song, the first written by Mick Jagger and Keith Richards, wasn’t written for Marianne, despite folklore. But the cachet of it being penned by the new rock’n’roll aristocracy wasn’t lost on Marianne or on the record-buying public. It reached the top ten.

  Within weeks of the single being released Marianne appeared on Top of the Pops, Ready Steady Go! and Juke Box Jury, the three big music shows on British television, along with the likes of Dusty Springfield and Sandie Shaw.

  she had the right look—a virginal waif with a glint of confidence in her eyes—that promised an exciting mix of innocence and sex

  To promote the single Marianne hit the road on one of the multi-bill shows that were popular at the time. Performing in draughty halls to punters who wanted her to either get her gear off or get off—they hadn’t come to see her—she quickly discovered that touring wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. The lesser known act on a bill that included the Hollies, Freddy and the Dreamers and Gerry and the Pacemakers, Marianne was far down the pecking list. Stiff and sore from sleeping in crammed spaces, jostled about by the rickety old bus, and suffocated by the testosterone in the air, her bright-eyed enthusiasm was eroded by the endless loneliness and monotony of being on the road. Falling ill, Marianne left the tour early.

  Another two singles followed in quick succession: a cover of Bob Dylan’s ‘Blowin’ In The Wind’ failed to chart, but the February 1965 release of ‘Come and Stay With Me’, written by Jackie De Shannon, shot Marianne back into the top ten. Then there were tours with Gene Pitney and Roy Orbison.

  On the surface, she was living a life that made her the envy of tens of thousands of young girls. But behind the hip bravado and the on-tour affairs, Marianne was longing for love. Despite the loose love ethos of the 1960s, she wanted to belong to someone.

  That someone was her longtime boyfriend, poet John Dunbar. He ran an art gallery and was the epitome of the cool intellectual. Such were the circles Dunbar moved in it wasn’t uncommon to find Paul McCartney or John Lennon at one of his gallery’s glittering parties. In 1965 she married Dunbar and later that year gave birth to her only child, Nicholas.

  But Marianne quickly learned that being married wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Before they’d tied the knot, the two had happily co-existed, Marianne doing her thing and coming back to Dunbar when she was ready. Once Nicholas arrived, the playing field changed. She had intended to play wife and mother, but the novelty soon wore off. She was only nineteen and felt hemmed in by the confines of married life and motherhood. Through it all Marianne kept working, recording four singles and two albums, and performing at the Uxbridge Blues and Folk Festival with the Who. Come My Way, her first album, reached number twelve on the British charts. It didn’t make any impact in America but her second, Marianne Faithfull, made it into the top twenty on both sides of the Atlantic.

  Anita Pallenberg introduced her to a whole new level of hedonism

  She started going to parties and events without Dunbar, whose flirtation with heroin was beginning to escalate—much to the disapproval of his wife, who was a lightweight in the drugs stakes. Around this time German model Anita Pallenberg entered Marianne’s life, introducing her to a whole new level of hedonism. Pallenberg was muse and lover to Brian Jones, one of the original Rolling Stones. Pallenberg and Jones dressed in theatrical garb and were stoned to the eyeballs morning till night. Marianne worshipped the glamorous, intimidating Pallenberg and started to feel her stay-at-home life was dull in comparison.

  Of course Marianne was much more than a housewife, being the main breadwinner in the family. Her royalty cheques paid for their lifestyle and fed Dunbar’s smack habit. Resentment began to creep into the relationship, from both sides, and soon baby Nicholas was the only glue keeping them together. Marianne grew tired of stepping over Dunbar’s drugged-out mates, who would crash at their flat. Litter was everywhere, cigarette butts, syringes, empty booze bottles. She began to spend an increasing amount of time at Anita and Brian’s apartment in Kensington, where life was muc
h more scintillating.

  Mick Jagger was fun, rich, young, famous and he pursued her relentlessly—he was her knight in shining armour

  In 1966 there were three singles, ‘Go Away From My World’, ‘Tomorrow’s Calling’ and ‘Counting’, and two albums, North Country Maid and Faithfull Forever (released in Britain as Love in a Mist), none of which came near the success of her previous works.

  The writing was on the wall for her marriage. While still married to John, she took up with Mick Jagger. He was fun, rich, young, famous and he had pursued her relentlessly, making him her knight in shining armour. Moving into Jagger’s house in Cheyne Walk with baby Nicholas, Marianne found herself in a world of excess—it was a constant cocktail of drugs and alcohol on hand, shopping sprees and a nanny to look after the baby.

  Decadence ruled the day. It was astonishing there was only one major drug bust, which ended in suspended sentences for Richards and Jagger and the famous ‘Who Breaks a Butterfly on a Wheel?’ editorial from The Times, arguing that the two were being persecuted because of who they were. The media coverage was phenomenal. Not only because it was the first incident of its kind to involve the rock’n’roll hierarchy, but because of the naked girl found wrapped in a fur rug, reportedly with a Mars bar between her legs.

  That girl was of course Marianne. She thrived on the notoriety. If she were going to be famous for something, a beautiful, sexy, naughty rebel was the perfect fantasy, although the addition of the Mars bar was a pure fabrication that incensed her for years.

  In 1967 Marianne released only one single, a cover of the Ronettes hit ‘Is This What I Get For Loving You?’, but it failed to make it into the top forty in either Britain or the States.

  More interested in pursuing a career in acting, Marianne made her film debut in the forgettable I’ll Never Forget What’s ’Isname with Orson Wells and Oliver Reed and she played Irina in Chekhov’s Three Sisters at the Royal Court. The next year she appeared in Girl on a Motorcycle with Alain Delon (known as Naked Under Leather in the US), a film better known for Marianne reportedly being naked under her bikkie leathers than for its quality.

  She and Jagger were blissfully happy during the early years together but he didn’t share her enthusiasm for heroin. Acid, pot and pills were his general fodder. He was too focused on the main game. Only the dedicated ventured into cocaine and heroin territory—and Marianne was fast on her way there. Her body was already suffering from the constant abuse. She was rail thin, and anaemic, the reason given for a 1968 miscarriage.

  her experience in Australia was uncannily similar to that of the character in ‘Sister Morphine’, the song she’d written with Jagger and Richards

  She played Ophelia in the film version of Hamlet, directed by Tony Richardson and starring Nicol Williamson. The next year, 1969, it was off to Sydney where Jagger and Marianne had been cast in Richardson’s next film Ned Kelly, but she was dropped after a botched suicide attempt that left her in a coma for six days. The Australian media pronounced her dead. Marianne’s experience in Australia was uncannily similar to that of the character in a song she had written earlier with Jagger and Richards, ‘Sister Morphine’, which documented the demise of a young woman, the morphine taking her away from her pain. It must have been a spin for Jagger to see its lyrics come to life.

  When Marianne and Jagger returned to London they presented a vision of togetherness in public. But behind closed doors it was a different story. Marianne had started her affair with heroin in earnest. There was clearly no room in her life for anything other than drugs. She has said she was greatly influenced by William Burroughs’ The Naked Lunch, which motivated her to seek out the life of a drug addict. Marianne threw herself headlong into the world of heroin, twisting the novelist’s words to suit herself—Burroughs had not set out to glorify the life of a junkie, quite the opposite.

  Marianne and Jagger presented a vision of togetherness in public. But behind closed doors it was a different story

  Her relationship with Jagger ended in the same year that her divorce to a very bitter and twisted John Dunbar was ratified. Still smarting from the years when Jagger had played daddy to his son, John wanted custody of Nicholas and was prepared to battle an already beleaguered Marianne in court. When he was granted custody, Marianne’s mother Eva, who had been caring for her grandson, was driven to attempt suicide. Unlike her daughter, she was furious she had failed.

  Without Jagger to give her protection and status, and her music career for all intents and purposes over, Marianne plummeted headlong into self-pity and self-medication.

  It is at this point that the Marianne Faithfull tale takes a turn that in fiction wouldn’t seem plausible. Leaving behind a life of glamour and fame, she opted to become a full-time junkie, moving out of her mother’s home, where she’d been living after her split with Jagger, to take up her station on the street at St Anne’s Court in Soho along with the other desperate souls—winos, junkies and prostitutes. It was this location that became her stomping ground, a piece of wall marked as her territory, where she slept and sat in stoned silence almost every day for two years. Marianne was a registered heroin user on the National Health Service. She fronted up with her prescription each day, got her fix and returned to the wall to shoot up and stay stoned. She never ran out and she never had a reason to stop.

  Seemingly able to live on nothing, occasionally spotting a fiver from doormen or accepting the charity of passers-by, Marianne was a virtual beggar on the streets of London. She has denied the accusation she resorted to prostitution. And she didn’t take welfare. One British newspaper described her as ‘far too hoity-toity to do anything as common as signing on.’

  without Jagger to give her protection, Marianne plummeted headlong into self-pity and self-medication

  Marianne must have had one hell of a guardian angel. In all the time she lived on the streets she was never attacked or harassed or even arrested. Everyone left the strange, skinny, blonde girl whose beauty was still evident, if spectral, alone. She was only in her early twenties and her 165-centimetre frame was a pitiful forty-one kilograms. She was in mortal peril. It is some kind of miracle that she didn’t go the way of Morrison, Hendrix or Joplin.

  It seems incongruous, but even during this time she was still making records, if unremarkable ones. In 1971 Mike Leander, the producer she’d worked with in the 1960s, took Marianne under his wing and back into the studio to record Rich Kid Blues, an album that wasn’t released until 1985. It features cover songs from the hit-makers of the day, including George Harrison, Bob Dylan, James Taylor and Cat Stevens. You can hear the weariness of life on the streets in Marianne’s voice. Once the recording was over, she went back to her spot on the wall.

  Just as she was at her lowest ebb there came another knight in shining armour. Oliver Musker, an academic, rescued her. As only Marianne could, she entered an unorthodox rehab program based on the premise that if you can have as much of anything you will eventually cease to want it. It took her eight months to get bored, during which time she shot a lot of smack.

  After rehab she took off to India in 1973 to film Ghost Story, a B-grade horror flick. Musker was by her side. But the stronger she became, the less she needed him. He wanted to marry her and she wanted freedom. She was back to her old self, before the heroin—although that drug would prove harder to banish than the men in her life.

  With Musker behind her, Marianne took up with her old manager Tony Calder to try and reignite her singing career. Her first comeback album Dreamin’ My Dreams was a collection of pop and country-influenced songs released in 1977. The album didn’t chart, but it did send a message to the rock fraternity that Marianne Faithfull wasn’t dead after all. The record was re-released early the following year with slight variations, including a name change to Faithless. Again Marianne had included a Dylan song, ‘I’ll Be Your Baby Tonight’, along with Chuck Berry’s ‘S
weet Little Sixteen’ and the self-penned ‘That Was The Day (Nashville)’.

  After Faithless came more years of drugs and a new partner in crime, Ben Brierly, a punk bass player whose edict to live on the edge appealed to the rebel inside Marianne. They lived in London squats with no electricity or running water, making ends meet on Marianne’s royalty payments until her record company set her up in a decent flat in the hope that she’d get her act together and fulfill her contract.

  Drugs, drugs and more. Marianne moved like an automaton. Days were filled with one hit after another, visits to and from dealers, and mad shopping sprees—clothes and furniture—that gobbled up money meant to last months.

  The record company’s faith in its wayward charge was finally rewarded with the mature work that Marianne delivered with Broken English in 1979. The album was confronting on all levels—a fabulous, punk-oriented effort that saved her life. Broken English was ‘a lifeline so crucial to my very being that I think had I not made it I would surely have gone raving mad or cut my throat,’ she says in her autobiography.

  The furore that followed the release of Broken English, and in particular the song ‘Why’D Ya Do It’ with lyrics by poet Heathcote Williams, took Marianne by surprise. The album included a cover of John Lennon’s ‘Working Class Hero’, ‘Brain Drain’ penned by Brierly, and the enduring ‘The Ballad of Lucy Jordan’. Critics raved. Her rasping, smoky voice was captivating. No one but Marianne could have pulled off an album that seethed with such malice and narcissism. It was brilliant.

  Always one for drama, to add to her already complicated life, she married Brierly in 1979, not long after the album was released. Despite its success, the money trickled in very slowly and once again Marianne was living on the poverty line. But that didn’t stop them hopping back on to the drug roundabout. Broken English eventually earned her tens of thousands of pounds, which she blew in a staggeringly short time.